I Wish I Had More to Say About That

Every now and then I encounter a situation that, while in it, I’m thinking of how I’m going to write about it. The incident – either what is happening to me, or what I’m seeing, or what I’m hearing or reading or learning - seems so unique, so interesting, so odd, or just so crazy, that I’m convinced it must be put to writing. There is gold in that moment, and all that’s left is for me to lightly polish the nugget. With the conviction that I have something funny or intriguing or worthwhile to add as literary sheen, I anticipate sense the shine I will create, and I pulsate with the knowledge that this will be a good one.

Yet when I get to computer, my enthusiasm fizzles as I face the blaring obviousness of the scenario, and I can’t imagine escaping the trite, surface realizations. I can’t say anything more, and this backs me up. There ought to be something more to say, to add, that would allow me (and my fantasy readers) to transcend the obvious, but I can’t reach it. Maybe it’s unreachable, or maybe my brain just stops sometimes.

For instance, I learned recently that a friend spent a short stint in her pre-professional life working in a Made-in-Texas type store, where, she grinned in the re-telling, they sold everything big, just like you’d expect. I understand a bit about these short stint jobs, the ones we cut our teeth on and prove our independence and start to pay our own bills, even if they do not permanently stay on our resume’s or CV’s. Taco Bell does not appear on to my CV, even though I spent much of a high school summer learning first-hand what it’s like to get small pinto-bean burns on my arms as I stirred huge vats of refried beans, and the blank stare of customers as I parroted, “Would you like some Cinnamon Crispies with that?” to people who clearly did not wish to add Cinnamon Crispies to their taco order. My short stint taught me two other lessons, in addition to learning what up-selling is and how to avoid it when I’m on the other side of the counter. First, I didn’t want to be like my manager, who slept in his car in the parking lot, and who saw this job as the end of what he was destined to accomplish. Second, I needed to find a professional outlet for my independent and creative sensibilities – my ideas of how to improve the way things were done were lost in that environment, or perhaps more than lost, they were loathed, and I wasn’t admired at all for my autonomous thinking.

My friend has her own memories of this phase of her work life. Mostly she recalls all the items that the store sold that were made out of Texas license plates or formed into the shape of Texas, which is exactly what all the Made-In-________ stores manage to sell: state-shaped cheese and pot-holders that if you weren’t in the state at the time you saw the item you might not recognize the state: the cheddar Wisconsin or the Christmas stocking shaped like California or the cornhusker red potholders shaped like Nebraska or the wooden plank to add a smoked flavor to grilled salmon in the shape of Washington state. Out of the stores, they look like misshapen amoebas, until your host or hostess reminds you of the geography they are supposed to represent (unless your item also has the state name printed largely across it – a dead give-away that lends definition to the otherwise unidentifiable form).

She also remembers a uniquely Texan item: a purse made from a cow testicle. And this is the moment when my mind left the experience of two friends sharing chuckles about early versions of ourselves, as I realized I had to write about this. My mind veered right off the conversation into flights of fancy. I was on fire with questions. I needed details. I asked her whatever came to mind. Later, I realized that I had even more questions, but I couldn’t bring myself to go back and ask them of her, so many of my queries remain unanswered. Was it wrinkled or had someone figured out how to smooth it out? Was it soft or hard? Who would buy such a thing? Was it supposed to be a gag gift or was it serious? Did she ever sell one? Did she ever have to touch one? Would the person who bought one know it was a cow testicle or was it sold under the pretense of something else (a generic “genuine 100% Texas leather” bag or a “Texan pouch”)? Was this destined to be the best-ever Texan bachelorette party gift? And, if so, what would the bridesmaids put inside? Confetti? Penis lollipops? Does she think they still sell them? Could I find a picture of one on the internet? Could I keep myself from Googling one?

We had loads we talked about that night other than this little interchange, but the cow testicle purse lodged itself in my brain and I found myself thinking about it from time to time, still wondering how to write about it. When I told my husband about it (one of the first things I related about my girls’ night out), his reaction was to correct the gender and anatomical inaccuracies inherent in “cow testicle”: the purse must have been made from a bull scrotum. And off on another flight of fancy I went, this one linguistic. What’s the plural of scrotum? Scrotums? Scrota? I realize only now that I’ve never thought of them as other than singular. And yes, testicles are inside, holding all the inside bits – if anything, they’re destined to become Rocky Mountain Oysters (how’s that for another wave of ookiness? Really, who are these people?). Testicles themselves could never be the thing destined to become a fashion accessary capable of holding lipstick, compacts, a wallet, cell phone, mints, condoms, a sheathed fix-blade knife or small handgun – the barest assembly of essentials for any respectable Texan woman that I suppose could easily fit into a “we grow-‘em-big-down-here” Texan bull’s scrotum. No Midwestern or East Coast bull scrotum could hold all that.

But try as I might, I can’t find a single thing to say about a cow testicle/bull scrotum purse. My thoughts about the purse go ‘round the same circular path of mere ordinary and predictable commentary, and I’m left with an idea that ought to have been worthy of writing about. Maybe it’s for the next person who dares to imagine a purse made from a bull scrotum to find the way to write about. I just can’t do it.

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Thanks, S.S., for lending me this nugget. Look how far we've come!

Hot Flashes

A while back I was strolling through a community garden, and came across a blaze of color. First I registered the deep pink, almost with hints of red in it, then the shape. They looked like calla lilies (I don’t know tons of flowers, but calla lilies are so unique I can actually remember them). But I’d never seen a hot pink lily, fading ever so magically to ivory at what one grower calls the throat of the plant. I was in love, then I looked to the sign to find out the name: Hot Flashes.

I laughed and laughed and laughed. No dry, parched, colorless skin on these beauties. No widower’s hump or stoop in their stem. Just glowing pink and the tiniest striations of white, leading seductively to their yellow stamen. They were lush and vibrant and, if flowers could have an age, in their youthful splendor.

Something I apparently don’t share with them. Soon, oh so soon, I’ll have my first hot flash. My OB/GYN will be happy to learn of this. He’ll be the only one. He’s basically my age, and if I weren’t married and if my butcher and my 80+ acupuncturist weren’t already taken (these are my first alternates if I ever leave my husband, who completely understands why he’s in the running with our butcher, and may even harbor his own fantasies of leaving me for someone who invariably supplies the most amazing cuts of meat), I’d give this man a go. If he’s my age, his wife must be my age, so it’s probably hot flashes all around. But still.

Oh, was that an estrogen-deficient flight of fancy? I can’t recall.

I might need to plant some of these lilies next spring. And maybe intersperse them with some called, enticingly, Lipstick (slightly elongated, more red and burgundy with velvety petals), Purple Sensation, and maybe even some Blush Blend. Then it will be hot flashes inside and out, surrounded by the sensual feminine curves of every age that preceded them.

The Matinee

It’s summer: the time of baseball games, waterskiing, overnight camping, barbeques, boating and swimming and biking and . . . outdoor musicals. Brigadoon was on this year’s docket at our local theatre-in-the-forest. I’ve always like this story of a perfect place lost in the mists but for one day every hundred years. The promise of a community theater production in an outdoor setting, uncomfortably perched on wooden benches with (new this year) wooden backs, plaids and plaids and kilts and under-produced vocals was, well, almost like . . . being . . . in love.

I invited several families to join us. The one that did was the family of the girl my son had a crush on during the school year. The day promised an element of romance for my son, even though scaled back to 10-year-old romantic yearnings, which neither he nor his friend comprehend fully.

There are lovely bits and bawdy bits in this show, and my son laughed deeply at the sexual associations soaring just above his head. He’s just beginning to get the idea that something unique happens when you pair a (lusty) woman with a (love-lorn) man, sprinkle in a bit of roguish drinking, and move the whole thing to the mystical land behind the mists (or behind your parent’s bedroom door). He preened and pranced for his friend in a before-show hike, demonstrating his adventuresome spirit and skill at rock scrambling and his ability to beat her in a race back to the car. He was proving himself to her, not yet aware that his feats of bravery and skill weren't quite on her radar screen, and certainly not yet aware of the cache that awaits when a young woman does note this worthy young suitor's bravery and skill, and bestows her favor in return.

It was a matinee performance, perfect for families with kids, friends and family of the cast, and older adults. We sat in the second row. Behind an entire octogenarian first row. Old woman next to old woman next to . . . . and on and on until the one old man, then the old woman/old woman pattern repeated. Walkers, canes, silver, white and grey hair, wisps of auburn or deep russet hair combed and poofed over white, white scalps, scarves and floppy hats and one fedora (on the one old man), loud, very loud whispers about how to get back to the van . . . A group from a local retirement home that took it’s own mini-bus to the performance. These folks must have been the brightest and the best of the residents. They were mobile, alert, and dressed in their Sunday casual finery.

In our row, we were the older parents kept jauntily young by the shenanigans, friendship and courtship of our kids. I was in my Sunday casual outdoor attire -sleeveless shirt and zip-off hiking pants – surrounded by youthful gear - a backpack, snacks, water bottles, sunscreen and, yes, bug spray (toxic and natural, as I wasn’t sure which type the other family would want).

Several times during the performance I looked down the row in front and thought, this is where I’ll be sitting, not too long from now. In just a few decades, when the activity director posts the sign-up sheet for the outdoor musical matinee, I’ll be first on the list. I’ll be in that front row, tapping my feet, wearing my jaunty cape, with my too-dark tresses barely covering my aged scalp. I’ll be singing along, swaying my arthritic back to the most exciting field trip my senior center can arrange. I’ll wear layers and a big brimmed floppy hat to ward off the sun; perhaps I’ll even wear an attractive brooch. I’ll put on my finest for the chance to hear lyric versions of romantic love. I’ll remember the moments when I was like Fiona, holding out for the right love, and when I found my Tommy – the one who gave up everything to join me. Camelot, Brigadoon, Eden – I’ve tasted these mythic places on Earth, and have even broken out in song and dance. And when I’m an old lady in the front row at the summer outdoor matinee, I will savor these joys again.

And when the whole group returns to the home, well before dark, still within the early-bird dinner hours, I hope I’ll have enough energy to extend the day to dine with friends, hum tunes from the show, and talk about the youthful actors (to our group, anyone in the play will be youthful). If I get on a roll, I’ll sing a few Brigadoon verses with the ladies. Maybe I’ll even sidle up to the one old man for a duet. I’ll repeat the story of my college-era performance in a Gilbert and Sullivan show, brag about the busty-frocked, bawdy chorus wench I got to be (just like I couldn’t help tell this family, albeit a PG version boast because of the kids), despite swearing that I never want to be an old person who recycles the same worn stories over and over. Maybe I’ll even tell the story of how I used to take my son to plays and musicals and outdoor summer adventures, even once took him and a schoolgirl crush to see this very show, and how I hope those memories are alive in him somewhere, but who can understand the music these young people are listening to these days, anyway?

Lancelot is Growing Up

At times, my 10-year-old seems quite grown up, with opinions and ideas about how the world works that are sophisticated and have an internal logic, even if they don’t always match facts that he hasn’t yet encountered about the world. At other times, he still responds as the young boy he is. He is both, simultaneously. Not for long, of course. The balance will shift and he will be more man than boy. But for today, he walks the tightrope of both worlds.

I

In a matter of just a few days, my son has grown taller, about a good inch, When I commented on it, showing him that now the top of his head is almost to my shoulder, he replied cheerfully, “So that’s why you look so small.”

He seems to like the idea of gaining on me. When all three of us were in the kitchen this morning, he told my husband how he thinks I’m getting smaller. Gleam in his eye.

I told him that soon he’ll be looking down on my pointy little head.
“You don’t have a pointy head,” he said, defending me against my own statement. “You have no idea what the top of my head looks like!” I replied, joking. “I will soon,” he proclaimed, half a dare, half not really believing it.

Much merriment, as three bodies swerved and collided in our too-small kitchen, hot cereal and coffee on one counter, camp lunch preparation plus breakfast on another, and dinner fixings edging close behind.

“When you’re looking down on me from up above,” I added, “be kind to me.”

“Of course I will,” he professed earnestly, embodying the grown-up good guy he’s becoming. And I believe him.


II

The other night, during a terrific Macbeth performance in the park, somewhere between the pasta salad and the roast chicken, my son lost another tooth. A back tooth – a substantial-looking tooth – yet he was rather laissez-faire about it, and kept on munching to the sword fights and witches and bloody mess that Lord and Lady Macbeth create every time.

I’m pretty sure he knows – and he’s pretty sure I know he knows – that the Tooth Fairy isn’t real, or rather, that I’m the Tooth Fairy. Once the Tooth Fairy left him a computer-generated note, in pink script, signed, “T.F.” – which created only a slight vacillation between belief and disbelief. His last tooth was met with a fresh $10 bill from the relative he was spending the night with – not even a pretense of magic, but as it was the highest amount he’d ever received for a body part, it seemed to work.

The night before last was my turn to vacillate. I know he doesn’t believe, yet I saw him take the tooth and wrap it up in a paper towel, slip it in his pocket, and take it home from our picnic. Saw him take it down to his room and put it under his pillow. But he knows it’s just a pure cash-for-tooth transaction, knows that it’s my wallet the cash is coming out of – and I let my sun-drenched, post-Shakespearean fatigue lead me to just go to sleep.

“I guess the Tooth Fairy was busy last night,” he said, before even “Good morning.” Hmmmm, I thought. “Hmmmm,” I replied, buying some seconds. “There might have been a lot of kids who lost teeth yesterday.” A slight twinkle in my eyes. And that was the end of it. He went on to have a full 10-year-old day at camp, and as he was heading to bed last night, he took the paper-towel tooth packet, which I didn’t realize had been on the kitchen table all day, and took it back down to his room. “For tonight,” he said.

“Got it,” I said, but not to him. This was direct, clear communication. Even as he’s getting closer to seeing me – literally – eye to eye, even as he has adventures on his own (like yesterday’s first day at a camp he’s not been to before), even as he moves closer and closer to that external world, where Mothers are left behind (and returned to – for all the mothers of boys out there, don’t fret – we don’t lose our sons permanently, but we do stay in a realm they often leave, and we cannot, should not, follow them out, but wait for their return. Our job is to build up that realm so that it doesn’t have big gaping holes in it that we then require our children to fill . . . that’s the surefire way to eject boys from our lives and make it so they don’t want to return – but that’s getting me off topic). Even as all this is happening, his young boy self still needs the magic.

So this morning he’ll find five far-less-than-crisp singles under his pillow – it will look exactly like the stack of non-ceremonial singles he’d find in my wallet, although now my wallet is empty.

I’m not sure what he will say, but that probably doesn’t matter. For this moment, he wanted – needed – the magic of childhood, where parental reliability forms the backdrop of safety. For a mere $5, I gave him just that – the magic of being seen by the people he loves, which will create today’s fuel to head out into the large, unpredictable world.

The Invitation

A few days ago, a dear friend invited me to join in something that pushes the edges of my sense of self. Nothing dangerous or illegal, not even too silly (which I’d rarely decline anyway), but something that would require me to enhance and enlarge a part of my identity, and to move toward reclaiming a part of life I’d long ago given up as being impossible for me. I based my sense of self on what I thought I could do in life, and the types of things that were for others, but not me. So I excluded these things, without much regret, as it’s fairly easy to adjust to not having what’s not yours to have. I went on to build a fruitful and successful life within the confines of my mind and my personality, leaving out the bits I thought needed to be left out.

I’m fairly sure I’m not unique in honing myself down to some of my better qualities and characteristics, and foregoing others that seem out of reach or unlikely to work out. We’ve all given up ways of being in the service of promoting our development in other ways. We give up study for sports, travel for gardening, risk-taking for safety, sexuality for sleep (or sleep for sexuality!), intensity for stability, career exploration for insurance benefits, creativity for practicality, commitment for adventure . . . There’s no end to the variety of human experiences we could embrace and own, but instead we tend to limit ourselves to a very small slice of life’s pie.

Most people I know attain some level of their identity and there they stop. They create a life around that identity, which further reinforces it and makes straying from it impossible. And for many people, this is enough. This is life. On the other end of the continuum are the serial seekers – who want more and more and pursue path after path, which may or may not result in growth, but definitely in shifts and jolts of their sense of who they are.

I’m on neither side of that continuum. I don’t want to stop growing, but I don’t want to be forever searching and therefore unfulfilled because I’ve not arrived yet. I can look back to a few deepenings in my own life, so that the person I am today is not exactly the person I started out as. I’m not so different as to be unrecognizable as me, but I’ve not sat idly on a once-built sense of self. Some of these changes I sought out, some bonked me over the head when something essential in my life was challenged or taken away.

I like to think that I see the purpose of human experience as being additive – that we grow and peel away old and no-longer-useful ways of being and replace them with people and experiences and a sense of self that is stronger and more flexible. That the journey unceasingly goes from one moment of doing OK to taking a deep breath and starting the path to the next, deeper, more authentic us. And the cycle continues, without any finish line. Not quite like Prometheus, who pushes the same boulder up the same mountain, and not necessarily like the Phoenix, who is reborn after going down in flames. I’m thinking of something far less dramatic, but also something that most myth and fiction evade: the quest that doesn’t end, the journey that never leads back home. Becoming as a process. I am becoming. I have become. I will become. I am never done becoming me (if I am, I’m either stagnating or dead or holier than I will ever be, so I’d prefer the journey – I think).

Back to the invitation. I love this friend. I’ve shared some of my journey with this person, and it’s led to opening and growth, a deeper, truer sense of identity. Now it’s my friend’s turn, offering up a compelling invitation to me to add something in that will broaden my life. I have heard myself give me every reason to go ahead and step into the unknown. I can’t come up with a single “con” to counterbalance all the “pro’s.” There’s really no foreseeable drawback, except for the reworking of me, the giving up a strong sense that I must remain in the confines of the self I’ve built. And just so we’re clear, I happen to like the self I’ve built and rebuilt up to this point. It’s my best self to date. It’s this pull to stay the same that makes me hesitate. It’s one thing to rebuild ourselves from pain or the sense that if we don’t we risk staying in an unpleasant and unfulfilled version of ourselves. How do we rebuild if we risk losing a pretty good version of ourselves? I, who am involved daily with people reworking their sense of self, am at a crossroads to do a similar thing. Again.

Recognizing the internal belly flops and restless sleep as I pondered the invitation has shown me that I’ve fallen into the trap of resting on my identity laurels. I haven’t been journeying quite as much as I could have recently. I’ve paused the growth cycle, spending so much time reveling in this destination that I forgot to keep going. I basically have been on an extended picnic blanket when I should be packing up and heading onward. But here is my friend, extending a hand to help me up, encouraging me to pack up the basket and all the treats I've brought, brush the leaves and grass from my clothes, say goodbye to this beautiful place, and continue on. “There are more wonders ahead,” my friend is saying. “I’ll lead you there. Come with me.”

It’s a chance to become more. I’d be me but not me. Me more fully me. Me in a way I haven’t been before. I’ve been secretly hoping for this invitation because I can't get here on my own; I’d built all the usual beliefs around why I'm not that kind of person. But maybe I will be that kind of person.

All that remains is for me to say, “Yes.” And, “Thank you,” for inviting me.

I'll leave behind the best me I’ve ever had the pleasure of living in, with the hope that what’s next will be worth it. I’ll have new areas of insecurity, new victories, new ways of being vulnerable and hurt, and new ways of experiencing myself, others and life as a whole. I could grow old with these new ways of being, and at some point in the future these will be embedded in the Me that underlies my next reworking.

I realize I’m hurrying now, my thoughts are short and breathless. I don’t want to miss this opportunity. I have my answer:

Give me a moment to pack up my picnic things.
I’m coming with you.
You lead this time; I’ll follow.
Yes.
Thank you.