A bunk bed with a view
Look how far we've come bb
Facebook memories are scarring and annoying and cringey but sometimes they take you to the place where you need to be.
Most recently they took me to my freshman year in Florence, Italy. There I was, standing in the middle of my dorm room, wearing a baby blue prom dress that was my roomate’s. I was young. Oh-so-young looking. Those full brows! Those full cheeks! That shy and innocent smile.
Immediately I was taken back to 2001 when I left home for the first time at 18, leaving my suburban hometown in Ontario, and life as I knew it, for a new chapter as an NYU student at their campus in Florence.
Of course there were tons of memories and lessons learned there but this post isn’t about that. This post is about that room. That small dorm room. Where I lived with three other girls. Where we slept in bunk beds.
Bunk beds.
I had the top bunk and that was it — that was my only private space for the entire year. Not even the bathroom was private as we had a room rule that if someone was showering, and you needed to use the bathroom, you were allowed to use the toilet if it was number one (but number two, well, you were you-know-what out of luck).
That bunk was my world. I decorated it with my Canadian flag, cards from my family, letters from my friends, and a collage of cut-outs (I’m pretty sure David Duchovny and Ben Affleck were up there, continuing their duty from my high school locker). It’s where I took late night phone calls from my parents and friends. Where I tried not to hear my bunkmate have sex with her boyfriend. Where somehow, someway, I successfully made it up that clunky ladder after a night of heavy drinking at the local discotheque lounge.
How does one scurry up a ladder without falling and undress herself like a champ when drunk as a skunk? I wish I remembered enough to tell you but alas, those brain cells are gone.
It’s where I dreamed about my future and my upcoming life in New York and where I wrote in my journal, not knowing I would end up writing for a living because I was so. hell bent on having an acting career.
That bunk bed was the only thing I had that was mine, and I thought it was the best. I didn’t need anything more than that. I didn’t want anything more than that. I mean, I was in freaking Italy for crying out! at 18! (which, admittedly, I think I was a little too young to fully appreciate because, at the sight of the seemingly endless lineup, I thought I had better things to do than to wait to see the David.)
It’s that delicious feeling of youth. I was just so excited and happy with life.
I’m a pretty positive person but I don’t feel the way I did when I was 18. Chalk it up to age, experience…and things not turning out the way you’d like them to be.
I question my worth at times. I sometimes look harshly at my mistakes, missteps, my meandering existence. I wonder if it’s too late for some stuff, and wonder if I’ve done enough in others. I desire more. And sometimes I doubt I can have it. There are times I look around my apartment and long for a huge house in the mountains with a claw-foot tub, and think, ‘will that ever come true?’ It’s a constant push and pull towards dreaming, planning, action, and taking care of the daily shit, the inner shit, the shit you don’t have, the shit you want to have…you know the drill.
But then there’s that photo of me, looking like a Disney princess, being so content with what I have…with my little bunk bed in the corner. I took a moment and I gave into that wave of appreciation about how far I’ve come. I looked around at the apartment I rent on my own in Vancouver, at the furnishings I have purchased over the years, at the desk where I’ve written countless articles and two books…and a bathroom of my own where I don’t have to worry someone’s going to bust in and use the toilet while I’m taking a shower!
I was like, damn, Brie, you had NO idea what was ahead of you. I mean, it’s no house in the mountains but it’s not a bunk bed either.
And you know what? Maybe a bunk bed isn’t so bad? I mean, I’ve had bunk beds at summer camp too, and there’s that little coziness factor to them?
Okay, it is bad. As a nearly 40 year old woman, I don’t want to live in a bunk bed. And I really think it’s a tossup between what’s better — top or bottom? I think they’re both pretty rough. I mean, if you have to pee, or you toss and turn a lot, the top bunk sucks. And then the bottom bunk sucks because it’s not the top.
Anyway, I think you know what I mean. Being able to truly appreciate what we have and make the most of it, as cliche as that sounds, is such a good feeling. Life moves so fast. I can’t believe I was 18 years over 20 years ago. If we don’t honour where we’ve come from, it’s impossible to truly value where we are. And when we can make the most of the present, well, what more do we need?
If you’re able to look at FB memories without severe anxiety, or any photo of yourself back when you’re 18, I encourage you to do so. Notice where you were then, and take the time to appreciate where you’re at now. I know it sounds hokey but honestly, I’m telling you to do it. It’s an order. Without a doubt, you’ll see how much you’ve grown, evolved, accomplished, loved, lived, learned a lot. And you owe it to yourself to give that to yourself.
We’ve come a long way.
Because I think we can all agree that it doesn’t matter how freaking long the line is, you line up to see the David! You freaking 18-year-old-idiot!
P.S. Are you Team Top Bunk or Team Bottom? Leave your vote in the comments!
What a beautiful read that was! Although I was in my thirties when FB came out, your words very much resonated with me. Keep up the beautiful, authentic writing and sharing it with the world. ❤