Leap Day

Does everyone carry all of their memories around with them, like an airport teeming with stranded passengers during an unexpected blizzard on the night before Thanksgiving? 

Look, there’s thirteen year-old me, balancing The Heart is a Lonely Hunter on her knee, glancing up only to roll her eyes at 1977 Wonder Woman, about to board her invisible plane, blizzard be damned. But not before breezing past Mrs. Hoffman, a gnomish neighbor on her cross-country skis, hands on hips, (silently) judging the bright blue hot pants as they swish by her.  

A cast of thousands not-so-patiently awaits a flight to the forefront of recollection, sparked by any of a million prompts – innocuous, inane, insane – at any given moment.  

Sometimes, they are my reality. And it’s just fine with me. I am pleased to ponder minutiae. Whether my second grade book bag had an elephant with its trunk pointing up or down. (It seems my memory shouldn’t fail me on this one, what with the elephant and all.)  Or if Ryan’s Hope came on at twelve or twelve-thirty.

I would rather spend a month with them than a minute with the Kardashians. Or watching the Oscars.

They are mostly a wise bunch, this cast of thousands. Even if they are stuck in an airport. 

Today is supposed to be an “extra” day. Of course, that is fiction – confirmed by 1985 mom, who also told me my overdue library books are, probably, still overdue. Ok, definitely. Definitely overdue. (The Heart is a Lonely Hunter: due February 29, 1984) 

Today is not an extra day. There are no extra days. There are as many days as there are – no more, no less. Leaping – on a calendar – is meaningless, except for the bookkeeping aspect of time. It makes no difference if today is February 29th or March 1st. If you did nothing yesterday, you’ll probably do nothing today, too. (I think that’s 2010 Mark Zuckerberg talking…)

Leaping isn’t for days, or years; it’s for you. There’s an airport full of marooned travelers dying to make their flights who just reminded me.