The butt-dial has been a first-world burden since the dawn of the touchscreen phone, but late last week I was introduced to the butt-stalk via Instagram. I woke up in the middle of the night with a sharp pain in my side and realized that I was sleeping on my cell phone (I know, I know, it’s horrible to sleep with your phone in your bed, but what if I came up with a witty tweet in my sleep? Was I supposed to GET UP and walk to my phone before transcribing my punchy thoughts? I think not).
When I went to open my home screen, I was surprised to find this quote pulled up on an Instagram account that I had never seen before. After retracing my cyber-steps, I realized that I had left my account open to the “Explore” page and had visited two different accounts unconsciously (it was clearly a tossing-and-turning kind of night).
The truth and beauty in this quote really startled me, and it got me thinking about my tendency to romanticize all past experiences, regardless of their nature. At first glance this sentiment certainly has romantic connotations, and it’s true — I do romanticize past relationships, adding dramatic flair to the blandest of memories (though as a writer I will say that my imagination propels me to fantasy land more than I’d like to admit). But this quote also applies to the most recent, non-romantic period in my life — the few months I spent working for a kick-ass publication in New York City, learning from some beyond-incredible people, and living out my dream.
In a sense I’m lucky, because unlike most of my romantic experiences, I won’t have to exaggerate and re-create my LHJ memories in order to look back on them fondly. I have no idea what the future has in store for me, but I do know that I’m fortunate to have such an awesome scene in my rearview. #LadiesForLife