Press "Replay"

Having been married for almost 27 years, Chuck and I do our share of disagreeing/debating/arguing  --probably more often than is healthy, or that I care to admit. And invariably it's a discussion of the same old issues, over and over and over again. Ad nauseum.

When he starts his oft-repeated retorts, I'm quick to say, "Geez, just press the Replay button!!!"  At which point he gets irritated at my saying that, which then leads to an even more heated exchange, at which time we regress rather rapidly into our junior-high selves. (Hey, at least I admit it.)

So that's one kind of Replay button in my life.

But there's another kind of  Replay button that I love to push!

Reflections on my past are most often heartwarming and joy-filled,  sometimes disappointing and disheartening, and always entertaining. And I bet you think I'm going to get all sappy on you now.

I mean, I could replay for you my close-to-ideal, "Leave It To Beaver" upbringing in Porterville, California -- a childhood where roaming the green, oak-studded, beautiful hills of Success Valley was the norm, where summer evenings were spent sitting on the porch with my family, looking up at the stars (and that was exactly what I wanted to do!). But I won't.

And I could wax poetic about my high school years -- where catching Porterville High School bus #21 at 7:30 each school day was the only mode of transportation; where Friday nights consisted of cheering at the PHS football game ("Orange! Green! Go Big Team!"), then going to the dance in the school gym, followed by cruising Main Street (literally) and stopping for a cherry Coke at Coleman's. And yes, that is all we did. And yes, we loved it! I shall spare you all the glorious details of Porterville circa 1975, but oh how I can't wait to some day get together again (in person!) with my Facebook-rediscovered friends from those bygone years -- Krista, Therese, Michelle, Julianne, Lezlie, Joan, Cindi -- and many more!

And heaven forbid I would brag to you about my fabulous, carefree (yet hard-working) single years, "frolicking" (kinda) on the beach in Newport (with zero COTTAGE CHEESE and no CREPE PAPER, I might add); living in Corona del Mar with a view out my rooftop balcony that rivaled that of the South of France. But I won't do that either.

And far be it for me to use this forum to blather on incessantly about my wonderful, happy and successful (so far) daughters (who too often ask us, why-oh-why did you ever leave Corona del Mar to raise us in...Sacramento?)

When I do play those magnificent parts back, though, I'm quick to press the Pause button. Because "marinating" in the great times gone by are definitely good for the soul.

I cringe, though, when I recount all the idiotic, ugly, stupid and irresponsible things that I have done, and said, and experienced. Did I really say that? Yep. I did that? Mortifying. I acted how? Oh, dear.

And it is then that I press the Fast Forward button, try to erase all that from my memory, and take inventory of the lessons learned. 'Cuz I'm movin' on...