Those Were the Days

So there I was, checking my email and planning my next snack, when I see this Facebook message:

Pretty sure this is you. We went out once in Nashville, long long ago when I was in my early 20s. You sent me a postcard from Italy afterward and that's what made me remember your name. It just popped into my head now. LOL Hope you're well. :)

Now, I didn't recognize the guy's name or his ID photo (or whatever you call the picture that goes with your Facebook account), but since a) I did go to Vanderbilt a long time ago, b) I frequently had only one date back then and c) I would be pathetic enough to send someone a postcard (why would I have his address?) even if he had never called again.  (In those years, I took an unreasonable amount of solace in the lyric "If you never hear from him, it just means he didn't call" from Van Morrison's "Domino".)  Still, despite the reminder of a dating past I can only describe as "sorry-ass," it put a spring in my step that someone had remembered me.  I even felt shyly boastful when I told my family about the message at dinner (where the only comment was from my 11 year-old who said, "Mommy, just remember that those Facebook people are kind of..." and she raised her eyebrows.)  Even though I'd just told everyone, I still felt like I had a secret only for me and my 20 year-old self.

I think my 11 year-old and I are at the same stage.  We're both feeling a little reined in by the restrictions of how our family defines us.  We're both starting to flirt with the idea of creating an identity outside of the four of us.  Of course, she'll need to break away to do that, and I have no intention of doing so.  Sometimes I just need to be reminded that the me that I was is still a part of the me I am now.  While I treasure having so much of my identity tied to this family, I'm thinking there might just be more to me than that.