Flashing Forward

As a recovering couch potato with increasingly limited down time, I’ve become far more selective lately when it comes to choosing which television shows to follow. Like a relationship, it can be a lofty commitment that requires time and patience.

Last fall, upon perusing through my streaming Netflix, I came across Weeds. A few episodes in, I decided to take the plunge.

Ten months, eight seasons, and over 50 collective hours of my life later and I reached the final two installments of the series. The first of those began with a flash forward, which instantly took the viewers seven years into the future of the Botwin family to update us on the lives of each dysfunctional member.

Frankly, I thought it was a copout; lazy writers writing lazily, perhaps because they couldn’t find an effective way to fill plot holes and tie up loose ends before the series ended.

When all was said and done, I found it to be a very entertaining show overall, but one that probably went on about two seasons too long.

However, the combination of watching those last couple episodes and experiencing the last several days of my own real life dramedy triggered something within me, as well: I’ve had quite the eventful seven-year period myself.

On Friday, my stepdaughter Jenna, the same soft-spoken little girl with the eternally old soul, turned 18. She’s now a high school graduate, owns her own car, and, most recently complains about having a 1:00 curfew when she’s now a legal adult.

Seven years earlier, we had a first “date” together at Chuck E Cheese, with a vintage drawing/picture of us in the photo booth still presently hanging on the door of our fridge as proof. 

On Saturday, my daughter Kya got to have her first extended time at the beach, squealing with joy at each new sensory experience for her: a crashing wave, the salty taste of her skin, the hot grainy sand.

Seven years prior, I didn’t realize the beach could get more enjoyable than simply getting slowly baked by the sun (and perhaps some accompanying libations) while I drifted off to my favorite 80’s tunes. (Still enjoyable, mind you.)

On Sunday, my mother turned 64, a step closer to social security for someone who looks no older than 54, acts no older than 24, and maintains a lifestyle that should keep her spry enough to see 94.

Seven years beforehand…well, that pretty much remained the same, except that instead of housing her mother in my childhood home, she for now dwells in the basement of my sister and her family. Godspeed to all involved there.

Seven years ago, I was childless, living in a one-bedroom apartment with my cat, holding a job that was almost relevant, and two months into a relationship – which even at that juncture was close to a record for me. I had all of my hair, none of it gray and the only real need in life was to make just enough to pay my utility bills and have just enough left over to have some fun.

Back then, the future was endless and up in the air, as I continued to flip through the pages of the Choose-Your-Own-Adventure book which was my life.

Then I flash forwarded, and in the blink of an eye, I became a husband, a father, a stepfather, a homeowner, and a dedicated career man whose most fulfilling moments include bearing witness to Kya experiencing a joyful first or watching Jenna evolve into a well-adjusted young adult.

Seven years from now, Kya will likely graduate to conversations that extend beyond a few syllables. Jenna may have a career and perhaps a family of her own. My mother will be telling people to guess her age since there’s no way they will know she’s over 70. I may have even less hair, even more grays, and even greater appreciation for the life I’ve made for myself.

Like Weeds, I’ve had a whirlwind seven years, full of plot holes filled and loose ends tied. Unlike Weeds, the best episodes are yet to come.