What a craptastic day!!
I was feeling all AMAZING about myself because I finished my term paper with time to spare, and was actually going to be able to walk the paper in to my awesome professor.
Well, round about 3, I go to get the paper off of my flash drive, and the darn thing is EMPTY. I can’t even think of an analogy for the emptiness of this drive. I emailed my parents, went to the school IT people. Nothing. This 1500 words of utter Claire genius was just GONE. Out like a fat kid in dodge. It put an egg in it’s shoe and beat it! You get the picture.
Anyway, my Facebook page was FRAUGHT with FRANTIC status up dates. Mainly asking for prayer, as I was going to have to rewrite a paper that took me like 3 days of agony to write in a matter of hours. Once I got my giant head around that fact, my updates turned towards my need for some wine. Specifically a glass -or 7. Or, as one status proudly proclaimed “I have a class of wine…” That is where the title for today’s post comes from. I find it pretty appropriate.
But, this whole thing got me thinking about how lucky I am to be able to do any of this reading stuff. I, unlike most American adults, remember what it feels like to not be able to read. I didn’t learn how to read until I was at least 10. I have very, very painfully clear memories of not reading. Or being able to count by two’s. It’s NOT at all that I went to a bad school…I went to a great school for kindergarten and 1st grade, it’s just that my lovely old brain is wired differently than most people. I am now, and always will be, really, really dyslexic.
I recall after class the other day, a friend was joking about not being able to read.
I looked at him and said “Do you remember what that feels like?”
He said simply “No…”
I replied “Well, I do. It wasn’t fun.”
Not being able to read is one of those things that gets down into sensitive little girl’s hearts and just hurts. I’m 26 and I still get teary eyed when I think about what life felt like before I managed to unlock the mystery that was the written word.
Obviously, I’m good now. Heck, I want to make my living writing. But I think part of the reason I feel this way is because I remember very clearly the sad, chubby, amazingly smart, but amazingly frustrated little girl. I’m still her in many ways. I know she is there, and I’m trying to make up for lost time.