An interesting shop name in Delray Beach causes me to question myself. Who’s Karen? Who is Caryn? (to use my preferred spelling of the name) I’m not really sure how I would answer this shop’s existential question. From the looks of the store, Karen is probably a middle-aged woman who likes floral beachwear and great deals. But Caryn is another animal; or so I’d like to think. So who is Caryn anyways? I think of myself as that person who’s not always completely “there.” Whether I’m with friends, in class, or taking a nap, I’m usually off in a different world. This has been true since I was a child. My mother used to always say “Caryn’s in her own world right now.” Pan the camera to a tiny, blonde-haired version of me wearing underwear over my pajamas, band-aids affixed to invisible wounds, and staring intently at absolutely nothing. She would call my name and I wouldn’t even turn my head. Most parents would have probably seen this as some sort of disability or a sign of oncoming deafness. But really, it was simply the truest form of introversion. I was and am happiest when I am imagining because most of the things going on in the world are too dull.
I’ve carried my childhood traits into adulthood. Instead of acting out Disney movies atop a pile of dirt in my Grandma’s backyard, I create new stories in familiar settings. I turn the everyday into something that offers a magnified picture of humanity. I don’t know what was going on in that crazy, young head of mine, but I’d like to think that I was pondering what people would do if all the mashed potatoes ran out or if it’s actually fun to get sucked down the drain with the bathwater. I’m sure some thoughts have been recurring ones, similar to the unique, monster-themed nightmares I’ve had since I was a kid (a story for another time).
But the question I keep coming back to is this: Why would a child, who has yet to experience so many aspects of the world, find the things going on in her head more interesting than those outside of it? Perhaps I was already jaded at the ripe, old age of six, but I believe it was something more pure than that. Some sort of untainted imagination that I’ll never find again. Now, when I stop to imagine something, there are other things polluting it: remember to check your e-mail, you have twenty-eight papers left to grade, you should probably call your mother. And by the time I clear out all of the smog, I’ve forgotten what it was that I was imagining.
I feel like that ramble was as good of a self-examintation as you’re ever going to get from me. So the next time you’re asked the question, “Who’s Caryn?” whether by a storefront or a curious relative who’s been stalking your Facebook, you can answer by saying, “Oh she’s that girl who’s been staring at nothing for the past half hour. Don’t worry, she’s not mentally challenged…I think.”
