Earlier this year, I lived in Russia as part of a temporary volunteer experience through International Language Programs. Naturally, I did my fair share of souvenir shopping. I bought the entire set of Harry Potter books in the Russian language. I bought a divine red dress to wear on special occasions. I have a faux amber necklace, a couple mugs with Vladimir Putin on them, and a heck of lot of poorly-shot photos.
By the time I went to Saint Petersburg for vacation, the one thing I hadn’t bought yet was a matryoshka: a Russian nesting doll. And you know what? I spent my entire vacation in St. Pete’s without buying a single doll for myself.
I know, your eyes are popping out right now. Come on, Serena! I don’t know much about Russia, you say, but I know about those nesting dolls! That’s the iconic souvenir!
Yeah, I know, I know. And I’ve considered buying one tons of times! Truly, I’ve picked up a particularly sparkly doll or two in a souvenir shop, turned it over to check the price . . . And then set it back down again. Sure, they can be expensive, especially in Russia’s second capital. But I would be willing to spend 2000 rubles (around thirty bucks) on the right doll.
But none of them seemed right.
Blue dolls, Disney dolls, Putin dolls, traditional dolls . . . There are literally thousands of varieties of matryoshkiy to choose from.
Despite their dazzling colors, none of them spoke to me. At least, not until May 9th.
The 9th of May is a huge Russian holiday celebrating the defeat of the Germans in World War II. Think of it like the Fourth of July on steroids. It’s big. The main street in my city was closed off to cars, there was a huge parade, tons of live bands (including a couple of Native American flute playing performers . . . Yeah, I don’t get it, either), and a menagerie of souvenir vendors.
I was looking for a Putin t-shirt when I saw it:
An unassuming matryoshka sitting atop a long table full of antiques. It was mustard yellow and faded violet, with elegant flowers painted on old wood. My initial interest soared once the vendor opened it up and showed me the cracked inner dolls. Using my still-underdeveloped haggling skills, I bought it for 300 rubles, and cradled it all the way home.
Now the question remains: What is it about this particular matryoshka that caused me to fall in love? I mean, it’s like 50 years old, missing two pieces, and has a huge crack in one of the inner dolls. Why would anyone want it?
Well, I don’t know why anyone else would want it, but I know why I wanted it.
Simple. I love old things.
I love old things. I love vintage. And you know what? I am perfectly okay with that! I’m not going to rag on my friends for buying the fancy nesting dolls at upscale souvenir shops in Saint Petersburg; to each their own.
THIS is my own.
For the first time in a long time, I felt like me again. And I realized: I’ve been living my life for other people. I threw myself into playing the piano to impress a guy in high school. I learned painting for a different guy in college. I can’t count how many times I’ve agonized over choosing a major, all the while seeing myself through other people’s eyes.
That’s stupid, Serena. I need to see myself from my OWN eyes.
A quote on Pinterest caught my eye the other day. It said: “Make a list of things that make you happy. Now make a list of what you do every day. Review the lists and adjust accordingly.”
Look how simple that is! It’s not, “Ask your mom and your dad and your boyfriend and your ex-boyfriends and your college roommates and your friends from high school that you haven’t talked to in years” what makes them happy.
Freaking ask yourself! What makes you happy, just because of what it is?
Writing makes me happy.
Dancing makes me happy.
Russia makes me happy.
Sunlight makes me happy.
Lilacs make me happy.
My religion makes me happy.
Family makes me happy.
So I’ve decided to start living life for myself. No longer will I make decisions based off of, “What will [this person] think of me?” The only person’s opinion that truly matters is myself, and God’s. I’m saying goodbye to the dependent, insecure, lonely girl I’ve been for years. See you never.
And splayed on my desk, in her flawed glory, is my vintage Russian nesting doll. She says, “Welcome home, Serena. Cracks and all.”
