A Letter to My Younger (Healthier) Self

Dear Seven-Year-Old Me,

Run.

No, seriously, RUN. Put the book down, get your butt out of that nest of pillows, go outside, and start running like a nest of black widows erupted under your feet. (See? This proves I am you; I know how to get inside your head)

You’ll have plenty of time to read when you’re my age and can’t sleep at night.

What you won’t have when you’re me is the ability to run even one lap around the block. Half a block. Probably not even to the end of the driveway. (You’re going to see a spider and contemplate whether it’s worth moving, believe it or not) Even thinking about moving your body in a light jog will make your heart skip and cause your ankles to swell in anticipation of a roll.

It isn’t a pretty sight.

So get those unscarred, intact, functioning legs moving now and savor what it feels like to have a body that moves as you direct it. Experience a normal active heartbeat pulsing in your ears, instead of slamming against your ribcage. Marvel at how it maintains a steady rhythm you could compose poetry to.

Not the insane cacophony that puts someone in mind of a riot in the middle of an earthquake.

And laugh because you will never once wonder if the next inhale will be accompanied by waking up on the ground, surrounded by strangers asking, “Are you okay?”

(You get used to it. Yes, even the talking to people you don’t know part)

While you’re at it, fall. Scrape your hands, knees, elbows, and shins. Revel in the sight of gravel lodging in the hamburger meat that was once your unblemished pink skin. (You don’t know this, but you are on the cusp of some spectacular injuries)

Savor the momentary lightning bolt of pavement kissing bone. The indefinable crunch of your joints reacquainting themselves with gravity. And the crushing realization that you—brilliant mind that you are—cannot outwit fundamental physics. Because as crippling as you will find each of those moments, they’re nothing more than a flash in the pan to the pain you’ll be living with down the road.

There are days you’ll pray for the simplicity of that spectacular bike wipeout in the park. (Summer before fifth grade; it’s going to be epic) When bandages and Neosporin actually did fix everything. And walking into school looking like the mummy scored sympathy points from everyone around you.

There will be no band-aids and no one rushing to offer assistance in the future. Drink it in while you can, kiddo.

And when you finish those insane adventures, and Mom asks you to take a nap? Dammit, do as she says. Don’t whine, protest, or stomp to the bedroom and slam the door. She knows what she’s talking about. (You are so not too old for nap time. You are never too old for nap time) When you become me, you’ll look back on every minute you sat in that room kicking the door, chanting, “I’m not sleepy,” and curse yourself as a complete idiot. (TAKE THE FUCKING NAP!)

Lay down and soak up the rest while you can. Because the time is coming when you will willingly sacrifice anyone and anything for five minutes of uninterrupted sleep. (You bet I include Ernie in that statement. See how serious I am?) Your body will take that early pattern of “I don’t need sleep” and decide it’s permanent. And staying awake for hours and days and weeks? It is not as cool as you think it sounds. People die without sleep, child. It’s a fact you will luck up and learn the hard way.

DO NOT LET THIS “NO NAP” THING BECOME THE NORM!

(And, yes, I pinpoint the problem to you. Six-year-old me was perfectly willing to lie down and snooze in the afternoons. You’re the one that decided you were too mature for a bloody thirty minutes of peace and quiet)

Finally, let's discuss food; what you are—and aren't—eating. There is more to the world than macaroni and cheese and hot dogs. (Dear god, why are you eating hot dogs?! Do you know what goes into those things? Not food!)

Stop being a snot about the plates of food set in front of you. Mom and Dad (Mom more than Dad) are not trying to poison you. They are attempting to expose your palate to new tastes so you don't grow into an obese, white flour-loving, Karen. (You don’t know that term yet, but trust me, it's bad. Don't use it yet, though, because Karen T. won’t understand and will think you hate her. And that won't be true for three more years)

Try all the food put in front of you. It won't kill you. Yes, even the vegetables. Except the brussel sprouts. I’ll give you a pass on those because we still don't eat them. (Seriously, though, figure out a better scheme for ditching them. Mom and Dad know you're sliding them onto Sean's plate) But eat the damn food.

Because time is coming when you won't be able to eat SHIT. Your diet is going to shrink to saltine crackers and water—when you're lucky. You won't even be able to eat lettuce some days. And you will long for the days when your parents tried to enlighten you to world beyond peanut butter and jelly.

Eat what people offer you without making faces (of course I know about that) or protesting. And do it when the plate first hits the table. Food is way better hot. (Trust me on this)

I won’t sugarcoat things: we have a rough road ahead of us, kid. So I want you to get out there and do everything before the self-destruct codes embedded in our genes kick in. FEEL and EXPERIENCE the world around you. And don’t let little things like pain stop you.

You’ll have plenty of time for that later.

See you in a few decades!

~Me

P.S. - Yes, we know all the curse words now. No, you can’t use them yet. Mom and Dad will kill you.