Autobiography: A Warm Welcoming, the Nickname and a Strange Phobia

Introduction

            What is an autobiography? This is a question that most certainly needed to be addressed (and is still, as I am writing, being addressed) before beginning the journey that is putting my version of my life thus far down on paper.  An autobiography is at its most basic function a listing of the events up to this point in my life.  However I would like my autobiography to be an expression of who I think I am not only to give you a glimpse into who I am and how I see myself but I would also like it to serve as an eye-opening tool for myself.  I want to really examine the important events that have occurred and important people who have played an irreplaceable role in my life.  Hopefully by acknowledging these times and characters, understanding why they were/are important and how their presence has affected me I can appreciate them more; maybe it will even help me to more easily identify those who have yet to make an appearance in my life.

I am limiting myself to writing about only a couple of the many memories I have: ones I think are representative of who I am today, ones that stick out in my mind and ones that are hopefully a little entertaining for you to read as well.

Part One: A Warm Welcoming

          They say that first impressions say a lot about someone and are crucial to how people perceive you: I would definitely say this is true in how I entered the world especially concerning who I was surrounded by and how I was welcomed.  To start off my first story I will give you a little background: I am the youngest of four children with two older sisters who are two and fifteen years older than me and an older brother who is seventeen years older than me.  The first part of my story concerns my two oldest siblings who were in high school when I was born.  I arrived into the world in the early afternoon on a weekday, December 5, 1986, so my two oldest siblings arrived at the hospital soon after school ended with non other than a welcoming entourage of their teenage friends.  I like this little fact because it says a lot about how excited my siblings were about me at the time and also… how many babies are surrounded by a plethora of teenage kids within hours of arrival to the world?  On top of that my brother decided the best way to celebrate the birth of his youngest sister was with cigars that read “it’s a girl” for him and all his underage friends (cigars he also presented to the teachers at school).  I think this story is the starting point for the light speed development of my maturity level and why I feel that I have lived too many lives to only be 22 years old.

My second introduction occurred a few days later when my parents finally brought me home…only to be given a not so warm welcoming.  Waiting for me at the house was my sister (the one only a year and a half older than me).  She was not so happy to see me: bursting into tears upon first glance.  I believe the theme of this story still carries into my life: no matter how old I get…I will ALWAYS be the younger sister.

Part 2: The Nickname

            Although the story for my original and ever-present family nickname began way back when I was in the womb, it didn’t come to full fruition until I was a few years old.  I was always a wiggly child: even before I was born it was impossible to keep me still whether I was wiggling around as an unborn blip, twitching around (and also a lot of crying) as a baby, running around as a toddler and even today as an antsy, most likely ADD stricken young adult.  It seems to be an impossible task to keep me still.  So as a child my dad adopted for me the nickname “wiggles.”  It has stuck with me through a lot, always being mentioned in  family event speeches, being brought up at my Bat Mitzvah and still being used in sparing moments…even today as a 22 year old woman.

This little description isn’t so much of an event in my life, I can’t remember when the nickname came about or even the first time it was used (I’m sure if you asked my dad he wouldn’t even remember when he came up with it).  However, the name has been with me through a lot and I think it strangely says a great deal about the person I am today; whether the nickname or character traits came first I cannot say; it is an infinite question like that of the chicken and the egg!  Who knows, maybe it’s not even the nickname at all, maybe it’s the Sagittarius in me but I seem to be wiggly in all aspects of my life…not just the physical.  I feel like there is always an urge and push in me to do more, see more, learn more etc.  Because there are so many places I want to see, careers I feel would be exciting to pursue, people to meet, events to partake in, I don’t think I can ever be content with being “still” in my life.  I know this is a strong analogy to present as part of my autobiography but I feel like the coincidence is too strong and is the best way, with the least amount of words, to explain my ambition in life.

Part 3: Just a Funny Story and the Development of My Strange Phobia

            This part of my autobiography is not as metaphorical and self-enlightening as the previous two but it is an entertaining story and lets you, especially if you don’t know me personally, into the quirkiness (and borderline strangeness) that is my personality.

I’ll start off with the story…also known as the worst vacation of my life…

When I was about six, I believe I was in Kindergarten, my parents and my sister, the one closest to my age, took a family vacation to Disneyland: “the Happiest Place on Earth.”  I guess for a day or two the vacation went according to plan: lots of family bonding time, lots of food and probably too many rides to count (I’m sure my parents were simply in Heaven).  One of the days, however, everything went haywire.  I guess my parents (most likely my Mom) thought the vacation was a great opportunity to take our family Holiday picture.  So accordingly my sister and I were told to wear recently purchased matching shirts, which I simply detested.  I just remember thinking it was the most heinous shirt that was ever purchased, not to mention it had buttons on it, which for some strange reason I never personally liked to have on my clothing.  Despite my protesting and I’m sure very grumpy attitude the picture was taken: task complete.  Only to my dismay I was then told that our next ride would be the Haunted House, a terrifying piece of information to me considering I was the child who refused to ride roller coasters, cried hysterically after watching E.T. and couldn’t sleep for days after simply being told the two sentence summary of the Exorcist (it is an understatement to say I was, and still am, a very sensitive kid).  I guess my parents thought it would be a fabulous growing experience or something because despite my hysterics I was forced to go on the ride only to be escorted out through the emergency exit within the first five minutes, all the while wearing my detested button shirt (I hope my parents were thoroughly embarrassed by my outrageous antics…serves them right).

To try and calm me down, and probably just to level out my blood sugar, it was decided that the best option at this point was to eat something.  So my family and I sat down at one of Disneyland’s quaint and gourmet little food stands.  It should be mentioned here that I had an exaggeratedly loose tooth, so loose it swayed like a leaf in the wind everytime I breathed on it.  So one thing lead to another and after a few bites of my Disney hamburger I realized my tooth was no longer in its proper spot: I, in fact, had swallowed it.  If you haven’t gathered from here I was a pretty on-edge and hypersensitive child, this character trait (or flaw, as some might see it-I do not) in addition to the previous trauma of the day led to an extreme and over the top outburst of tears: for all I knew the tooth in my stomach was going to be the end of my existence.

But my mother soon calmed me down and assured me that I would be ok (in fact I would probably find my tooth in the toilet in the next day or two).  But the story doesn’t end here.  Finally having wiped the tears from my eyes and getting up to leave the sight of the fretful event I set my eyes upon something thorough foreign and frightening: a person about my height, maybe shorter, with the face and hair of a 60 year old man….a (excuse my non P.C. language but…) midget.  Long story short, in a public bathroom stall over my embarrassingly loud hyperventilation my mother tried to assure me (without ever fully convincing me) that I would not in fact grow up to be a midget!

Needless to say I don’t…still to this day…wear things with buttons.

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