DECONSTRUCTION

You might as well pick your side of the bed because you seem to spend a lot of time in it.  I think you’ve taken up permanent residence because as soon as I drift off, I can almost feel you crawl in next to me.  And there you stay, haunting my dreams until I wake up exhausted.

For a while your appearances were so rare, I thought you might have deserted me.  But you were only hanging back, chastened by discovery and slightly dismayed that I was fully aware of your presence.  Did you think I was insensitive to the ebb and flow of your thoughts?  They are as apparent to me as waves upon the sand.

Perhaps it unnerves you to be that vulnerable before me, but all I perceive is beauty and passionate yearning so tangible that I’m never quite sure if I’m awake or dreaming.  And when you greeted me last night, with so many kisses that I lost count of them, the pretense was gone and you were so relieved by its absence that I thought you’d break me in two.

I wonder how long you will keep me company in this dimension.  Some think it’s just a harmless pursuit, locked in the privacy of the mind, but I know otherwise.  Intention dropped into the pool of action sends endless rings before it and there will come a time when the heat from your innermost desire will rise up like a flame and consume us both.

WAKING AND DREAMING REALITIES

I absolutely did not want to get out of bed this morning, being caught up in a dream so vivid and sensual that I wasn’t sure where I was.  When the alarm sounded, I wanted to throw it across the room for daring to interrupt.

Despite my best efforts, I couldn’t return to that moment.  It was like a soap bubble that once punctured could not be remade.  But as fleeting as it was, the effects are long term.  I am, hours later, still plagued by vision and deep-seated longing.

It would be easy to dismiss this as an act of the overly-imaginative, but why?  Is the activity of the subconscious mind unimportant?  Or does its non-linear nature disturb us so profoundly that we disregard its messages?

Granted, it’s difficult to reconcile two seemingly disparate factions.  If your waking and dreaming minds are at odds, then your behavior must be tailored to the medium in which you operate.  Clearly, we cannot move from one impulsive act to another without carefully weighing the consequences, but dreamstate eliminates them.  You are free to act from the deepest part of self, exploring scenarios which otherwise might be off-limits.

And was do your secret activities say about you?  Are you repressed and only able to express creativity and emotion in the privacy of your own head?  Or, are you problem-solving and making sense of your life through strange metaphor?  More importantly, how have you integrated what you’ve learned into your life?

If you’re like most people, dreams are just pleasant (or occasionally terrifying) diversions to which you attach no significance.  Think of all the dismissive commentary that comes to mind.  It was just a dream.  Just ignore everything and learn to mistrust yourself.  Go back to sleep.  Like that will make a difference?  There are no such things as monsters under the bed.  They only exist in the bed, and are usually parked next to you.

Worse yet are the condemnations of the uplifting dreams.  It’s just a pipedream.  Happiness is only for the stoned?  You’re dreaming your life away.  I thought I was devising ways of making it better.  You’re just a dreamer.   True, but only if I believe that the sole measure of success is that obtained by mindless adherence to corporate principles and the utter disregard for the soul’s yearning for truth.

I’m not going to limit myself and pick through the crumbs offered by external reality.  I’ve seen no evidence that living by its code unifies the world’s inhabitants.  Much to the contrary, they are being slowly ripped apart and devoured by the same entities that promise deliverance.  I will not add myself to the feast.

If that makes me a dreamer by default, so be it.  I accept my lot and embrace the happy dreams that both waking and sleeping provide.

VIRTUAL AFTERMATH

The café door blew open and she rode in on a gust.  “You’ll never guess what I did today!”

There’s no telling what Suzanne will do, so I played along.  “You joined the circus?”

She giggled and threw her purse onto the table.  I had to grab my latte to prevent it from capsizing.  “No, silly!  I broke up with Neil!”

“Who?”

“You remember him, Kimmy, don’t you?  He’s my virtual boyfriend.”

Apparently, she was still capable of surprise.  “You gotta be kidding me…”

She continued, oblivious to my response.  “Nope.  I told him flat out that it wasn’t working for me and that I didn’t want to see him anymore.”

“You told your imaginary boyfriend whom you’ve never seen that you no longer want to see him?”

I didn’t think it was possible, but she answered without a trace of guile.  “Yeah, he just wasn’t there for me…”

She waltzed up to the counter to place an order and I wondered if she had finally lost her marbles.  Suzanne is a formidable business woman and one of my dearest friends, but her romantic sensibilities are questionable at best.  I vaguely recalled a discussion of her latest paramour, but she didn’t refer to him by name; nor did she mention that he wasn’t quite real.  The mystery was almost starting to intrigue me. . .

. . . until she plopped into the seat opposite me and started a litany of his alleged offenses.  “You know, if I had known that he’d be so unreasonable, I would have never started up with him!  Did he think I’d carry the weight of all this by myself?”  She took a sip of espresso.  “And I thought I really knew him. . .”

I didn’t bother concealing a smirk.  “So, how did the two of you meet?”

“In Cannes,” she sighed.   “Remember when they sent me to cover the festival for that art rag that folded last month?   Well, we met in the press room one night and that was it. . .”

“You’ve never been to Cannes.”

“. . . at least I thought that was it until he turned into a complete absentee.”  She stirred her coffee thoughtfully for a moment before looking up suddenly.  “Kimmy, you don’t think he’s a player, do you?”

“Who, the invisible man?”

“I’m serious,” she said, indignant.  “What if I was just one of many?”

I patted her hand.  “If there were other women, I wouldn’t lose any sleep over it; they’re probably fictional as well.”

GIRLY GIRL AND PROUD OF IT

“You throw like a girl.”

At first I took offense.  “You mean my trajectory and spatial skills are not up to par?”

“No, I mean you throw like a girl,” he said, dramatizing the statement with a limp flip of his wrist.

I almost wanted to cower and issue an apology for being the wrong gender.  Fortunately, I quickly recovered and walked off the field after bestowing a digital flip of my own.  If he wanted a tomboy to help him perfect his curve ball, then he shouldn’t have asked the lady in the slinky dress and spike heels.

Since when did femininity become a liability?  Contemporary mores dictate that the modern femme fatale should be a unique hybrid of classic womanliness and macho swagger.  Who made up these rules?  Being a woman is difficult enough without the added burden of being a man as well.

I don’t want to be a man.  If I did, I would have had a sex change years ago.  Instead, I happily accept my XX assignment and furthermore, I’m going to shamelessly revel in it. 

Why should I feel inferior if I can’t throw a ball or pee standing up?  I don’t know many men who feel ashamed if they’re unable to walk in heels or nurse a baby.  I simply refuse to buy into the argument that the attributes of my gender are lesser.

But then, I never thought it was necessary to compete with men.  There’s no need for hostility if both parties have equal footing.  And although I can appreciate the male drive for competition and dominance, I am not obliged to adopt them.

Why would I?  The full expression of my own sex is wonder enough.  It surprises me then when I’m asked (by women, no less!) why I bother to dress up.  Invariably my questioner is festooned in boy clothes -tee shirt, sweat pants or jeans- and resentment.  The implication being that I must be on the prowl because no woman in her right mind would wear anything else.

Maybe gals do primp excessively for the benefit of men, but I’ve been playing dress-up without cease since I was 4, and able to clunk around in my mother’s stiletto boots (with the rabbit fur trim!).  Were my efforts done solely for an imaginary male audience?  Doubtful.  I just loved to swath myself in ladies’ acoutrement and dream of the day when I could wear them without hearing the patronizing remarks of well-meaning, but clueless adults.

I’m still waiting.  Just last week a colleague questioned my wardrobe, chuckling as he remarked how previous contractors had never strayed from shapeless hospital scrubs and orthopedic oxfords.   “Boy, you sure like to get gussied up,” he said, giving me the once-over.  “Are you sure that you can perform your job?”

Although I patiently explained to him that my decision to wear a summer dress under my lab coat would in no way hamper my ability to think and behave rationally, I had to suppress a strong urge to smack him upside the head.  Just because a lady likes to use a powderpuff,  it does not make her one by association.

It would be a mistake to judge the girly girl as a pushover.  Her femininity does not replace common sense, but enhances it.  Only a woman who is confident and comfortable with herself, and not a stereotyped or dictated version of self, has access to unlimited reserves of strength.  Not the superimposed variety hawked by men and fashion, but the unwavering type that grows exponentially in the presence of truth.  It may not be truth of all womankind, but for those who feel an affinity, it is.

THE WAITING ROOM

I’ve been here so long that it’s beginning to feel like home.  What is it about interminable waiting that makes it so irksome?  The tedium?  The powerlessness?  Or knowing that you’re being shaped for some unknown purpose?

It’s been said that patience is a virtue, albeit one that is not terribly popular.  In a world of instant gratification, it’s difficult to cheerfully bear the passage of time without thinking about loss.  Shouldn’t it be put to better use?

But I often wonder if the tasks we undertake in the interim are just distractions.   We can persuade ourselves that the mindless job at hand is important and needs to be done.   But we’ve done it so many times that it’s rote and before we can stop it, we’re already daydreaming.

Are we so desperate to escape the monotony that we’ll invent virtually anything to keep us occupied?  I used to think that patience was the hallmark of the the weak-willed, but after having been recently forced to it, I realize it takes steel and a considerable amount of perseverance.  It’s a lot easier to run off and indulge in a whim than to exercise self-discipline and wait until conditions change.  Easier, that is, until you discover that your premature action has jeopardized the goal and you’re left with nothing.

So what do you do?  Push the envelope and risk a lifetime of regret?  Or, take your lumps now and wait until your objective is realized, happily spending the rest of your life free of the pangs of conscience?

DYNAMIC TENSION

 

What’s to be done when the life you want is not the one you’re living?  Do you spend your time daydreaming of an alternate reality or take the steps necessary to realize it?

I have often heard that people are reluctant to change because they fear repercussion.  It could be argued however, that change occurs whether one is embracing it or not.    The real question is for whom are you living your life. . . .for yourself or for something or someone else?

It’s not such a strange notion.  When we are young, our dreams are big but unfocused.  They are usually linked to the expectations or karma of our families, and it’s not until we’re much older (and hopefully wiser) that we regain control.  But by then, we are so entrenched in habit that we fear starting again and just resign ourselves to fate.  This makes for an unhappy lot of adults who yearn for fulfillment, but are loathe to part with the familiar.  Over time, they forget that it was choice that shaped them, and their inherent joyfulness begins to fade.  They assume the mindset and physical form of the aged and bury themselves in distraction until death releases them from any further obligation.

But it’s never that easy.  Death will not discharge anyone from responsibility;  it can only delay it.  If there is a reason why you are slow to make change, consider the arguments against it.  It is not the repercussion of others that you should fear, but the enormous toll your own procrastination will levy.

THE MOST BEAUTIFUL THING IN THE WORLD

…is when you lie beside me and I can forget myself for a few hours.  I don’t want to think about all the tasks that await me, or the insurmountable obstacles that ring you like a barricade.  Instead, I want to dissolve, losing all sense of myself in a kiss that goes on for days.  Can I reach the very bottom of it or will it wind languidly on a never-ending trip, leading me to parts unknown but still strangely familiar?

It doesn’t matter because I will board that train and take it to the end of the line.  The uncertainty of the future doesn’t frighten me nearly as much as the possibility that it could be lost and never realized.  Why should I fret about the inconsequentials?  They shall be swept away, for I have seen what lies beyond and nothing save self-doubt can sabotage it.

What an exquiste surprise this journey has become.  I’m captivated by the beauty and complexity of its design, and thrilled that I no longer have to take the helm.  I only have to acknowledge that I’ve been chosen and then to participate wholeheartedly.

Is the the joining of you to me that is the end, or is it representative of my missing pieces coming together in joyful reunion?  It has been said that love cannot manifest between two if it does not first exist independently within each one.   If this is true, then my happiness is magnified a hundredfold for I know with absolute certainty that no matter the outcome, I shall be upheld.

THE DEEP END OF THE POOL

Have you ever been faced with an insurmountable problem and known that the solution lays at the bottom of the abyss?  It’s there, ripe for the plucking, if you can muster the courage to jump into the unknown.

Of course, what choice do you really have?  You can stay in the miserable place that has you trapped, or you can venture beyond the frontier.  There are no guarantees as to what you’ll find in this unexplored country, but that’s what all leaps of faith entail.

A cushy landing… isn’t that what we all expect?  A miraculous resolution to the problem that pushed us into the leap and assurance that not only will everything be all right, but that the new conditions will yield answers and unending happiness.

Perhaps that’s what we all seek:  a tidy solution to our mess.  The only problem is our conflicts usually involve others, and people always seem to have their own idea as to what is acceptable.  No matter how hard you try, you will never completely convey your idea to another because they do not have your particular perception.

The manner by which we view the world varies wildly, even among the like-minded.  At best, we hope for affinity and mutual respect.  However, most of us want more, a kind of soul-level understanding that is beyond human ability.  We want delirious love without condition, but are incapable of it. 

Why, then, do we insist upon asking the impossible from our partners?  Are we trying to avoid our responsibility, or the guilt when we discover that the love we seek is not of this world?  As much as we habitually make individuals the center of our private universe, we tear them apart when they fail to deliver.  It might be pre-emptive anger.  Better to strike first than to be found wanting.  At least when you’re on the offense, you don’t have to explain your own shortcomings.

But that’s only a temporary fix.  Eventually you will have to acknowledge that the blackhole in your soul is of your own making, and that everyone is struggling with the same disease.  It’s only when you realize that all of us are in the same boat, that you can develop a sense of true compassion. 

We are not alone in our delusions.  They assume different shapes, as unique as snowflakes, but they are all the same in essence:  expectation based on attachment to outcome.  But to what are we really clinging?  If we tie ourselves to fluctuation, then we will bob and weave with the motion.  No one person can steer you to safety if he/she is at the mercy of the same conditions.

Better to anchor one’s self in the unchanging, even if that decision requires a leap of faith so monumental that it scares you to the core.  Will you let your life be guided by fear, or will you resume control of it by surrendering control?

NEW WORLD ORDER

What is the measure of a successful relationship?  Longevity?  Progeny?  Mutual respect?  A stunning real estate portfolio?  I recently put the question to a number of people and their answers were revealing.  Instead of finding contentment in the classic template of our parents and grandparents, most chafe under it and yearn for something else.

The majority of those polled admitted that old-fashioned gender roles were dissatisfying.  Men said they were more befuddled than ever.  Ladies complained of the unfair burden placed upon them.  It seemed that despite the feminism they embraced, they still shouldered the bulk of the domestic chores.  Helen Gurley Brown was wrong; you can’t have it all … unless you’ve managed to clone yourself.

Judging from the response of both camps, it seems this frustration is mutual.  Why then do we insist upon using a formula that no longer serves?  Are we hardwired for this division of labor, or have we evolved to a level where we must reevaluate and consciously change our behavior?

Assuming that we’re capable of real change, where would we begin?  Pitching the whole thing and starting from scratch?  Pruning a few dead branches from an otherwise healthy tree?  A slow replacement of the unworkable with the untested?  If we have learned anything from experience, wholesale legislation rarely works …especially when venturing into the minefield of civil liberties.  People rarely part with their dearly held beliefs, even if they are self-defeating.

So we remain trapped, unwilling to change yet stymied by inertia.  Is it any wonder that we’re enraged?  The real question is with whom are we truly angry, our hapless companions or ourselves.

VISITING HOURS

 

 

I dreamt about you again last night.  It was one of many I’ve had since that evening you impulsively dropped your guard and let me see inside your soul.  Did you think I had forgotten? 

How can I when your nocturnal visits have become habitual?  Rarely do I close my eyes and sink into dreamless black sleep.  Instead you hover nearby and grow bolder with every appearance.

I thought the first dream was a fluke, a crazy patchwork of people clamoring for the attention that you paid only to me.  They stood in disarray, unable to break the orbit that we spun.  And I wondered, even as it unfolded before me, why you had so quickly assumed a role in my subconscious.

Or why, with each subsequent dream, you move ever closer.  From across the room to my side…  from standing motionless behind me to holding me, as you did last night, like a prisoner in your arms.  Not that I wanted to escape, I wanted to relish the confinement and remember every detail of how we fit together.

As if from habit, you stood so close that I could feel your breath against my neck and your lips against mine.   But you never said a word.  There’s no need to speak because I know exactly what you’re thinking and what you want.  You have become transparent to me.

It’s curious that at night, when all is quiet and freed from constraint, you grant yourself leave to indulge. And you can’t get enough, can you?  You are like a man starving for the connection that only the muse can provide.

THE HIGH MAINTENANCE WOMAN

You know who I mean.  She always enters a room fully expecting to be feted.  She routinely inspects her appearance discreetly in every reflective surface, but takes no pains to conceal her contempt of others.  She’s always flipping her hair and gauging reaction from the corner of her eye.  God forbid another attractive woman occupy the same radius!

No one commands the petulant quite like her.  If a stamp of her (exceptionally well-shod) foot doesn’t snap you to attention, she’s always ready with a barb designed to shrivel your manhood.  If she launches it in public, so much the better.  Nothing smacks of true love more than humiliation.

If you can’t satisfy her every demand, be certain that a queue of the willing are just behind.  You are only a means to end, but you don’t really mind, do you?  It’s a small price to pay. 

The appeal is irresistable.  For every man decrying the dwindling numbers of respectable, date-worthy women, there are two fighting for favor of the bitchy ones.  Who wants a loving woman to keep the home fire burning, when a dismissive tempermental one is ready to burn it down?

Not that her temper assures you of any heat in the bedroom.  More often than not, she’s a cold fish… but damn!  Doesn’t she look bodacious in that Victoria’s Secret thong?  Maybe you’re not getting laid, but all your buddies will think you are.

It’s all a matter of appearance, not substance.  But who cares about substance?  Better to be the envy, not the pity, of the boys down at the Legion.  They can have their pick of the wallflowers… you’re going home with Miss September.

REVISIONISTS, UNITE!

Don’t be caught with your pants down!  Deny everything.  There’s no crime in backpedalling and re-imagining the facts; it’s the most popular pasttime in the US.

Just think of the possibilities. . . reconstructing entire years of your life, alternate explanations for your behavior, re-assignment of fault, disposal of responsibility. . . don’t they just make your mouth water?  Finally, you can take charge and repaint yourself in more favorable light.

Gone are those days wasted in brutal self-examination.  Instead, think of yourself as a practical impressionist, sketching wildly imaginative self-portraits, each one crazier than the next.  Who cares if it’s a mess of indeciferable colors and themes?  A statement that bold and unintelligible is sure to delight art circles.

No longer will you languish, a prisoner of conscience.  Throw it all away!  Take up your rightful place as a member of the guerilla narcisissists and pledge to defeat all idealogues.  Those namby-pambies make us all look bad; aren’t you just sick of their convictions?  No doubt that when we have routed them by our sheer numbers, they will recant and enlarge our ranks.  It’s up to us to force them to eschew the Middle Way and to adopt proper self-seeking, without which we might never identify the bad from the goody two shoes.

And when you’ve finished slashing your way through the facts, when your friends, family and colleagues are all scratching their heads, stop and observe all you’ve accomplished.  Relish the skewed vision and destruction left in your wake.  These are the moments that only the truly self-absorbed can appreciate.

OPEN YOUR EYES

You’re not fooling anybody.  Do you really think you can maintain the status quo by pretending not to see the mess in front of you?  What kind of twisted logic has brought you here . . . the type that conveniently fits into your preconceived delusion, or the one that completely excuses you from interacting with others?

No, I’m not talking to the idiot standing next to you.  At least that poor soul had the courage to own his actions.  What about yours?  Are you planning to let them lay and deny all responsibility? 

I don’t blame you if you do.  What could be more disheartening than unpleasant personal discoveries?  The shock alone could set you back and rekindle your appetite for self-destruction.  What a naughty creature you are!  says that voice, spinning round and round in your head.  Maybe you ought to follow its advice and indulge in a few more destructive habits.  You’ve earned the moniker, haven’t you?  Might as well live it, too.  Who could fault you for giving in to temptation?  Self-pity is such a succulent fruit.

Go ahead. . . pick it from the tree.  I won’t tell anyone.  They’ll have to torture me before I reveal your secret.  But then, I’d rather face an entire panel of interrogators than the one to which you’re forced to listen.  Your Grand Inquisitor is more devious.  What could be more fiendishly effective than using your weakness to his advantage?

Consider the bait.   You’re given a glimpse of what lies beyond and it fills you with joy, the kind you have rarely experienced since becoming an adult.  As you reach for it, you’re suddenly snared in a net of your own making.  All your self-doubts, malingering ties and paralyzing fears converge and render you powerless.  The more you struggle, the tighter the mesh becomes, until at last,  it squeezes the last breath from you.  You curse your captor, blaming him for your plight, but all he does is laugh.  He’s done virtually nothing, except watch you strangle yourself.

VIEW FROM THE CHEAP SEATS

It may not look like much, but from where I’m sitting, it offers the best view in the house.  There’s something to be said for observing one’s life without paying admission.  Who wants to pay inflated ticket prices to watch mayhem?

Look at the infield.  There is so much delusional refuse littering the ground, the game really should be suspended.  There’s no way the players can conduct themselves safely without risk of bodily injury.  But then. . . who doesn’t love blood on the field?  It’s not really cathartic if the game doesn’t reflect the bloody mess inside.

What?  Another penalty?  At this rate, everyone will be sitting on the side lines.  These are the most unruly players ever!  I don’t care if my stats are impressive; how am I supposed to live a normal life when all these characters are juiced and out of control?

Oh, I see they’re rioting in the bleachers again.  Those drunken fools don’t even care about the game.  They’re too busy schmoozing to notice.  It’s just as well really. . . if I had to factor in their dissent, I might be tempted to throw a few punches myself.

On second thought, I just may accept that offer from AT&T.  Running this asylum is a thankless job and it’s bleeding me dry.  The fans might call me a corporate sellout, but what do I really owe them?  Do I exist solely for the amusement of others?   When did I decide that spectators had a greater stake in my life?

Today, they get the boot.  I don’t care if they complain; I’m sick of the defaced walls and gum under the seats.  And furthermore, they can take those jacked-up players with them.  Maybe the mob can beat some sense into them; I never could.

AGING MATRONS NEED NOT APPLY

 

Hideous creatures, aren’t they?  Why not herd them up like landfill waste and bury the lot?  At least we will be spared the visual assault.

Oh, don’t bother protesting!  You might be able to convince the liberal neighbors with your self-righteous opinions, but you can’t fool me.  You’re revolted by the sight of aging women and frankly, I don’t blame you.  Sagging flesh should be a felony offense.   Concealing it beneath Spanx and push-up bras is false advertising.  Women should have the decency to remove themselves from the market once their charms have faded.

What’s more nauseating than women who don’t know their place?  By now, it should be obvious that their roles are limited and they ought stick to the rules. . . if they know what’s good for ‘em.   It’s just too bad, isn’t it, that they continue to prance around like teen girls.  Haven’t they looked in a mirror lately?  No one in their right mind would confuse them with properly attractive females.  What a pity they haven’t learned to stop flirting; they are a public embarrassment.

So what if the only jobs left to them are charwoman, nursemaid and breadwinner?  They should be grateful to have those!  Someone has to pay the bills and clean up.   And while we’re at it, why don’t we cut out their tongues?  Then we won’t be subject to their endless complaints.  Who wants to hear the whining and bitching of an old hag past her prime?  Not me!  I’d much rather listen to the empty stories of male prowess; they’re so much more riveting.

THE ISLAND

It’s beautiful, even idyllic, with mountain peaks overlooking aquamarine water. Tradewinds blow, songbirds twitter and waves lap against pure white sand.

It’s perfect, like Eden with dense green foliage and abundant fauna romping in the meadows and hillsides.  Sweet water cascades from springs and at night, when all is quiet, the stars are so close that you could reach out and touch them.

I saw it from afar and was mesmerized.  It was the most inviting place I had ever seen and more than anything, I wanted to go ashore and stroll the endless beach.  

“Not allowed, I’m afraid,” said the captain.  “No one is permitted to land.”

I asked why and he shrugged.  “Desecration.”

What an odd response.  But then again, old sailors are a bit superstitious.  We slowly circled the island and I memorized every detail.   The swaying palm trees seemed no different from the many I had seen before.  The sun above shone equally upon my head as it did upon the land.  There appeared to be no celestial favoring, or at least none that I could detect.

But the island was strangely sentient.  Was it just a trick of my eyes?  It seemed entirely self-sufficient, a biosphere free of the violation of man… or woman for that matter.  And as I sailed around its coves and bays, I realized that it existed perfectly of its own, without outside interference, and I could bring nothing of value to it. 

Perhaps in theory I could thrive indefinitely within its confines, but what could I give in return?  It lacks for nothing and my arrival would only upset the balance.   I felt the rejection as keenly as that of a lover.  

My sigh drew a chuckle from the captain.   “Now you understand,” he said with a weary smile.  “Desecration.”

COMING FULL CIRCLE

 

Another year has come and gone.  Am I supposed to mourn its passing or celebrate?  The usual protocol doesn’t apply anymore.

How should I behave now that I’ve officially arrived at this milemarker?  Like a giddy teenager?  Like a cranky old woman?  I don’t have any reference points… or at least none that I really care to use.

I could pretend that old age and death are not a factor for me.  Wouldn’t be lovely to parade around in ‘tweenie clothes and shut my eyes to the inevitable?  Lots of wealthy and deluded matrons do just that.  Think of the host of 40 and 50-something celebrity women who are suddenly flooding the media with revealing photoshoots, fading stars flaunting their bikini-ready bodies in a last-ditch effort to prove that they still have it. 

It’s curious, don’t you think, that when we are young we go to extreme lengths to appear older and more sophisticated and when we are old, we’ll do just about anything -no matter how ridiculous- to appear young.   It seems we are never satisfied with just being. 

Not that I haven’t occasionally fallen prey to it as well, but I’ve long since dropped grown-up affectations.  There’s nothing glamorous or awe-inspiring in the smug and greedy attitudes of the common adult.  And what’s with all the anger?  So what if the world isn’t what you expected!  At least you have the good fortune to be alive. 

So, is it disappointment that drives us back to youth, or desperation?  I’m not particularly enchanted with the world either, but ignoring the reality doesn’t make it easier to bear.  No amount of Botox, plastic surgery or Pilates lessons will stop the wheel from turning.  It will eventually roll over your well-honed body and crush you back into dust.

And is that really such a bad thing?  Why live forever if you don’t really like living?

RUDE AWAKENING

 

Years ago, my father told me that I was over-idealistic, that I didn’t see what was obvious.  “Everyone has potential,” he said, leaning back into his chair and looking thoughtfully at the ceiling, “but few people actually live up to it.”  I wondered if all the years of working as an attorney had soured him to human nature.  He never really enjoyed it, although he always had a quick smile and a witty story to share.  “People can misrepresent themselves at will, sweetheart; that’s their perogative.”

At the time, I thought all adults were somehow the magical keepers of rational thought.  It worried me that the ones I observed were no better than the snotty kids from third grade.  To whom could I turn for a ruling or understanding?  If they all were tussling about for dibs on the monkey bars, there was little chance they’d offer reasonable explanations of the mysteries of life.

“If you measure yourself by the standards of those around you, then you will become no better.”  Why did Dad always make sense of the nonsensical?  “In the end, the only person you’ll have to answer to is yourself.”   He was right, of course, but it took me half a lifetime to concur.  The first half was spent hanging upside down on those goddamned monkey bars.

A DOORMAT BY ANY OTHER NAME

After witnessing the collapse of yet another friend’s long-term relationship, I wondered what all these women had in common.  Aside from shouldering the lion’s share of the work involved, it seemed that all of them were exceptionally giving and tolerant women.  Strange, then, that they were assigned the unfair moniker of fickle.

We gathered one night to discuss our mutual woes.  It was ironic that even after bolting, they were still concerned with the welfare of everyone else but themselves. 

“My priest says I’m going straight to hell if I don’t take him back.  Do you think he’s right?” 

I couldn’t help but laugh.  Only a celibate man would have the balls to make such a statement.  I asked her if Father Flannigan knew about her husband’s infidelities.  She confessed that he did, but advised her that since a man’s needs were so much greater and important than her own, she’d best turn a blind eye for the sake of the children.  Savvy advice indeed.  Of course he failed to mention than if she contracts HIV from her wayward husband, the kids will have to do without a mother. 

“I don’t want to be a single parent.  The kids need a father.”

Lots of guilty tears accompanied that one.   It seemed ironic that despite her remorse, she didn’t realize that for the last 10 years she has been the defacto parent while Mr. Right travelled the world.  She was absolutely correct; the children do need a father.  I suggested that she go out and find a suitable one immediately.

“I’m terrified of being alone.  Isn’t the devil you know better than the one you don’t?”

Sure, if you don’t mind selling your soul.  I couldn’t help but wonder why she rued leaving her alcoholic boyfriend.  Did she think she could love him into sobriety?  I thought that after his third DUI, she would finally gather the courage to leave.  Pity she waited until he actually broadsided another vehicle.  Now she can add the guilt of a stranger’s injuries to her list.

As the self-blame fest continued, it seemed odd that the shortcomings of their (now former) partners were not mentioned.  It seemed that no matter the circumstance, each woman assigned herself the responsibility of failure, a choice eagerly endorsed by their errant lovers. 

“Greg’s telling everyone that I had a nervous breakdown.”

Of course he is.  That way he’s completely excused for his behavior, assumes none of the responsibility and is free to commit the same blunders with another woman.

“Marv told the kids that I’ve become a lesbian.”

When all else fails, try character attacks.  It works on the campaign trail; it can work for any resentful dumpee.  Just describe the opponent in the worst possible light and then feign ignorance when grilled.   Simply blame those tear-filled, late-night calls to her girlfriends for any misconception, and walk away.  It doesn’t matter if her reputation is besmirched.  This is war! 

Now logic dictates that these behaviors are co-dependent.  A clear-thinking woman would notice it and make the necessary changes to keep her sanity.  But what of those who are so caught up in fixing others that they don’t even know the damage wrought to themselves?  My grandmother once told me that if you don’t want others to tread on you, you must stop acting the doormat.

Maybe it’s time to put the welcome mat into storage.

GEOGRAPHICALLY CHALLENGED

It was nearly three months since I last talked to Diane.  At the time, she was nearly giddy, just having met the man of her dreams on e-Harmony and spending every available moment on Skype.  She fell in love, and off the radar, into what I hoped was well-deserved domestic bliss.

So imagine my surprise when she called me on Sunday, interrupting my otherwise placid Mother’s Day luncheon with sobs and an urgent plea for advice.  Through her tears, she explained that Prince Charming had scuttled the new-formed relationship before taking it out to sea.

“He refuses to meet me,” she wept. 

“Uh, he refuses to greet you?”  It was a little hard to understand Diane when she was in the middle of a crying jag.

“No!  Kimmy, he won’t even meet me for coffee!”

I admit I was a little puzzled.  Had they had a lovers’ quarrel and the Prince refused to kiss and make up?  Apparently not, I soon learned as she hastily brought me up to speed.  It seemed that despite their torrid exchanges via webcam, they hadn’t actually met in person.

“He says I live too far away.”

It made perfect sense to me.  Why else would they lurk on Skype?  Romance is difficult enough without the challenge of distance.   

I tried to remind her of this as she bemoaned her fate.  “Didi, you can’t exactly meet at Starbucks if you live in New York and he’s in L.A.”

There was long pause.  “Kimmy, he lives only 20 miles from me.”

Oh, one of those predicaments.  I didn’t know what to say to her; it seems that even the most desirable women are not immune to the scourge of poor location.  Of what value are charm, grace and accomplishment if the lady at issue is not conveniently located?  It’s not enough that we must be attractive, fit, solvent, employed and sexually adventurous.  If we’re not within easy reach, we don’t merit the effort.

It’s a bitter thing for a woman to hear.  Nobody wants to be judged unworthy.  But esteem issues beg the real question here:  Just how lazy have men become anyway?

I remember one such fellow years ago.  After a few preliminary dates, he announced in a rather self-satisfied way that he was pleased with me.  Not because I was an interesting female, but that my apartment was conveniently situated between his home and place of work.  “Now, I don’t have to go out of my way to see you,” he said blithely.  Needless to say, that acquaintance ended badly.  If a man is determined to torpedo a budding or established relationship, all he need do is mention his partner’s lack of specialness.  The world is full of unremarkable people; to be lumped in among them is the kiss of death.

It was little comfort to Diane, who insisted that her life was over.  “This is worse than high school when my boyfriend dumped me for the head cheerleader,” she mourned.  “Her locker was right next to his.”

I agreed that his behavior showed an absence of vision, but cautioned her.  “Maybe he’s just not that enamored of you, Didi.  If he was, wouldn’t he move heaven and hell just to be with you?”

“Yeah, I guess he would,” she snuffled, “but only if hell was next door.”

HANGING IN LIMBO

I must stop thinking about him or I shall go mad.  It’s best not to dwell on things that are unreal.  Even a child knows when to stop pretending.

But I cannot help myself.  I don’t believe he knows just how badly I want him.  Or, how I lie awake at night aching with desire.  He’s never asked me how I feel or what I want.  Instead he keeps me suspended and I wonder how long this purgatory will last.

It’s enough to drive me out of my mind.  I don’t want to play the politely interested friend anymore.  Friends don’t torment each other with sighs and vague promises of heated coupling in the dark.  Yet he shows no inclination to make good on his word, and I’m beginning to despair that it shall never be realized.

This is a torture that no one should experience.  It’s a demanding and fretful creature that if not appeased soon, shall rip me apart.  I can feel it now, tearing at my flesh and goading me into arousal so acute that it’s almost unbearable.

I can do nothing to stop it; even my own body betrays me.  Never have I so intensely loved and desired another.  I didn’t think I was capable of passion this furious and deep, but yet I am.  It’s wild and without logic and I don’t care if it dashes me to pieces on the rocks.  I’d rather be fractured and bloodied than to have never known this bliss.

IN THE END, IT’S ALL GARBAGE

As I hauled my worldly goods to yet another transient location, I had to laugh.  There’s something poignant, but ultimately hilarious seeing one’s life distilled to a couple of trash bags.  What was I holding onto… a dream, a handful of possessions, my security blanket?  As I hoisted them into the car, I wondered just how important they were.

Here’s a garbage bag full of winter clothes, ready to be stored until the snow flies once again.  I’m tempted to stop by the Salvation Army and leave it on the doorstep.  But of course that means that I’ll have to pick it up and move it yet again.  Surely there’s some poor soul who can use these fleece pants and shirts until the frost forces me back into them.

I never realized how many pairs of shoes I have.  I feel like Imelda Marcos.  Is it just a girlie affectation, or does the poverty of my youth haunt me still?  I cannot wear all of these at once, yet the thought of losing a single pair fills me with anxiety.

Why do I hold onto these dusty books?  I’ve read them over and again.  Is there some bit of wisdom that I’ll absorb by proximity?  How many times can I re-read Pride and Prejudice before its plot no longer captivates me?  No, I think I’ll keep it;  for the first time in my life, I understand why Elizabeth Bennet was so defiant in the face of adversity.

I want to throw it all away and walk unfettered into the next phase of my life.  Can I arrive unclothed and unshod?  Or must I carry these possessions like a talisman against the future?

THE PLAYGROUND BULLY

I wondered how long he’d continue to harangue me.  After nearly two hours of pointless arguing, I hung up the phone and stared out the window.  Talking to a bully is not only exhausting, it’s an exercise in futility.

There was a particularly vicious girl who dominated the playground in seventh grade, a tall gangly girl with buck teeth and a bad temper.   She wasn’t especially bright or well-liked, but most agreed that that given her ferocity that it was better to be a marginal friend than an opponent.

Even the boys kept a wide berth.  She towered over the roughest, elbowing them out of her way in the hall, more swaggeringly macho than their overheated imaginations could conjure.

I observed her one day holding court after recess, handmaidens and toadies gathered ’round in concentric circles.  Suddenly, I felt a pity so profound, it caught me off-guard.  My teen self objected vehemently;  Surely she was the most loathsome creature ever to prowl junior high.  But yet this feeling wouldn’t budge and it forced me to watch her most closely.

True, she didn’t provoke the battles as much as wage them as a mercenary, usually acting as proxy to someone less skilled (and more cowardly) than herself.  She walked home alone after school, deserted by the throngs of admirers who kept her company during the day.  She never attended the dances or mixers and, other than to pummel them, was never seen in the company of a boy.

The truth was later revealed when I overheard her confiding the name of her teenage crush to a less-than-discreet companion. Within hours, the entire school knew and the object of her affection was mortified.  He loudly voiced his dismay, denying any and all romantic affiliation with the lady in question.

So I was more than a little surprised when I discovered her weeping behind a door in the gymnasium.  Wouldn’t it have been more in character had she sought out the cad and gave him a dusting?  Instead, she wept the bitter tears that only an adolescent girl knows how to shed, all her bravado dissolving into the wad of dirty Kleenex clutched to her eyes.

She seemed so terribly sad, so heartbreakingly lonely that I would have comforted her had I not been convinced it would lead to my doom.  Bewildered, I crept away to ponder the ironies that life was beginning to show me.  It was so much simpler when I was a child; things were black and white.  But those demarcations began to blur as I marched out of childhood into the storm of adolescence.  Who really is a villain or a hero anyway? 

I thought about that before I made my last phone call.  Maybe this real-life monster was only terrifying in his zeal to control the circumstances beyond his ability.  Perhaps the bluster, the unreasonable posturing were just his attempts to manipulate the outcome he dreaded.   Even so, how could two people diametrically opposed ever reach a compromise?

I let go of my own expections and dialed the number.  Before I could get a word out, he called for a truce.  Did he recognize the playground bully in himself and rue that he had driven away that which he loved most?  Maybe.  Or perhaps he was just as weary of fighting as me.

CHANGING FROM THE INSIDE OUT

They were sitting at a table in Starbucks and the blonde was complaining to her companion.  “I want to be completely different,” she said, brandishing her triple vente latte, “but I don’t want to be inconvenienced.” 

Normally I don’t pay any attention to random conversations, especially those between manicured North Shore trophy wives, but this one caught my notice.  In spite of her plasticine  malaise, she managed to distill the biggest obstacle to personal growth into one sentence.

As I drove away, I thought about the implications.  How many times had I talked about or visualized change only to be dismayed when it actually occured?   Somehow I learned to think of change as cosmetic, as easy and fun as changing hairstyles, but without any longterm consequences.  It seems, if café conversation is any indicator, this presumption is shared by others.

Nobody thinks about the transition that change requires, only the happy result.   If we really knew what it takes to change jobs, relationships, homes, location or even our minds, we’d be less likely to romanticize it.  Change is not for the fainthearted or the dilettante.  They are better off drifting through life or allowing occasional minor shifts.  As long as the change is so slow that it’s imperceptible, they can be smugly content knowing they’ve avoided the pain of real upheaval.

However if you don’t care that your life will be  ripped asunder, then jump in with both feet.   The only fixed thing in life is change and the sooner you embrace it, the less likely you’ll be alarmed by the aftermath.   Does this mean complete indifference to the wailing of those around you?  No, but don’t be surprised if you’re labeled unfeeling because you’d rather celebrate than mourn.

HOWLING AT THE MOON

Throw me down.  I don’t care if the grass is cold and wet.  None of that will matter once you lay your body over mine.   The dampness will begin to steam, enveloping us in a fog, and I will forget the line that divides me from you.

Can’t you hear the hum that surrounds us?  The nighttime is full of creatures that have come to witness.  Drawn by the heat we generate, they wait in the shadows and attest to the irresistible cycle that binds us to each other and the earth.

I feel it reaching now, loamy tentacles that skim over my skin and pull me down.  Its sweetness is on your lips and in your hair, burying me deep below the black surface.  There is nothing inconceivable in this place, this matrix of form and formlessness.   Let’s stay within it, suspending ourselves in the dark until we finally push up out of the ground like crocus in the spring.

But the moon won’t let us hide.  She will assume her rightful place as mistress of this gathering and call us before her, pale light shining like a beacon over your shoulder and into my eyes.   Who are we to deny her?  She cares neither for the laws of men, nor the self-imposed restraints that hinder the dream she sows.   She beckons and we answer, writhing as one beneath her silver eye.

SWIMMING UPSTREAM

What’s the point?  Why bother spending an entire lifetime fighting the current only to be devoured before reaching journey’s end.  If the lesson isn’t obvious to you, read on.

Sure, you can devote yourself to the amassing of riches and other luxurious vices.  You can even sit it out, moping with the rest of the herd, complaining about your lot in life and bemoaning the difficulties of existence.  You can eke out a living or live the high life.  It really doesn’t matter whether you’re flush with cash or living on the street.  Both options are subject to the same ideology:  Life is hard, so better choose to sink or swim.

Who said life has to be hard?  Your neighbor?  The government?  Your own intuition? If life is nothing but an endless series of kicks to the groin, there’s really no point engaging it.  It’s a complete waste of time.   And you’re a fool to participate in something that has no logical outcome.

If this constant struggle yields nothing but misery, why not just float downstream?  If the current is pushing you away, there maybe a damn good reason for it.  Instead of thinking that the current is only hindering you, consider that it’s actually doing you a favor.

Of course your peers will strongly object.  There’s something rather mean-spirited about friends who begrudge you the right to live your own life.  Everyone will weigh in, and usually disapprovingly, so you have to make a choice.  Either face the discomfort of collective disapproval, or experience the gut-wrenching pain of watching your life pass by.  You might desire the good opinion of family and colleagues, but who among them will stand with you at the very end?  They will be too occupied with their own disappointment to notice.

Ultimately the only voice you must answer to is your conscience, but she may not buy your decision to ditch integrity for gain.

SOMEBODY MAKE IT STOP

One can only be pestered so much.  Sooner or later the lid will blow, so it’s best to take cover before being wounded by your own shrapnel.   It doesn’t matter how many times you warn bystanders; they never pay attention.  If your warnings aren’t strident or colorful enough, they think you’re joking.  Therefore it’s always best, even if it’s not your style, to break a few dishes as you calmly argue the point. 

Of course then you’ll be asked to explain.  Never mind the original point at issue; the real question is why you broke the Pyrex casserole dish.  Watch as your needs are buried under piles of minutiea, knowing that it will take centuries before archeologists stumble upon them.  Listen as you’re upbraided, criticized for failure to meet expectations and judged unworthy.

And if that’s not enough, try to maintain your poise while being hammered repeatedly with the same argument.  It doesn’t work.  Invariably, your assailant will find the chink in the armor and gleefully put you off-kilter.  If you think tearful pleas are effective, think again.  That type of drama just encourages them.  Once they catch sight of your weakness, you might as well give up.  It’s a feeding frenzy and you’re the chum, Chum.

Then again, you can always pull the plug.  There’s no law that says you have to participate in madness.  Trying to reason with a person caught up in the unreal is ridiculous; you’ll never succeed.  Instead of grieving over the impossible, why not celebrate?  You escaped with your wits intact.

LOVING WHAT IS

Woe to the woman who flaunts more curves than are deemed necessary by the fashion élite.  Think of the public humiliation endured by young women like Jennifer Love Hewitt and Jessica Simpson, ladies of voluptuous figure who dared cross the haute couture line by appearing less than skeletal.  The commentary was so great that their stories were plastered across the media.  What’s more important than war in the Mideast and global economic meltdown?  Apparently women who refuse to comply with impossibly rigid standards.   Scandalous! 

The people who wring their hands, despairing over the sad lack of esteem among pre- and post-adolescent women are the same who snipe about the waistlines of public figures.  You can’t discourage your teen daughter from binging and purging if you’re buying copies of People magazine.  The volume of stories featuring weight loss and dieting is astounding; it has to be the extreme sport of the 21st century.

Who decides what is fit and what is fat?  The medical community?  They can’t even agree amongst themselves.  The fashion world?  It seems ironic that an industry designed for the benefit and beautification of women would go to such lengths to alter them.  It seems a woman is only truly fabulous if she is less than herself.

With the current vilification, even acknowledged sirens like Marilyn Monroe would be considered too hefty for notice.  No doubt had she survived the 60s, she would have hired a personal trainer, nutritionist, stylist and assistant hired for the sole purpose of counting every calorie she consumed.  Strange that the camera, in spite of its notorious 10 pound distortion, captured her allurements just as well as the scrawny waifs on Gossip Girl.

Perhaps the real issue here is not beauty standards, which apparently fluctuate with the generations, but self-acceptance.  Inner confidence cannot be assailed from without.   No matter how many high-strung fashion mavens gather round and hurl unsolicited advice, a woman sure of herself doesn’t care.  She knows that the criticism is borne from their own fear of rejection and has nothing to do with her at all.  In fact, she might even smile and swing her hips a little more provocatively.  Those hostile skinny bitches might tear her apart in public, but every last one of them would jump at the opportunity to switch places with her.

MAKING AMENDS

So, now that you know you’ve sacrificed hundred of things on the altar of fear, what are you going to do about it?   Think of all those things -people, tasks, relationships, obligations, duties, pleasures- all deferred just to keep the peace, a peace which in the end was never found.   Are you going to cower and blame someone else, again, for your choices, or will you step up and own them? 

The consequences of your actions lay bare; you can’t ignore them anymore.   They may have been committed in moments of weakness and doubt, but they’re still yours.  You can tackle it now or wait until later when the interest and penalties are impossibly steep.

This might be a bad time to ask, but what the hell were you thinking?  Hiding behind another and pretending is no way to live.  Did you think the charade would last indefinitely?  This is not a Cinemascope production.  The characters will not ride off into the sunset.  They will sit in front of you, gradually growing older, until you decide to address them.

And what can you say except I’m sorry?  You don’t have any excuse.  Haven’t you been plugging away at your practice, chanting and contorting for realization?  Well, here it is, sister.  Better take a long hard look because it’s got your messy fingerprints all over it. 

Not so pretty after all, is it?  Maybe not, but it’s still yours.  Why don’t you just pick yourself up?  If you expect the onlookers to help, you’ll be lying on that floor forever;  everyone’s waiting for you to stand up and help them.

I’D LIKE TO THANK THE ACADEMY

. . . for  their unswerving devotion to the craft and taking a chance on an unknown.  Without your support, I’d still be slinging drinks in a bar back in Jersey.  Of course, my gratitude to the producers and director who saw in me the raw material possible to bring their creation to life.  I’m just the luckiest girl on the planet.

Tomorrow, my fee will increase exponentially and I’ll have less and less to do with the people who pushed me.  But that’s the price to be paid.  I’m a star; I can’t have useless hangers-on weighing me down.  Can’t you see my life is so much more important than yours?

Think of it:  Billions of dollars spent in the pursuit of the pretend.  Nothing is so relished as avoiding the boredom of our fake lives by complete absorption into even faker lives.  It’s as if we delude ourselves into believing the knot becomes untangled by tightening it.

Who doesn’t love a compelling story?  The characters, the photography, the pathos all hold us in raptures.  What will become of the heroine?  Will the hero sell his soul or come to his senses?  Nail biting adventures await you when the lights dim and the film begins to roll.

The only problem is the story isn’t real.  It’s no more real than the life you lead right now, albeit with more high-profile glamour and preferential treatment.  What’s worse, we worship the players and pay them exorbitant salaries, just our little way of thanking them for distracting us from the dullness of reality.  If life is so dreary, why do we watch the pantomime?  If you really are fascinated by human interaction and sizzling drama, why don’t you just watch your neighbors? 

Maybe it’s only stylized human behavior that intrigues.  Nobody wants to view the bloated alcoholic next door as he screams at his kids and beats his wife.  We’d rather pay big money and watch George Clooney do the same.  At least he’s handsome and has trimmer waistline.   Bile is so much easier to swallow when it’s disguised.