As I led the pony to the mounting block, ready for our ride, my mother yelled from the back porch. Her voice didn't carry, only the sharp tone of urgency. Mom-voice.
"Can't hear you!" I replied as I settled in the saddle and moved my fingers to their mirrored positions on each side of the reins.
"LIGHTNING!" She tried again, louder. "Lightning from the clouds to the ground! We're going inside!"
Were there other kinds of lightning? I wasn't sure. My parents, Floridians at heart, couldn't shake the habit of going into hiding whenever a storm hit. "The lightning can strike a mile on all sides of the storm," I remember Mom telling me during one winter in the South. This is Michigan, though, and I'm pretty sure our storms are underachievers, like just about everything else here. Except for the storms that involved Mr. Ohboy's grandpa, who was struck by lightning on two separate occasions as he sat in the same chair in the same house. That was clearly bad luck--it had nothing to do with the ferocity of the storm or taking proper cover. Or the fact that he was wearing his tinfoil hat. (Totally kidding about the tinfoil hat, but it sounded good).
But back to tonight...
Above me the sky reflected back a clear robin-egg blue. To either side, grey clouds pushed forward with a rumble. The pony didn't fret like an animal about to be deep-fried by a stray bolt of electricity, but something told me it might be part of her diabolical plan to be rid of me forever. As the wisps of clouds advanced, I sighed and dismounted. We waited out the blast of wind in the aisle of the pole barn, which struck me as probably more dangerous than being out in the open, but made me seem more responsible to anyone paying attention. I'm not widely viewed as responsible. I blame that on being the baby of the family. And on being irresponsible, but whatever.
Eventually the sun broke through the clouds, and I led the pony back to the arena. Our ride went well (in case you cared), though I cut it short because more thunder warned of another storm inching our way. Before I could finish cleaning up and securing the barn for the evening, the canopy of sky overhead darkened.
Because I had walked down to the barn, I walked home. The pasture stretched before me, the breeze tickling the tips of the grass, and all I could think of was my vulnerability. The blackness feathering above me like the wings of a dark angel reminded me of my mortality.
If I died on that very spot, pierced through by pure energy, would my life have meant something?
Yes? No? I don't know.
My 35th birthday was a few days back, and I joked that I wanted warning if this was the year of the mid-life crisis. To be honest, though, I felt like I've been in a mid-life crisis for twenty years. Nothing is as I thought it would turn out, and that's not a bad thing, necessarily. My younger self didn't dream, something I've grown to accept as the dreams have continued to elude me. All I ever wanted was to be a horse trainer, rock star, and hopelessly in love.
My marriage does not resemble a chick flick, and I wish that was different, but we do the best we can clinging to each other as we roll with the punches. Parents who have been dealt the challenging hand of children with special needs can probably understand. To those who can't understand what that means to a family, to a couple, to a person--I pray you never have to understand, personally, but that you will understand anyway because others need your compassion instead of judgement. Somehow, through it all, we're still here. I don't know why we've been so lucky that way. And I do know that we love each other, though it's not like 'The Notebook'.
Ryan Gosling. Mmm. Oh, sorry... But, for real. Ryan Gosling.
I'm not a horse trainer like I always wanted, though I train my horses every day. In a way, I guess that one's true, too. Sometimes it feels so pointless, especially when I try my hardest and there's still so much I don't know how to do. Or when I spend my life building a relationship with a horse only to have to say good-bye, and usually on such tragic terms. Every loss is a blow I can't quite put into words.
I'm only a rock star when I'm driving down the highway and belting out impossible notes along with Florence + the Machine. Seriously, I am not sure what that sounds like to people who drive next to me with their windows down. So, yeah. NOT a rock star.
Writing was always a dream, but something that felt so utterly out of reach I never put much thought to it. In this age of self-publishing and vanity houses, it's completely attainable now. If I died tonight, I wouldn't be published. For all I know, my manuscript is buried in an inbox somewhere important, awaiting a double-click that may never come. If I died tonight, I'd spend the rest of eternity wondering if I'd ever have been worthy of an audience.
In the end, I obviously made it to my home without being targeted by my very own lightning bolt, but the night is not over. There are countless other things in my life that feel stagnant, blanketed in dust, ignored. I've been quiet here because there hasn't been much to say, and that's how the inside of my head feels, too. Still. Holding. Waiting.
But for what?
For dreams. For direction. For someone to tell me I'm better at this whole life thing than I think I am. Is this what growing older is like? Questioning and analyzing how differently it has all gone down?
Showing posts with label awkward. Show all posts
Showing posts with label awkward. Show all posts
Monday, June 24, 2013
Thursday, February 28, 2013
Tuesday, February 19, 2013
Shiny Wheels
That winter, I became a snowbird. More than anything, I didn't want to be a snowbird. None of my friends were snowbirds, and I envied them. Their evenings were full of high-school basketball games, parties, and pointless flirting. Life wintering in Florida meant Bingo nights in the clubhouse surrounded by shrinking, silver people, watching school on the VCR, and making long-distance friends on an infant Internet because social media wasn't a thing yet. Paradise surrounded me, and I couldn't appreciate it. I felt alone, because I was alone. My parents didn't count as real people. Psssh! Of course they didn't.
The Internet led me to Matt, a boy who lived in Ft. Myers, forty-five minutes away. Sight unseen, we struck up an odd friendship, and began talking on the telephone for hours at a time. After a couple weeks of daily phone calls, we decided to take our relationship to the next level. Yes, it was finally time to meet in person.
My mother, whose sense of paranoia surpassed "To Catch a Predator"'s Chris Hansen, felt certain that this boy was a 40-year-old serial rapist targeting his next victim. Eventually, I exhausted her in the way that only a whiny teenage girl can, and she reluctantly allowed this meeting to happen. Our two rules were that we could only meet somewhere public and that we would remain within sight of a parent at all times. There would be no stalking or abduction on Mama's watch, nosir!
Matt and I--parents chaperoning, of course--planned to drive to town for a noontime lunch at Cheeburger on Saturday, giving me enough time to take a morning riding lesson and get cleaned up. At 2 p.m., he called from a pay phone outside the Burger King at our interstate exit. The boy was two hours late, an unpardonable offense according to my growling stomach. Strike 1.
"Sorry," he shrugged. "I was washing my wheels."
I've never considered myself to be God's gift to the male species, ever. However, I know that I am more valuable than shiny wheels. Most girls are.
We made our way to Cheeburger, where Matt scanned the menu for a while before finally deciding on the 1/2-pound cheeseburger, fries, and a salad.
"But put the dressing on the side," he instructed the waitress. "I'm on a diet."
My friend Matt was not a small guy, by any definition of the word. I called shenanigans on his attempt to appear health-conscious.
When the bill came at the end of our meal, he silently allowed my step-dad to pay for his share. I wondered if he remembered bragging to me about the fifty bucks his mom had given him for the day's gas and food. Strike 2.
Our next stop was King Richard's, a medieval-themed arcade and miniature golf center. We'd barely stepped inside the doors when my mother asked if I wanted to go with her to the restroom.
Yes, boys. Sometimes when we travel in packs to the bathroom, it's because we are talking about you. We really aren't afraid of something happening to us like a monster waiting to gobble us up if we go in there alone.
"Do you want us to leave you alone with Matt while we're here?" She asked as the bathroom door swung closed behind us.
I shook my head so violently I nearly gave myself whiplash. Truth be told, I hoped he would be gone by the time we walked back out to the lobby. If only we weren't his ride back to his truck.
"Okay." She smiled.
Only, that's not how it worked.
Somehow I ended up by myself with Matt, playing a round of miniature golf while my parents disappeared. I imagine they were hiding around the corner, laughing at how visibly uncomfortable I was in Matt's presence. They probably figured making me squirm would discourage me from trying to meet any more of my cyber friends.
As we slowly made our way around the range, Matt turned to me and whined, "They're being so unfair to me by not letting us be alone." After my skin stopped crawling, I silently thanked my paranoid mother for all of her rules. Strike 3, Matt, just because I could.... and because it was about time for you to strike out and head back to the dugout.
Soon after, we dropped Matt off at Burger King, where his shiny truck waited to carry him home. My parents made an excuse about other plans they'd made--a lie we made come true because they're both honest people.
I let out a sigh of relief as we drove away from where he stood, open-mouthed, next to his impeccable vehicle.
The Internet led me to Matt, a boy who lived in Ft. Myers, forty-five minutes away. Sight unseen, we struck up an odd friendship, and began talking on the telephone for hours at a time. After a couple weeks of daily phone calls, we decided to take our relationship to the next level. Yes, it was finally time to meet in person.
My mother, whose sense of paranoia surpassed "To Catch a Predator"'s Chris Hansen, felt certain that this boy was a 40-year-old serial rapist targeting his next victim. Eventually, I exhausted her in the way that only a whiny teenage girl can, and she reluctantly allowed this meeting to happen. Our two rules were that we could only meet somewhere public and that we would remain within sight of a parent at all times. There would be no stalking or abduction on Mama's watch, nosir!
Matt and I--parents chaperoning, of course--planned to drive to town for a noontime lunch at Cheeburger on Saturday, giving me enough time to take a morning riding lesson and get cleaned up. At 2 p.m., he called from a pay phone outside the Burger King at our interstate exit. The boy was two hours late, an unpardonable offense according to my growling stomach. Strike 1.
"Sorry," he shrugged. "I was washing my wheels."
I've never considered myself to be God's gift to the male species, ever. However, I know that I am more valuable than shiny wheels. Most girls are.
We made our way to Cheeburger, where Matt scanned the menu for a while before finally deciding on the 1/2-pound cheeseburger, fries, and a salad.
"But put the dressing on the side," he instructed the waitress. "I'm on a diet."
My friend Matt was not a small guy, by any definition of the word. I called shenanigans on his attempt to appear health-conscious.
When the bill came at the end of our meal, he silently allowed my step-dad to pay for his share. I wondered if he remembered bragging to me about the fifty bucks his mom had given him for the day's gas and food. Strike 2.
Our next stop was King Richard's, a medieval-themed arcade and miniature golf center. We'd barely stepped inside the doors when my mother asked if I wanted to go with her to the restroom.
Yes, boys. Sometimes when we travel in packs to the bathroom, it's because we are talking about you. We really aren't afraid of something happening to us like a monster waiting to gobble us up if we go in there alone.
"Do you want us to leave you alone with Matt while we're here?" She asked as the bathroom door swung closed behind us.
I shook my head so violently I nearly gave myself whiplash. Truth be told, I hoped he would be gone by the time we walked back out to the lobby. If only we weren't his ride back to his truck.
"Okay." She smiled.
Only, that's not how it worked.
Somehow I ended up by myself with Matt, playing a round of miniature golf while my parents disappeared. I imagine they were hiding around the corner, laughing at how visibly uncomfortable I was in Matt's presence. They probably figured making me squirm would discourage me from trying to meet any more of my cyber friends.
As we slowly made our way around the range, Matt turned to me and whined, "They're being so unfair to me by not letting us be alone." After my skin stopped crawling, I silently thanked my paranoid mother for all of her rules. Strike 3, Matt, just because I could.... and because it was about time for you to strike out and head back to the dugout.
Soon after, we dropped Matt off at Burger King, where his shiny truck waited to carry him home. My parents made an excuse about other plans they'd made--a lie we made come true because they're both honest people.
I let out a sigh of relief as we drove away from where he stood, open-mouthed, next to his impeccable vehicle.
Sunday, February 3, 2013
Ghosts
I was on a mission: Grab a soda and make it to choir practice on time. A few days ago our director laid down the law about being late to rehearsals. This time, surprisingly, it wasn't directed at me. Punctuality has not always been my strongest trait, but it's something I've been working on because clients don't tend to hire you when you consistently show up late to appointments. Imagine that.
As I made my way through the flow of my fellow grocery store patrons picking up last-minute supplies for the big game, an odd feeling washed over me. Maybe my subconscious caught the profile of someone familiar in the crowd, just enough to spark the thought, "What if he's here?"
He.
The boy who rewrote my life those years ago.
The boy who never saw it through.
The boy who doesn't know that he shares that same aloof smile.
It makes me wonder if we've ever been in the same place at the same time, breathing the same air. For my sanity, I pretend it's impossible. The alternative is too much to consider.
What would I do, should he walk up to me one day, asking if I remembered him? Catching up on lost time? I imagine it would all shatter around my feet, that it's the best thing that never happened to me--this accidental encounter. Mostly, I believe he is relieved to be free of me and the many shades of broken I was back then.
The smallest part of me insists that he must wonder. That's the same shred of me that won't let me forget that I am forever bonded to someone who is practically a specter. Once too alive in my world, he now drifts beyond my view. I still feel his presence when the goosebumps raise on the back of my neck. I still pray that today is not the day he chooses to breach the gap and make contact.
I do not know how to communicate with ghosts, and today was not the day I wished to learn. All I wanted was a soda.
As I made my way through the flow of my fellow grocery store patrons picking up last-minute supplies for the big game, an odd feeling washed over me. Maybe my subconscious caught the profile of someone familiar in the crowd, just enough to spark the thought, "What if he's here?"
He.
The boy who rewrote my life those years ago.
The boy who never saw it through.
The boy who doesn't know that he shares that same aloof smile.
It makes me wonder if we've ever been in the same place at the same time, breathing the same air. For my sanity, I pretend it's impossible. The alternative is too much to consider.
What would I do, should he walk up to me one day, asking if I remembered him? Catching up on lost time? I imagine it would all shatter around my feet, that it's the best thing that never happened to me--this accidental encounter. Mostly, I believe he is relieved to be free of me and the many shades of broken I was back then.
The smallest part of me insists that he must wonder. That's the same shred of me that won't let me forget that I am forever bonded to someone who is practically a specter. Once too alive in my world, he now drifts beyond my view. I still feel his presence when the goosebumps raise on the back of my neck. I still pray that today is not the day he chooses to breach the gap and make contact.
I do not know how to communicate with ghosts, and today was not the day I wished to learn. All I wanted was a soda.
Saturday, February 2, 2013
Advice To My Younger Self
Write the letter, if you must. All 30 pages of it. Pour the words from your heart like water from a pitcher. Get it all out--every last drop--until you've said all you need to say. Then destroy it. I don't care how the letter meets its end. Fire. Paper shredder. Teething puppy. Computer trash can. Whatever.
Don't you dare send that letter. If you have a novella of angst and emotion pent up inside, sharing it all with that person isn't likely to change a thing. It will, however, come back to haunt you like the gamble you took when scarfing down that grey-looking burrito from the gas station that one time.
Keep a journal, a diary, a blog instead, but be prepared to cringe when you look back. You're constantly growing and changing as a person, gathering life experience and wisdom by the arm-loads. What you fiercely believe now will probably be only a speck of what you hold to be true 10 or 20 years from now.... Don't be a bit surprised if you don't even recognize the person you used to be a decade or two down the road.
The world is so different now then it was when I was younger and figuring everything out. I thank God that I was not born to this generation, where every racing, uncensored thought can be shared instantly. I didn't need the extra help, finding my way in the most awkward way possible. My younger family members are traveling these well-worn paths. They are falling fast and hard in love and lashing out for offenses they won't remember when the sun rises tomorrow. They are baring their souls on page and screen, words that can't be returned or wiped clean.
It's tough, this growing up. It's hard to look back and know where you would have chosen differently. It's even worse to have a liftetime witness.
Burn the letter. You are more incredible--today, yesterday, 10 years ago--than you will ever know. You don't need the letter to convince him, promise.
Don't you dare send that letter. If you have a novella of angst and emotion pent up inside, sharing it all with that person isn't likely to change a thing. It will, however, come back to haunt you like the gamble you took when scarfing down that grey-looking burrito from the gas station that one time.
Keep a journal, a diary, a blog instead, but be prepared to cringe when you look back. You're constantly growing and changing as a person, gathering life experience and wisdom by the arm-loads. What you fiercely believe now will probably be only a speck of what you hold to be true 10 or 20 years from now.... Don't be a bit surprised if you don't even recognize the person you used to be a decade or two down the road.
The world is so different now then it was when I was younger and figuring everything out. I thank God that I was not born to this generation, where every racing, uncensored thought can be shared instantly. I didn't need the extra help, finding my way in the most awkward way possible. My younger family members are traveling these well-worn paths. They are falling fast and hard in love and lashing out for offenses they won't remember when the sun rises tomorrow. They are baring their souls on page and screen, words that can't be returned or wiped clean.
It's tough, this growing up. It's hard to look back and know where you would have chosen differently. It's even worse to have a liftetime witness.
Burn the letter. You are more incredible--today, yesterday, 10 years ago--than you will ever know. You don't need the letter to convince him, promise.
Saturday, December 29, 2012
Social Interaction for Dummies
Something strange has happened to me. I have become content being by myself in social situations. If I am sitting alone somewhere, staring at the ceiling, please don't feel bad for me. It's probably the most peace and quiet I've had in days. In fact, if you come talk to me out of pity because I look lonely, you probably ruined the zen of the moment. Thanks for that.
Deep inside there is a comedian... I enjoyed him for lunch with some fava beans and a nice chianti. Just kidding. But, really, I enjoy making people laugh. I will beat every ounce of life out of a joke, and then give it one more really good swat because, heck, I can. That's my personality, love it or hate it. Lately, though, I have been more than happy to be a fly on the wall, listening and observing vs. working the crowd.
If I'm being truthful, I've never felt like working the crowd. I've always entertained others out of necessity and, eventually, force of habit. When it all boils down to it, I'm much too slow to craft my speech, and I hate how little dexterity there is with the words that come from my lips. In a perfect world I would want to live life with cue cards with the option of ad-libbing a particularly witty one-liner whenever the opportunity arises. Maybe I missed my calling--maybe I should have been a sitcom actress. Even then, I probably would have been cast as the quirky, awkward neighbor or the harried mother screaming at her kids in the middle of the supermarket.... An extra.
I don't want to worry about being myself, socially clumsy as I am, or about giving myself a free pass to get lost in thought when you think I should be doing the limbo or Macarena or something. I don't mind if you don't mind. If you mind, well, you've just become the topic of my next cue card.
Deep inside there is a comedian... I enjoyed him for lunch with some fava beans and a nice chianti. Just kidding. But, really, I enjoy making people laugh. I will beat every ounce of life out of a joke, and then give it one more really good swat because, heck, I can. That's my personality, love it or hate it. Lately, though, I have been more than happy to be a fly on the wall, listening and observing vs. working the crowd.
If I'm being truthful, I've never felt like working the crowd. I've always entertained others out of necessity and, eventually, force of habit. When it all boils down to it, I'm much too slow to craft my speech, and I hate how little dexterity there is with the words that come from my lips. In a perfect world I would want to live life with cue cards with the option of ad-libbing a particularly witty one-liner whenever the opportunity arises. Maybe I missed my calling--maybe I should have been a sitcom actress. Even then, I probably would have been cast as the quirky, awkward neighbor or the harried mother screaming at her kids in the middle of the supermarket.... An extra.
I don't want to worry about being myself, socially clumsy as I am, or about giving myself a free pass to get lost in thought when you think I should be doing the limbo or Macarena or something. I don't mind if you don't mind. If you mind, well, you've just become the topic of my next cue card.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)