In My Annotated Life

I was recently asked to map out a timeline of my last year, detailing all the highs and lows that occurred. At first I thought it was a good idea; that was until I started thinking of the last year. After agonizing for at least five minutes, I had only thought of five or so major things to put on my timeline and none of them felt like they were worth much with the exception of helping get Mosaic off the ground. So like any mature and rational person would, I ignored the “project” until the next week when everyone was supposed to share. At our weekly gathering we started talking and a couple of people read their timelines. One person’s timeline was filled with pregnancy and the birth of their first child. The next person’s detailed a year of physical and mental struggles due to a major injury. As I listened to both of these stories I thought to myself, “How in the world do these people remember this stuff?”

When it got to be my turn I freely admitted that I hadn’t done the exercise and resolved to have it done for the next week. My intentions were good, I swear, but as I sat down again I could not do it. I thought maybe it was because I’m not a feeler. Relatively speaking I never get too high or too low and the so called even keel-ness isn’t good for timelines. Or maybe it is because the life I lead is just really boring. The reality is probably a combination of the two but I came out of the questions with a different outlook.

You see, my annotated life just looks a little different. Instead of milestones there are little moments that make my life rich and eventful. My improvised timeline looks something like this:

May ’10: Beat Nathan at tennis and felt totally BA.

June ’10: Enjoyed countless barbeques with my family and laughed uncontrollably at inappropriate dinner table talk.

July ’10: Spent 4^th of July scaring the living daylights out of my friends and laughing until the point of nausea.

August ’10: Made a lot of jokes about “pulling the goalie.” Slow clapped for teenage girl too scared to cliff jump into the lake (Got scowled at by said girl).

September ’10: Had beers and smores with a great couple while throwing flour into the fire and saying Harry Potter spells. (Highly flammable and highly entertaining)

October ’10: Started actually enjoying hanging out with women and had some of the best coffee dates of my life.

November ’10: Had a really great unexpected phone conversation with an old friend that reminded me how much I love them. Developed a new friendship over gmail chat and twitter.

December ’10: Planned stellar NYE surprise with the best co-conspirator and had more quality conversations that I could count.

January ’11: Read Little Women for the umpteenth time and loved every word.

February ’11: Got a couple letters that made me feel like one of the most special people in the world. Cried for the first time in forever. 

March ’11: Had a blast in Chicago surrounded by a lot of love. Shared an amazing week at sea with my husband and our friends. Read a Nora Roberts book against my will and didn’t hate it.

April ’11: Hugged a new friend for the first time, one of the greatest hugs ever.  Shared tons of witty banter via email. Reignited my passion for sunflower seeds.

Nothing special, no major milestones, but from the looks of it, I had a really great year. 

Daydream Dancing

This piece began from this prompt, but I don't know that I actually accomplished the objective.


I shouldn’t have listened to that song when it came on the radio. Normally I would turn the station but today I allowed myself to linger.  I was surprised at how quickly I slipped into the routine, the one we perfected on Sunday nights between sweaty bodies on the smoky dance floor. It was as if I could feel your right hand lock into mine and your left one slide around the small of my back. We’d made friends with the band and they would always play our song. When we got good, everyone would clear a circle in the center and watch our choreographed intimacy. They'd clap and whistle when we got to the extra spins and steps we’d added for flair.

I didn’t feel guilty until it got close to the finale; the part where you moved in close and locked your hips to mine, your hands slipping down the front of my thighs as we swayed back and forth to the rise and fall of the melody. Then as the last few bars of the song expired you would dip me low towards the floor and each time we would pause longer than the last, all caught up in each other, the heaviness of the moment. It was always slow motion for me, the rise and fall of my chest as I tried to find my breath and beads of sweat rolling down my collar bone towards the nape of my neck.  You’d pull me up laughing and we would retire to our corner booth, all our energy spent.

It didn’t get much better than that for us. We couldn’t seem to communicate anywhere but the dance floor and our love didn’t last. Maybe it wasn’t even love, but I’m not sure. I shrugged off all my uncertainties as I made my way back to reality. I tried not to feel guilty as I tucked away all the little memories that found their way into my daydream. After all, it was just a dance, just 4 minutes of cha-cha-ing through our yesterdays. 

Fear

Exercise Numero Dos

She is not the fearful type. In fact, she is quite the opposite, bold and confident. Her self-assurance has always caused her to be a bit careless; careless with her words and careless with her actions. Her recklessness often finds her in compromising situations. Like when she got off the ‘L’ at 2 a.m. in a foreign part of the city and found herself alone and surrounded by dark corners and suspicious characters. She didn’t panic. She loosened her posture and slowed her gait. She sent a nonchalant text message and walked to the bus stop. Sure, her heart was beating a little faster than normal but not out of fear, out of excitement. She loved the thrill of uncertainty, the challenge of it all. She called it confidence, I called it stupidity.

The problem with all of this is that relatively speaking she hasn’t suffered any consequences. Relatively speaking, she has gotten by quite easy. When she used to wake up after an evening of binge drinking, she never suffered a hangover. In the course of her series of “social activities” she never suffered more than the occasional walk of shame. Even now, when her blunt, sarcastic words fall on unsuspecting ears, more often than not, they are met with laughter; found to be charming and witty. And, on the occasions when those words are met with resistance it generally comes from someone in it for the long haul, someone who for all intensive purposes forgives quickly.  How can she swallow a healthy dose of humility when her harshness is applauded and her recklessness punished with less than a slap on the wrist?

However, albeit she’s confident, to say she is without fear would be a lie. Indeed, her fears traipse around her subconscious like little thieves, stealing away precious moments with lies of what ifs and memories of helplessness.  When they surface, she can’t stop the goose bumps from hardening or the suffocating tightness in her chest. They suck her back into a moment in time when boldness and confidence were non-existent; a moment when fear of the truth and reality kept her loud mouth abnormally quiet. She fears her silence will reap far greater consequences than the combination of all her crass remarks. Depending on the day, the scales teeter precariously on the edge of either outcome. Fear lingers on indecision and uncertainty, patiently awaiting its next opportunity to blindside her. As for resolution, it’s hard to come by when you’re the villain.

I’d like to say I feel sorry for her, but truth is, I don’t. 

Just a Game

Disclaimer: This was an exercise inspired by my brilliant writer, sister/friend. Shameless plug.

As long as I can remember this game has been an outlet of sorts, an escape from reality. Sure it’s just a game, a round ball and a hoop, offense defense and the in-between. However, it was once prized YMCA, Spirit League and Select Team jerseys that marked my progression through tryouts and tourneys. It was ounces of sweat dripping off my forehead onto yellowed hardwood, and overpriced Jordan sneakers that made me run faster and jump higher. It was the tapping of my anxious right leg during the Star Spangled Banner and the towel over my head as I wept over fouling out of a big game. It was belligerent battles with coaches and referees; a heart swollen with pride over stats and newspaper articles. It was the #32 necklace that I proudly wore to match the numbers on the front of my letter jacket. It was all-star teams, recruiting and state recognition.

In college it was exclusive parties and all day workouts. It was weights, conditioning, practice, team dinner and camaraderie with my sweatpants sorority. It was solitary cold soaks to momentarily cure the increasing agony of my shoulders, back, legs, etc. It was my source of joy, my identity all wrapped up in a round ball and a hoop. Then, it was forced retirement, doc’s orders. It was grief, anger, bitterness, resentment and eventually acceptance. 

Now it is my Wednesday workout. It is exercise for the out of shape and slightly overweight. Its exaggerated cheers for 3 pointers made and “she’s still got it!” for no look passes and fancy dribbling. It’s more laughter than yelling, more miscues than precision, and its tom foolery really. For the first time in my life, it is just a game.

A Thousand Words

I look at this picture everyday as I sit at my desk. It encompasses one of my favorite moments of my wedding day, but it’s so much more than that. It illustrates a redemptive story that only you and I will ever understand. When I rifle through the memories of my childhood there are very few that involve you being tender, loving or compassionate. In fact most of the things I remember have something to do with your rough hands landing swiftly against my backside. Not to mention countless memories of hurtful words exchanged and weeks of not speaking. I patronized you as often as I could and belittled your intelligence in front of my arrogant friends. You never took the time to put up with my bull____ which only fueled my desire to rebel against whatever mandate you had put forth. In hindsight I realize that this friction between you and I occurred because of our likeness. We’re stubborn, hard-headed, aggressive and slow to forgive. Neither one of us likes to show emotion or weakness, we’re self-sufficient and proud. These qualities although admirable at times inhibit us from communicating well.

I spent years fighting against you only to realize that I was fighting against myself. Sure you’re not the perfect example of parenthood but you attempted to raise me strong, independent and perceptive. You had my best interest in mind and you still do, but now I have respect for you. You’ve become a lot more tender the past few years. Maybe it was mom’s cancer or getting older. Maybe you haven’t changed at all. Maybe I just woke up to see all the ways I’ve gone wrong in judging you. Whatever it is, I love who we’ve become lately. Sure, we will continue to have our scuffles but you’ve seen more sides of me than anyone. After all, you’re the last person I’ve cried in front of, and you were the only one to see me nervous on my wedding day. As I stood there alone for the first time all day, watching my bridesmaids walking up to the altar, I started breathing heavily. You came over and placed your rough hands on my shoulders. I knew you put them there because you were afraid the calluses on your hands and permanently dirty cracks from years of laboring would snag or stain my satin dress. You kissed me on the cheek like always and whispered I love you. That was all I needed, it was perfect. Your tenderness in that moment erases any tarnished memory of my childhood. Our dance that night was full of sarcastic remarks and laughter as you spun me around the dance floor. As cheesy as is sounds, that picture really does say a thousand words but usually only four come to mind. 

I love you, Daddy.

The First

It seems like we all have a fascination with firsts. We carry fond memories of the first time we rode our bikes or flew on an airplane. There are all sorts of emotions tied up in firsts, most of them include excitement and adrenaline but some of them include heavier emotions like pain, suffering and disappointment. Up to a certain point in my life many of my firsts were all enveloped in guilt and shame and lies. I don’t remember my first lie, but I know that I became imposingly good at it. It felt quite natural to string together a delightful sounding phrase to confuse or distract whomever I was duping.

I did just that the night I had my first kiss. I told the boy I wanted to kiss that he had to help me finish a scavenger hunt, that I had to find the cutest boy at camp and kiss him for ten seconds. He obliged even though we were in front of campers and counselors and he was 5 years my senior. I was quite surprised that my lips felt tingly and even more surprised when I felt his tongue touch mine. I found that to be weird and a little disgusting but I played along like I knew this whole charade backwards and forwards. When a counselor approached to break up our little love fest (after all it was a Christian camp) I spouted off another lie blaming a giggling group of nearby girls for daring me to commit such a scandalous act.

The truth is I didn’t know those girls and I didn’t even know the name of the boy I had just kissed. I didn’t have a scavenger hunt to accomplish nor did anyone dare me but I did know that my older sister had a crush on him and that she had just seen the whole thing. So when someone asks about my first kiss I say it was a boy at camp mainly because the only thing I remember now is that he wore a neon green backwards baseball cap and had bad breath. It was as unromantic as my second kiss which occurred in the middle of the dance floor on homecoming night my freshman year of high school. I assured my date that he was the fourth or fifth boy I’d kissed and I made sure all my friends saw our sloppy session during “Amazed.”

I continued this trend of deceit with many firsts that followed my first (or second) kiss. The first time I slept with someone and the first time I drank too much I pretended like I was a seasoned veteran and I recounted the stories like they were normal occurrences. All those firsts were a train wreck, a desperate attempt at social integration and acceptance but there is one first I’ll never forget. A first that makes all other firsts pale in comparison. I’ll never forget the first time I felt loved. There was no shame or deception, no lies and no plea for acceptance, just love. There was adrenaline and joy, excitement and anticipation and for the first time I didn’t have to be anybody but me.

Untitled... for now.

She was beautiful. Her silver hair framed her face just right. She had deep lines around her face from years of laughter, her best feature in my opinion. Her laugh was deep and hearty, such a big surprise coming from such a small woman. I remember her laugh as if she were sitting next to me laughing right now. It revealed such a deep joy. She had big, strong hands and was proud of the ability to palm a basketball at the age of 70 (my hero.) She often wore pearls and always told me that you shouldn’t wait for a special occasion to wear them. I wore hers on my wedding day. She was the most kind and compassionate person I ever knew. She wasn’t supposed to have favorites but it was clear that I was hers. We were the best of friends. We spent nearly every Wednesday during summer exchanging candy between fits of laughter and mischief. She would bring me an apple pie, my favorite, and I would buy her some disgusting boston baked beans or burnt peanuts, her favorite. Amidst our laughter we had many conversations about life, faith, friendships and anything else. She shared all sorts of wisdom with me, like, never withhold a compliment, always be kinder than necessary to someone in need and always tell someone when you love them. I heard her say those three words more times than I could ever count and never once did I question her sincerity. I try to live up to those things as best as I can. I realize I remember only the best version of her. Mom says she swore like a sailor but I secretly like to chalk that up into my favorite things about her as well. Even when she had surgeries to fix her back and other things, I still thought she was invincible.

I walked into the kitchen one hot summer morning. I’d slept terrible and hadn’t bothered to change out of my oversized pajamas. Everyone was sitting around the kitchen table looking somber. It was obvious they all knew something I didn’t; either that or I was in trouble again. They had all known for awhile, since the night before when my entire extended family had been over mourning together, when I had obliviously retreated to my upstairs bedroom to play obnoxious music and be a moody teenager. No one could bear to come get me, fearing what my reaction would be. Mom refused to look at me, so I laughed at all of them and sarcastically remarked, “Who died?” Dad looked up and told me, his voice shaking and his eyes full of big sloppy tears. It felt like someone had emptied all the air out of my lungs and I gasped loudly between sobs as I beat my dad’s chest calling him a liar.  I cried until it felt like my tear ducts had dried up; until all I could do was sleep. It was the first time I ever felt broken, the first time that I couldn’t think of anything to do to mend myself and I mourned for a long time. I refused to acknowledge the reality and I haphazardly masked the pain I felt. It took a long time but I healed and eventually grasped on to reality and tried to start walking in direction that she so often instructed me.

On Christmas Eve we watched home movies. It wasn’t until I heard her laugh half-way through that I realized she had been filming. She was laughing at my hopeless attempt to steer a go kart around the kiddy track at Okoboji and cheering me on. Hearing her laugh on tape was the best gift this year. I’ve recalled it to mind often since then as I did this morning on my drive to work.  It brings forth stronger emotions than I’m sometimes ready for but I love it, it’s the best sound.