Out of the Dark

I don’t consider myself to be a Facebook junkie, but when the laundry and dishes start to pile up, and I find myself buying new socks from Target and bras from Victoria Secret each week instead of laundering my own, I know there is a problem.  I blame it on a mid-life crisis.  Everybody experiences that, right?  The Victoria Secret catalogue arrives in Saturday’s mail.  I don’t think the models are necessarily airbrushed, but they epitomize a culture of beauty whose views I don’t share.  What is beauty?  The models in the catalogue look at me with their bedroom eyes with hands in tousled hair and bursting cleavage, off the shoulder styles and lacy V-necks and side ruching, and they scream, “I want you to fuck me.” 

As they look at me, I scream back at them, “You know, your size 2 body isn’t even appealing.  Men want something to hold onto.”  I walk to my Maytag fridge in our galley kitchen.  I always thought this would be our starter brick ranch, but here we are fourteen years later, bursting at the seams.  I grab a Glaceau sparkling zero calorie lemon-lime fruitwater.  Even that seems to echo back to me, “How could you eat all those crispy chicken sandwiches from McDonalds when you were pregnant?”  This time however, it’s only the sounds of my voice whispering back as I add some hydration to my body.  I’m actually quite hungry.  It’s 6:30 p.m. and the white amino acid pills have long worn off.  What are my go-to diet options:  sugar-free jello, leftover spoon roast from two days ago, oh God nothing seems remotely appetizing, that is until I eye the package of Butterball turkey bacon.  Three strips and 35 seconds later, my microwave beeps, and the crisp slices are ready to be eaten. 

As I gnaw on my bacon, the Victoria Secret catalogue continues to taunt me.  The models stare at me with their day-to-night essentials consisting of faux fur-trimmed tops, sequins and feathers, peep toe boots, halter tops, lace babydoll designs, and V-strings galore.  I haven’t even mentioned the lacie plunge halter teddy or the thong backs.  Okay, maybe I’m just a little jealous that my size 12 body doesn’t seem to look remotely attractive in Victoria Secret clothing.  Do I need to be airbrushed?  The other day my daughter came home with her school photo ordering information from Lifetouch.  Nothing against Lifetouch, but did you know I could have removed the Marilyn-Monroe facial mole she was born with?  Why is that even an option?  From a young Barbie-playing age, we send some pretty awful messages to our kids in terms of identity.  It’s no wonder that our suicide rate doesn’t parallel that of China. 

As I see the sexy swimwear and push-up bras and bikini bottoms, I wonder why our focus is on maximum cleavage and fullness.  Silhouetted in the darkness of my own psyche, I answer, “Because sex sells.”  If it truly sells, I’m getting sold.  We all are.  There is a related chance however, that maybe I am having flashbacks to “Boys Only” scrawled on my brother’s tree house door when we were kids.  If I could belong I would.  But I don’t belong.  I don’t belong to my family, my school, my church, the women’s PTO, or even as a consumer at our local Victoria Secret Store.  I feel alone.  Like the Dublin, Ireland band’s words, “I Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For;” I am searching for some light. 

Last night I sojourned to my local gym, not particularly wanting to be there, but I was numb to any sense of order and predictability, looking for some spark or nuances in my normalcy.  Jaz Primo says it best in Gwen Reaper when his protagonist’s Dad says, “Life is fickle sometimes, so you have to roll with the punches.”  I’m trying to roll with the punches alright, so that’s the new justification for some life-altering ambitious pursuits.  Just what those are remain a mystery to me.  I’m looking forward to coming out of the dark. 

Last night I posted a question to my “friends” on Facebook, “I can’t decide whether to run a marathon or write a novel.  What would you recommend?”  The responses were varied.  Some said do both, the majority encouraged running in some capacity, and one response detailed writing a novel about someone who runs a marathon.  My “friends” conferred that both are great goals, but some alluded to the relative easy nature of writing a novel.  Personally, I don’t think writing in itself would be that difficult.  Would it be any good?  No.  And that’s where the pressure lies.  While I don’t demand perfection, I am searching for some temporary affirmation that values who I am, and maybe someday I’ll find it within myself.  Gosh, the drama of high school seems preferable right now.   

Continuing the Facebook dialogue, I then had Aunt Chris’s realistic voice suggesting that I clean the kitchen and do the laundry.   While these mundane tasks embody a sense of rationalism, they are perhaps the impetus for my I’m-much-too-young-to-be-experiencing-a-crisis mode but here-I-am-experiencing-it-anyways disposition.  I can say that after my walk with my dog during the day yesterday and today, and my lonely five-mile trek on the treadmill last night, I feel alive and vibrant, on the edge of discovering a new dimension to this thing we call life.  And whether I embrace running a half or a full marathon, running up and down the stairs, writing a novel or some short stories, I know that I will come out of the dark one of these days; if not I’ll be dead.   

I couldn’t walk today.  I felt sore and walked kind of bowlegged.  My inner thighs are sore with opposition and my hamstrings and calves scream with remorse.  Although the physical sensations are not exactly pleasurable, I feel my brain succumbing to an ecstasy of sorts.  And that glimmer of light may be enough to be the impetus of my transformation.