The pictures still aren’t ready yet. Well actually they are, but I can’t use them quite yet. Long story. But instead of explaining it, and in lieu of posting fun pictures, I’m going to reminisce a little.

See, recently someone in my life made me feel really guilty about something I was doing, or actually something I was not going to do. Someone else really important to me is celebrating a really important event in their life on a day that just happens to coincide with the celebration of a really important event in my own life. That someone said it was okay if I missed their celebration in order to celebrate my own special event, but someone else insisted that this certain someone’s celebration could not be missed. The bottom line is that I felt so bad for picking my special event’s celebration over theirs, that now I’m rearranging mine to attend theirs.

Where am I going with this? Oh yes. Reminisce. So while I’m stewing in guilt* allow me to recall a few past incidences that I still feel bad about. These stories may seem trivial, but everytime I even let my mind wonder to one of these memories, my heart breaks a little. These are the top four, in the order of how terrible I felt and still feel, from heart-wrenching to savagely tear my heart out with a hacksaw and pound it viciously with a sledgehammer.

*I wrote “quilt” first and then had a vision of myself in a big vat of dirty steaming water full of old ragged quilts. Now the image won’t go away.

1. I was in about fourth grade and my mom and I were playing in a mother/daughter type softball game. In the top of each inning, the daughter played whatever position she wanted, then the mother had to play the same position at the switch. I was always an outfield kind of girl…hang out there and study the clouds and the grass and my fingernails. But it was the last inning and I had never played catcher, so I thought what the hell. Crouch down, catch the ball, throw it back. Pie. And it was. For me. Then my mom, who is actually quite good at softball usually, took the crouching position. On the first pitch, she angled her glove about 1.7 degrees too far to the right and the ball drove right into the top of her finger, forcing the bones deep inside her hand. A jammed finger. All my fault. All because I wanted to play stupid catcher. My mom probably doesn’t even remember that story, and I’m sure she didn’t blame me at all that day, but I still haven’t forgiven myself for not sticking to what I do best: outfield.

2. Ninth grade. High school parking lot. Boarding the bus to take a band trip to Disneyworld. My family wasn’t there to wish me off, so I just settled into my seat and gallavanted with friends. Just before departure I glance up and see my mom, stepdad and all three sisters filing down the center aisle. They had come late just to say goodbye to me. What did I do? I stood up, rushed forward to them, and hissed under my breath: What the hell are you doing? I managed to scurry them off the bus and say a quick goodbye safely hidden from view behind mom’s minivan. I didn’t feel bad then, but now I understand the wrath of my teenage pride. Their coming to say bye was such a sweet loving gesture, and all I did was treat them like deformed mutants unworthy of my presence. Six years later my family dropped me off at the greyhound station so I could spend the summer in Wyoming. From my seat on the bus I watched them wrap their arms around each other and form a kick line, not unlike a bunch of amateur Vegas Showgirls. I was never prouder to be associated with them. Why of why couldn’t I have appreciated them as a skeezy freshman?

3. Another bus story. Second grade. I was a shy dumpling back then, and a bus full of big kids was my version of hell. After school on this particular day, I climbed on board and timidly scanned the green pleather seats for an empty spot. I began to sweat and feel tears build up, but still no seat. Suddenly, a voice. “You can sit here Shannon. Hey, scoot over.” My brother. My savior on the school bus! He had never been this kind to me before, usually opting to punch me or break my toys. But here he was, ordering his friend to scoot over so I could have a seat. But then, another voice. A girl from class, Maryanne, offering me a seat next to her. And what did I do? What did my evil, unappreciative, lousy second grade self do? I sat with Maryanne. I rejected my brother’s one act of kindness, his one act of big-brother-ness. I think that’s when he decided we were too close in age for him to big brother me and he began to focus on my sisters. Our relationship has been delicate in that way ever since.

[An aside: one time the bus driver let the high school kids duct tape our mouths shut. No joke. No wonder I was terrified of that huge yellow monster!]

4. I can hardly write about this one without breaking inside. I can’t believe I could be so heartless. I think I was about eight or nine. A girl down the road, Dana, was having a birthday party. Dana was a year younger than me, a year older than my sister Andrea. We were both invited to the party, we both went. A short time into the party, I decided that Dana was my friend, not Andrea’s, and that Andrea should not be at the party. The events leading up to the pivotal moment are vague, but I clearly remember rallying the other party guests and saying these words: Who votes that Andrea should go home? I looked at each of them as they raised their hands, then I turned to my sister with a definitive look that said “And now you may leave.” And she did. She was only six or seven at the time, but she gathered herself together and she walked out the door. Everyone else went back to the streamers and noisemakers, but I stood at the window and I watched as my little sister walked herself toward home, a mile away. My heart broke then and it breaks now whenever I stand at that window in my memory. Fortunately Dana’s mom realized my horridness and she picked Andrea up, and I believe we both went home. But I still haven’t forgiven myself for being so awful to such an innocent little girl. My own sister!

And that’s the story of the guilt that plagues me. Notice they are all evil acts against my family. I must be a stellar friend.