When I was 8 years old, I graduated from a Brownie to a Girl Scout.
In order to do that, I had to cross a bridge. A literal bridge. It was about four foot long, fresh from the scout leader’s garden — dirt collected around its feet, staining them a reddish brown.
And I was asked to cross the bridge.
Repeatedly.
Asked repeatedly; they only wanted me to cross the bridge the one time.
And why must their pleas be unanswered? Because I didn’t want to cross wearing galoshes.
I had galoshes. I don’t believe they are created anymore. And if they are, they’re called Wellies, or something cute, because 8-year-old girls know that galoshes are not cool.
Especially when they’re bright red.
With Big Bird’s visage stamped across the top.
Alongside the L and R, etched across the appropriate boot; L for Left, R for Right.
I shudder still when I think of those boots.
And how I could not get them off.
Nope. Practically glued to my shoes, those galoshes, and oh, oh, oh, how I was mortified.
Especially since one of my fellow Scout’s Big Sister was going to watch the ceremony…and she was 21! Gasp! That’s SO OLD! How can I allow someone SO OLD and SO COOL to watch me tromp across a questionably formed garden accoutrements in bright stinkin’ red Big Bird Left/Right galoshes! She’ll think I don’t know what boot goes where! And worse yet, What If I Had Them On the Wrong Foot??!!
(I double-checked, triple-checked, even as I valiantly failed repeatedly to somehow wriggle out of the world’s tightest-fitting footwear, that indeed I had at least attached them to the appropriate foot!)
And why did I wear them to the ceremony? Because I forgot. About the Girl Scouts, about the ceremony, about everything except getting out of there and getting home to my dog Muffin and the biggest bowl of ice cream I could scoop.
That was my goal: ice cream. Not Scouts. Not graduating. None of that.
I wanted home and a dog and sweets.
Now, I’ve aged a bit.
I no longer have those galoshes, nor do I know what happened to them except that they were not in my life for long after that fateful day.
I probably hid them in a bush somewhere along the trail home. I may have done that with another article or two. Sorry, Mom.
My point is: things look different on this side of the bridge. I’m not eight any more, and I’m cool with that. And there have been a lot of other things to cross, to endure, to swim or sink when floating wasn’t an option.
A lot.
And 21-year-olds don’t look quite so old. In fact, they look 12. They just do.
Part of me thinks, don’t you wish you had those galoshes?
And the other part of me sighs, shakes her head, and says, “Uh uh. No way. They were hideous.”
Not one for sentimentality, I guess.
I would tell my little self that it’s okay on the other side. It’s different, and that’s okay, too, and on this side, I can buy whatever boots I want, which is kind of nice, though gifts are great, too…all so confusing, isn’t it? We want one thing, then another, then the first thing again and maybe didn’t save the receipt for the second thing.
PS. I didn’t go across that Girl Scout bridge. The leader just gave me my patch or sash or whatever and a firm pat on the shoulder with a regretful, “Sorry you can’t get your boots off. Maybe your mom can help?”
Then she turned away, on to the next Scout.
I’d crossed metaphorically.
I’m okay with that.