Last week I heard an amazing story on Radio 4's Saturday Live. It was about a single, 30-something mum, Naomi Jacobs, who woke up one morning convinced she was 15. You can read more about her story here...
http://www.independent.co.uk/life-style/health-and-families/features/i-woke-up-in-the-wrong-life-2297036.html
Naomi was suffering transient global amnesia, which can be brought on by severe stress. She woke up having lost the best part of 20 years. She didn't know where she was, she didn't remember her son. She knew nothing of 9/11, or the war in Afghanistan. She was amazed by mobile phones and iPods.
But as I listened to her tell her story it was one thing that made me really think. Naomi's memory was restored - bit by bit - eight weeks later. But because of her experience she began to completely reassess her life. There were things she'd done that her teenage self would have been impressed with, and other things that she'd have scoffed at. Even physical things - Naomi was a smoker and said when she woke up as a 'teenager' her lungs were heavy and breathing was difficult - became a consideration.
Naomi's experience made me wonder what my 17-year-old self (she's in the photo at the top of the page - the one with blonde hair) would think of my life. I was quite a serious, earnest teenager with a thirst for fairness and justice. I was a member of youth CND and Amnesty International but I really, really wanted a boyfriend (boys, not surprisingly, weren't attracted by my DM boots and all-black wardrobe).
I think the 17-year-old me would have been thrilled and amazed to hear about my wonderful wedding to my gorgeous husband. She would be overjoyed to know about my two boys (although probably surprised to hear I have no girls - I never for one minute imagined having sons).
And then it gets trickier. At 17, I was recovering from anorexia and I was very thin. I think the skinny teenager I was would be appalled at my squidgy bits and the fact that after I'd given birth to Thing Two I weighed more than twice as much as I did back then.
She would be amazed that I make my living by writing. But I suspect the serious part of her would be a little disappointed that I write for a TV mag and not one of the 'proper' women's mags she devoured. My 17-year-old self wanted to be Caitlin Moran and, I must admit, my 37-year-old self still does (if you haven't read How to be a Woman, then you must read it immediately!).
Anyway, the point of this lengthy post is to say that I now feel I owe it to the 17-year-old I once was to change some bits of my life. So, I am back on the diet and exercising like mad (I had to take two Nurofen this morning to recover from two days on the 30-Day Shred DVD). And my job for this morning is to pitch some features ideas to 'proper' magazines and try to get my freelancing career up and running once more.
Wish me luck! I'm going to make the 17-year-old me proud of the woman she has become...
