When we were 8

While searching for my grown-up journal tonight, I came across my "My Secret Diary" book, which I kept as an 8-year-old. It was a paperback, 50-page or so, junior diary for young girls who need direction on how to write about secrets. I ordered it with my mom's permission from the Scholastic Book Order form which we always got at school every few weeks. 

"Is some secret someone special to you?" it asks on the back cover. "Is something on your mind that's private and personal? Write all about it in My Secret Diary."

One of the nice features was that it taught you how to write your secrets in code, and there's one page that lists directions for starting a sponge garden in your bedroom, and another to list your new years' resolutions. (The thought of an 8 year old thinking about such resolutions is kind of sweet, isn't it? Nothing too heavy, like "Lower my cholestorol," or "Pay off my VISA." Mine were simply to be nice to everybody, to not litter, and to cheer people who are feeling unhappy.) 

But every time I look through this, I can't help but wonder if other 8 year old girls who got this book from Scholastic wrote anything remotely close to this? I mean, really:

Let me explain the "and not dead" part. It was one of the biggest tragedies of my life at the time when I learned that Fred Astaire was not actually alive. I don't know if you could have called it a crush, but I really had a thing for this man, and dreamed of one day being Ginger Rogers, dancing gracefully in super-high heels and a billowy dress on a shiny floor. I also had no idea that I was even unique to know, at my age, who these people were. I breezed right past colorful Saturday morning cartoons and graduated to 1930s black-and-white musicals (except for maybe Punky Brewster and Alvin & the Chipmunks. And the Smurfs. I wasn't completely lost in my generation). And the only Astaire/Rogers movie I absolutely did NOT like was the Story of Vernon and Irene Castle. Why? Because ol' Fred died at the end.  My young heart not bear it.

Then, of course, was the real heart of the matter in this book: my crush on Lyles. This was intended to be the only place I could express this affection, which would last through the bulk of my elementary school career, ultimately, save the few weeks here and there when my eyes were averted to Gabe or Karl.

Finally, here's all the proof you need that, when asked, "What's on your mind?" I would tell you "Slumber Party for 4."

I can't decide what my favorite part of this illustration is. The friend who's kind of walking in from the right side, not worth drawing in completely and looking a bit like a frumpy spinster? The fact that we're smartly dispersed around 2 sleeping bags? Or that there are only 2 sleeping bags? Or the key element that to this day is a very important part of a happy evening - the bowl of popcorn?