Dear S-Person (1)

 

 

 

Hi S-Person,

It's me!  It's a little after 7:00, and I just got home from Ozzie’s going-away party.  It was held at The Corner, a restaurant and Bar in Huntington Beach.  It’s kind of customary that whenever someone leaves, be it quitting or retirement, that they have a get together at The Corner.  I want to take you here someday.  From the 48 hour fries and their secret sauce to the eclectic cocktails:  Dark and Stormy, Moonshine Mohito, and Antioxidant Intoxicants, you’re sure to find something that will delight.  What was it that you’re allergic to?  You’ll have to remind me.  Well, it was fun to see some of the people from work and their spouses in an-other-than-work sort of setting.  For some strange reason, though, I kept wishing I was with you.  My wife wondered what was up.  I told her I had an upset stomach which was partly the truth, but as much as it pains me to say it S-Person, I am hooked. 

            Even after all this time, (What has it been?  Seven years already?)I’ve been keeping a little part of myself safe.  It hasn’t been intentional, but after being burned many times before and after reconciling my own celibate relationship with my wife, I’ve protected myself a little.  Again, it has not been intentional, and I haven’t held anything out on you.  I’ve been totally upfront and not hidden anything from you.  Somehow, even when I was falling for you, I managed to keep something safe though.  I can see now that maybe I’m not as scared, or maybe I can’t hide any longer.  Whatever the case, I still can’t make any promises about what will happen in the future.  Only time will tell us that.  But if you want to give this a shot with me, I’ll give it a shot with you.  Between the two of us, we might just be able to make it work. 

            I want so badly for it to be Christmas break already.  I don’t know how I can wait to see you again.  The thought of spending an entire weekend with you after so long…how will I survive?  We should have so much fun with that time together; plus, I’ll see to it that you get your Scarlet Letter essays graded and your lesson planning done.  I know I can help.  I’ve always liked to play school, that along with doctor of course. 

            I hate to go, but I have to go over to Ozzie’s house for the second part of the party.  I’ll be home from it early (being the good boy that I am) because I have to be up to play baseball tomorrow morning at 7:00 a.m.  It’s a city league that I’ll tell you more about later.  I’ll finish up after our practice.  I love you S-Person. 

            10:45 p.m.—Well, I just got home from Ozzie’s; it was fun, even though I felt out of place without a spouse.  Margaret stayed home.  She had another lupus flare up and was extremely tired.  Again, I got a chance to talk to some people outside the atmosphere of the corporate office:  no suits, no ties, and no titles.  Kind of refreshing.  I’m going to bed now, and all I wish is that you were here to make my bed a little warmer and a little less empty.  Although Margaret and I have grown closer, we still often sleep in our Jack and Jill beds.  I feel so alone.  Somehow I’ll survive for another week until I see you (I don’t know how, but somehow…and someday…)

            Good morning.  It’s 9:30 and I got back a little while from baseball.  I didn’t play too great, but it wasn’t terrible either.  I’m going to get in the shower soon, but first I want to tell you something that happened to me last week.  I was sitting at work Wednesday morning working with my usual Excel spreadsheets and the phone rang.  I figured that like usual when my phone rings, it would be for the guy who previously had my phone number.  Instead what I got was quite the surprise.  I answered it and it was Brianna Costello, one of  my good friend Chuck’s sisters.  She’s a doctor here in town, and she invited me over for lunch today.  Chuck and Pamela are up here for the weekend, so she thought it would be fun to surprise them and have me come over.  I’m looking forward to it; I haven’t had a chance to talk to Chuck or Pamela for quite awhile.  I’d like to know how both of them are doing. 

            So, with that slight digression, I guess I should go for now.  Margaret is at the doctor’s office, and I’m going to go shower, so I can be nice and clean for my “lunch date.”  I hope “The Messiah” goes well (or should I say went since you’ll be reading this after it’s done).  I’m sure you knocked ‘em dead.  I’ll talk to you this week sometime to finalize our plans for next weekend.  Take care and stay healthy.  I’m thinking about you silly girl! 

                                                                                               

Love, Max 



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. 

 

Beginnings

 

 

 

“Do I have your permission to begin?”

“Yes”

As I lay in the bed at the Ramada Inn, with only a sheet covering my partially-clothed body, my mind went to another place about ten years earlier.  Kelly explained I should undress after she left.  Undergarments were optional though she articulated the bra often gets in the way, so I would be best to remove it.  When finished changing, I was to hop up on the heated massage table and drape the sheet over my body.  Once ready, I should tap the button and she would return.  If at any time I felt uncomfortable, I would tell her to stop. 

“Mia?” 

“Yes, Martin?”

“I lost you for a moment, kind of like when I used to call you at school and our calls would drop, but I always called you back.  Are you with me?”  Martin sat on the edge of the bed next to me, his eyes intent upon listening.  

“I was just remembering.  It’s hard to believe we are where we are at today. 

“What do you mean?

“After your wife died, I ached.  Yes, I know I ached before that, but I did not allow myself to go there.  I respected the sanctity of your marriage.  I too was still married, raising a young family, but I wanted to be with you.  And like you, I wasn’t going to divorce my spouse.” 

Martin straightened a strand of hair that had fallen in front of my eyes and tucked it back in its place.  I started to cry, so he blotted a few tears away too. 

“Mia, there’s time.  Let’s take it slow.”

With those words, I pulled him closer to me, knowing the days grew shorter now.  Martin and I both experienced a lifetime of firsts:  first dates, the birth of our first child, our first grandchildren, and the death of our parents.  Separately, we experienced these firsts.  As time ticked, events rushed by without making much of an impression.  Many years passed.  We were tired, and each day passed in a blur.  The clock ticked, and days came and went.  What once was novel became routine as the hollowed days began to collapse. 

As I waxed nostalgic, Martin kissed me on my forehead, gentle and attentive like I always imagined him to be, brushing his tousled beard against my cheek and tickling my nose.  I giggled. 

“What’s so funny?”

“That tickles.” 

“If you think that tickles, just you wait.”  Martin laughed.  He looked at me with big brown eyes, eager with anticipation.  “What if I were to call you Mrs. Masterson?” 

“Well then, I guess I’d have to call you Bobby.” 

We chuckled, and he took my face in both hands and planted a kiss on each cheek.  “One kiss for being so cute, and a second for being so damn beautiful.”  As Martin bent over me, cradling my head in his arms, I again found myself somewhere else for a moment, mesmerized by the present yet reminiscent of the past. 

Kelly massaged my temples and held my head up for ninety seconds, deeply working on the tension she found in my neck.  I carried my tension across my shoulders and into my neck.  At one point she told me to stop helping her.  “Women are natural helpers.  Let me do all the work today.”  Even back then I smiled, not knowing if during our foreplay I would be allowed to help or not. 

“Mia, do you want me to stop?” 

“Do I look like I want you to stop?  I’m sorry.  I was just remembering.  The mind that never stops, remember?”

As Kelly worked her way from my head to my toes, I was aware of every touch.  I imagined it was your touch especially when she took each arm, raised it above my head and circled it around and around before finally letting it lay by my side. 

“I imagined begging you to blindfold me with that silver ribbed tie from your daughter’s wedding or bind my hands to one another or to the headboard.  When I was married, I always wanted to be tied up, but it never happened.  I don’t know why I stayed married, sleeping in our Flintstone single beds or me coming to bed three hours after he had fallen asleep, crawling into cold sheets on my side of the bed.  And now that he is gone…”

“Shhh.  And now?”  He planted a kiss on my lips, the first of its kind, the first of many more. 

I smiled.  “Do it again.” 

“Do I have your permission to begin?”

“Uh, huh,” I giggled, remembering that girlish awkwardness from a long time ago.  I was still that girl; I would always be that girl.  The one who got hit in the eye while playing baseball with Jimmy Thompson in the alley, the one who kissed Ben Johnson in the garage attached to the convent, the one who bought penny candy when it was still a penny, and the one who traveled across the Pacific Ocean only to become homesick and return home three weeks later.    

Martin slid in next to me.  I was lying on my right side staring at the alarm clock on the hotel’s nightstand.  Tick, tick, tick.  I still had my glasses on; it said 8:45.  His beard nestled against my skin, and I liked feeling it.  This was new to me.  I had never been intimate with a man with a beard and was excited by the first impression Martin was making on me.  He wrapped his arms tightly around me. 

“Mrs. Masterson?”

“Yes Bobby?”

“Can I help you correct papers tonight, Mrs. Masterson?”

“Bobby, let’s do some correcting tomorrow.” 

We both took our glasses off.  It was time to see each other, really see each other for the first time.  We had known each other for a long time but were together for the first time face to face.  Although I wanted to unbutton Bobby’s shirt, blow warm air into his lap, and accelerate the intimacy, I knew his embrace would be more than I could handle tonight.   There would be other days and other nights, new distinct memories of living in the present and positive perceptions of the future.  The days would grow longer now; they would be days filled with hope, optimism, and love.  This was only the beginning.