There’s Power in Aging Ungracefully

Posted on 11/22/2013 by maeveala

I get Miley Cyrus, in some ways. I truly do. Discovering the power of your sexuality, and trying that out, not caring about the consequences – we’ve all been there. Women are powerful, and not just sexually, at all ages, but unfortunately it’s been stamped on and shamed on and controlled for so long that we have no clue how to just… be, most times. Unless we make ourselves attractive and have a powerful man standing beside us we feel naked, incomplete, irrelevant. Unless we act the way that society says women should, the way that men say we should, we are labeled – feminists, ballbusters, lesbians, bitches. I understand, I truly do, why youth is so appealing, why we celebrate it, worship it and try to hold on to it as much as we can – younger spouses, cosmetic surgery, staying current on trends. But where does that leave the rest of us? I’m not in my 20s or 30s anymore, and I feel a bit like I’ve been cast aside, that my opinion and my person no longer matter. And most especially, now that my uterus is no longer fertile and I don’t want to spend endless hours preening and slaving to fashion and makeup, I feel… dead, sexually. Undesirable, in every definition of the word.

I drove home the short way a few weeks ago, which I rarely, if ever do, because of situations like I’m going to recount. It was a lovely Southern California day, the windows were down, and the sun was going down, angling low across the sky, making it a backlit canopy. On the two-lane stretch of Woodbury where I was driving, the speed limit was 40 mph. People were going slower than that, and it did annoy me, only because I had to be somewhere, but I wasn’t driving like a jerk. Trust me; I know when I’m driving like a jerk. I’ve done it for a long time and I am UBER-aware of myself tailgating, getting frustrated…this was not one of those times. (I have tried to curb my aggressive driving tendencies, and I think for the most part, I have succeeded. LA is a difficult town to practice Zen driving in, believe me.)

I changed lanes to the far left and fell in behind an old, red Honda. He was a couple of miles below the speed limit, and I crossed over Washington behind him, as he zigged into the right lane, I followed, and had to stifle a chuckle when he passed a fire truck on his left and stuck his hand out the window to wave and give a solid “thumbs-up” to the riders. The fireman on the passenger side raised his hand slightly and gave him the smallest, briefest of waves. The red Honda then pulled ahead into the left lane, and I followed. At the next light, he slowed to get into the far left turn lane. And I mean, really slowed. Trying to piss me off slowed. The light was still green and I braked, turned my wheel hard to the right to get around him, and then hard again to the left to straighten out, but missed the light. He crawled up beside me to my left, rolled down his window and tossed the opening salvo – “You’d better be careful there, girl, tailgating like that!”

Where do I even begin. Do I feel flattered that thinks I’m a “girl,” not a woman? (He was under 60, therefore not old enough to play the age card) Do I mention the tortoise-like (read: controlling) maneuver of his that precipitated the event? Do I laugh it off and ignore him, turning my music louder? Well, unfortunately, the answer is d) none of the above. I was so annoyed with him a) being distracted and waving at a fire truck like a 5 year old, b) purposely slowing down and trying to control others (namely, me), but mostly… mostly, I was hot that he had called me, “girl.”

Listen, I’ve had a great fucking life so far. I really do not have anything I can complain about that I wouldn’t feel ashamed complaining about. I did what I wanted to do, for the most part, and made a life for myself in another country, even while being illegal there; I was gorgeous in my young womanhood, and I knew it. I drank and smoked and cursed and fucked with the best of them, and men loved it (well, most men anyway, the kind of men I liked back then). It’s looked on a lot more favorably when you are 25 than when you are 45 (and quite a few pounds heavier than you were then as well). I know now that some of my affections, and my actions, may have been misplaced, but I really do believe that particular truth is given to us at a time when we are most open to receiving it.

So, in that bohemian, independent spirit of my youth, I laughed under my breath, turned to face ahead of me again, and muttered, “Fuck off.” To which he looked taken aback, and said, “What did you say?!?!” God, will this light never turn green???? Is what was going through my head, but, not turning to him, I responded, without malice, or intonation at all, “you heard me.” There was silence, except for Def Leppard vaguely playing in the background. Then, after a few moments, came the kicker. The retort that comes only when you can’t think of anything else to say and are pissed off enough to want to hurt.

“You’re a fat pig… aren’t you!?” The last bastion of the witless. Although it’s probably true to some extent, I’m heavier than I’ve been in a long time and certainly not the looker I once was, but how does someone even know that, seeing you from the shoulder up? Are my jowls really giving me away? (I’ve got to look into that Lifestyle Lift.) And really, there were so many adjectives that flew into my head to counter with (balding, ginger, pockmarked, to name a few), it could have gotten much uglier.

The light finally, FINALLY turned green, and I stuck my long, manicured hand out the window and flipped him off hard, like Jennifer Aniston showing her boss her “flair” in Office Space. I gently pressed the accelerator in my Prius and silently headed home. Oh, it hurt. Believe me, it hurt. I’m no longer as adept as I once was at sloughing off the slings and arrows sent my way, back when I was gorgeous and didn’t care, about authority or much else.

But what gives him the right to say that to me? I’m a big fan of men, I love them, have always been around them; I feel their plight as they head into this brave new world of metrosexuality, 24/7 porn, and women fucking like men, and can understand their bafflement. I see that they too feel irrelevant, out of touch, unnecessary. But I also know the surest way for a man to control a woman is to make a dig about her appearance. This jackass is one in a long line of social fuckwads that has said something blatantly ridiculous to me in the hopes of hurting and showing his power and control over me. Now that I’m older, I see them as sad, pathetic, lacking in confidence, no self-esteem – and I can have some compassion.

The only good news that came from this encounter was that I’ve started taking the long way home again, even though it adds 5 minutes to my already ridiculously short 15-minute commute. I didn’t fall into depression and hate the world for being so mean, as I would have years ago. I didn’t carry it with me, because even though I may have been unwise to “poke the badger with a spoon” and tell him to “fuck off,” his response was completely irrational and uncalled for. And one of these days, I’m going to really be able to say that I don’t care about what people think of me. And I will believe it. And the fucking roar that will issue forth from my mouth upon that happening… well, that will be something, won’t it?

(Expansion by Paige Bradley)

I Won’t Be Muzzled.

Posted on 06/11/2013 by maeveala

I won’t be muzzled. I won’t be leashed and held to heel. Having spent the better part of my 20s and 30s thinking that I wasn’t a “nice” girl, having to swallow my anger so much that I blew up like a blimp, so that every time I experience the feeling of anger, I cannot even hold on to it, instead I dissolve into tears. I no longer want to slowly kill myself with food and unfelt emotion. I’m tired of watching life pass me, thinking how glorious and shiny everyone else’s life is as they achieve goals, try new things that frighten them, put themselves out on the line, while I sit in the corner and hope you don’t notice me.

It’s simple, but it’s a difficult concept to grasp. I know. If you don’t like me (and that’s OK), feel free to change the channel. If you don’t like the words I write, don’t read them. Believe me, they’re not about you, or trying to hurt you. They are simply me, trying to understand, me.

I no longer have to be a people-pleaser and throw myself into despair knowing that you don’t like me. I can’t grovel on the ground or hide under a quilt while you assert your dominance and superiority over me. I’m tired of putting my energy into trying to make you like me, rather than spend that energy on those who really do. Those who, time after time, have been there for me. Have opened their hearts, their homes, their lives, to me and mine; have never told me that I’m disgusting and that I should be ashamed of myself.

This immense globe that is my home, I want to see as much of it as I can, with the person that means the most to me, my husband. If that means that I’m flying away from the nest, be happy for me. Wish me success and happiness and love as I traverse it, and don’t be sad or resentful that I’m away from you. My journey may not necessarily be your journey, or more likely, the journey that you wanted for me. But it is distinctly and utterly mine. I do not regret a millisecond of it. All of it has made me who I am today, and you know what? It’s pretty amazing. And, maybe, the choices I made have made it difficult to stay in touch, to know me, but instead of looking at that as a defect, why not look at it as an asset? An old Chinese proverb says that sorrow shared is sorrow halved; happiness shared is happiness doubled.

So, I’m different than you. I believe different things. I do different things. They aren’t Canadian differences or Scottish differences, or American differences… they’re just differences. Does that make me less of a human in your eyes? Or less worthy of your love and your respect (if there ever was any there to begin with)? Because I have not lived my life how you lived your life, or believed what you believed, there is no room for me in your consciousness? I can’t live on crumbs any longer. I am not satisfied to get what you give me and call it manna from heaven. I can’t be. The world is beautiful, and huge, and ugly, and scary, and beautiful again, and I want to taste it all before I die. And I will die, just as everything on this planet dies. What can I do in between now and then? I can love. I can live. I can accept myself exactly how I am and where I am right now. And then, if I want to change it, I can. But I cannot change without first seeing myself as I really am.

Why must you seek to rein me in, like I am some thunderous wild Appaloosa who just needs a tighter bit to champ at in her mouth and the spurs dug in a little deeper to her sides?

Do you think I do what I do for spite? To hurt you? Do you really think it’s about you?

That couldn’t be farther from the truth.

A junior high teacher wrote as a comment on a paper I had turned in, “Why settle for the Moon, when you can reach the stars?” I’ll tell you why: because the Moon is closer, and all the people I know are there, and it’s safe, and known, and most of all… it’s not as lonely as being in the stars is.

But there comes a time when you know you must leave your Moon home and head off to your rightful place among those points of light. The journey’s beginning is easier that second time, because the pull of the Moon is nowhere near as strong as the pull of the Earth.

Weekly Photo Challenge: Change

Posted on 04/12/2013 by maeveala

As hard as we try not to change, we are doing so every minute, every second of our lives here on the planet. Trying NOT to change is the worst feeling in the world. Change is natural. It might as well be a synonym to evolution (oh wait, it is).

This is a picture of my hometown. Edmonton, Alberta, Canada. Coming up Connors Road, past the Muttart Conservatory, toward Strathearn and Bonnie Doon.

It’s in my rear view through a mirror, because Edmonton is forever changed for me now. This picture was taken in September 2012. I was home visiting my parents, the third such trip that year, because I was worried sick about my Dad. It’s the last time I saw him.

Edmonton is a great city. It was an amazing place to grow up – safe, comfortable, expanding, a little hick, a little slick. Living there requires a certain inner strength – particularly to get through the winters.

That last trip there, I borrowed my Dad’s Chrysler and filled up the tank, and just drove. I remembered all the places I used to drive with him – Jasper Ave. to pick up my Mum after work; 17^th Street where he worked; 109^th Street where Grama used to live; my sister from the CN tower, where she worked. I’d go everywhere with him. He had a little bit of the Traveler in him, and thank God I inherited it.

Dad taught me to drive – again in a Chrysler, this time a burgundy LeBaron – after getting me set up with Driver Training the summer I turned 16, I would be anxious to go with him, and this time get behind the wheel. Dad was an assertive driver – some would say otherwise, in not so nice terms, but I am forever grateful to him for helping me with learning the privilege of driving. And learning how to do it well. In thirty years of driving I’ve had two infractions – one for pulling a u-turn trying to get out of traffic on the way to my Dr’s office when I miscarried and was bleeding so badly I had to be hospitalized; the other, driving my husband’s car, and being behind a jerk who was texting and talking on his phone, and when I briefly honked to get him to go (as the light had been green for a few seconds), he went, then stopped short again, and not knowing this car as well as my own, I slammed on the brakes but couldn’t stop, and barely tapped his bumper (even though he harangued me and was verbally abusive, and got a whole new bumper and paint job out of it).

Lots of people are intimidated in the car with me. I do admit, I’ve had some anger issues, and swore a lot, and maneuvered my Mazda as if it were a Porsche, but I don’t think I was ever reckless. I’ve been in cars with drivers who are worse – not confident, unsure, so scared of getting into an accident that they’re actually a liability on the road – and I’d rather be a passenger with my Dad. I don’t think I was ever frightened when he drove.

Anyway, I got in Dad’s car, and I eased onto the roads I had once known like the back of my hand. Edmonton is a growing city, and the vast open fields and spaces, on the roads into it, from my childhood were virtually non-existent anymore. Yes, it was from growth, but also a little from that weird realization that everything was bigger, farther away, took longer to get to, as a child. I remember my Western Civ teacher telling us the one way to really realize how much time had passed and how we’d grown was to reach for the doorknobs in our childhood home. That perspective of eye level triggering memories was the harbinger of seeing how old you were.

So, with the car as my eye and the rest of the city as my doorknobs, I set out to see how much I’d grown. And how much it had changed; but mostly, how much I had changed.

The trees were so much taller. I’d been around when a lot of them were being planted, slim trunks roped to iron bars to help keep them upright – now towering above me and their canopies full and lush.

The Walterdale bridge, close to the river and the water plant, still hummed as your tires went across it, but it was much quicker than I remembered.

The High Level Bridge, by the Legislative grounds, sucked the car in to its narrow two-lane tunnel, and dumped me out right where I had my first kiss from the man I went to Boston for – the High Level Diner. Wistfulness and sentiment washed over me. I turned east onto Whyte Ave., and had to pull over. The tears were streaming down my cheeks. On my left was Gordon Price music – a favorite hangout of mine while at Grant MacEwan in the Theatre Program – I would spend many a Saturday afternoon flipping through sheet music there.

It’s also the last place I saw my Grama. We had spent the morning together, shopping, doing errands for her. I told her I wanted to go to the music store and look around, and would she mind waiting? She said, no, you go on, I’m close enough to home, I will just walk back. I didn’t want her to, but she insisted. So I hugged her tightly and gave her a little kiss, and went off to search the aisles. A few minutes later, I saw her, putting her face up to the plate glass front window, her hand shielding her eyes so she could see in, and I waved to her. She saw me, waved, and smiled that wonderful smile she had, and blew a kiss, and walked with her little boots and mink coat, home.

If I had known…

How many times do we have to say that to ourselves before we learn? Before we say “I love you” so they know. Before we look one last glance at them so we’ll remember them.

So that’s it. Edmonton’s changed. I’ve changed. Life’s changed. It’s forever colored with the memories of all these lasts. Yes, there were a lot of firsts, too, which I do remember, but it’s the lasts that are breaking my heart, that have so much of me tied there. When did it change to that? From the place of all my firsts, now just a place of my lasts? It’s painful. Maybe that will change too.

I’m Your Biggest Fan…

Posted on 04/03/2013 by maeveala

(Franz Bischoff painting of the Arroyo Seco)

Early evening. This is my favorite time of day. It’s also my favorite time of year.

In California.

Early April, not too hot, the green starting to explode on the hills… Jasmine, that fragrant, heady harbinger of Spring. The quick, look-fast-or-you-miss-them sunsets.

Those smells in the air, the light getting longer. Better than the straight up hot spotlight that daytime and noontime give you – it burns me, more than just my skin. It’s so bright, nothing is hidden – it wants in, and I don’t let it. I haven’t let it. California has not been my home for 15 years.

I’ve just lived here; it’s never felt like “home.” Mostly because i didn’t want it to – I loved Canada, and as much as I loved Canada, I loved Boston a hundred times more – my heart broke leaving it, but now, fifteen years on, the heartbreak has lessened ever so slightly, and I am OK that I did. I’ve grown up in California, in more ways than one.

I first visited when I was ten or eleven, some tween age. My parents and I drove down from Canada to visit relatives here. It was July, I do remember that – we were trying to get there for my birthday but didn’t quite make it. We stopped off in Utah or Oregon somewhere; Mum and Dad bought a cake and surprised me with it at the hotel pool, where strangers and newly-formed friends sang to me. We drove for hours and hours, and made it the next day, and then, when my Aunt scooted me out of the kitchen that night, my feelings were hurt, I didn’t know what was going on. Then came the cake out of the darkness, half-eaten, the writing smooshed, “Hap Birthd Ber” only visible, with candles on it, and I felt special. Two nights of birthday cake and two nights of singing. Another relative made me feel like a princess – “I’ve got a special gift for you!” My eyes lit up and I smiled… “What? What is it?” She pulled out a little velvet bag and said softly, “Make-up!” It was Clinique – a boatload of samples and “specials with purchase” that you get when you buy a certain amount.

I couldn’t breathe. I spent the rest of the night, and the subsequent days we were there, highlighting, bronzing, glossing… I was in heaven. Best tween girl present… ever.

My Aunt got me a powder blue lunchbox, with Vinnie Barbarino on it. The rest of the Sweathogs were on the inside, plastered round the thermos, with their stock sayings next to them, grinning out at me. But there Vinnie was, with his long, feathered dark hair, that goofy smile… and what did I say? “I HATE Barbarino!!” Ugh. Ten year old kids can be brutal. I did go up to her afterwards and thank her and gave her a big hug. She was smart – she knew that thing would be a collectible in a few years… too bad I don’t still have it, I might be a gazillionaire!!

The place where we stayed is less than a mile from where I live now. Same town, one major street down the hill. I pass by that house every day on the way home from work. The big palm tree out front is gone, and the ivy’s been replaced with some grass and some terracing, but I still remember it. Their house was so beautiful – it had a pool, and a cabana, a big patio, huge flowers, ivy everywhere. When we went to Busch Gardens the day after arriving, I snipped a flower off the huge bush (were they peonies?) and my Aunt put it in my hair for me, in a beautiful big bun. This place seemed unbelievable. The sun was shining all the time. There was so much to do, and everyone seemed happy and casual. Shorts, tees, flip-flops. My cousin had a yellow VW Beetle and she drove me around, telling me about the enormous tortoise at Knott’s Berry Farm (or the Zoo, one of the two), that was so huge, you could sit on him and he’d walk around. I’m pretty sure my eyes popped out of my head.

Anyway… I’ve gone off on a tangent. What i really meant to write about, was that for the first time since I’ve been here, I feel at home. Is it because I’m a homeowner now? Or the fantastic job? The sense of not having to do everything the way other people do things here? Yes, there are lots of fun things to do, and be, and see. But, the one thing that California does promise, is that there is something for everyone. Literally. I’m 25 miles from the ocean, maybe less, and I haven’t been to the beach in years. And that’s OK. I love the ocean, but not the Pacific. I can’t smell it when I wake up, like I did the Atlantic in Boston. It’s different. And that’s OK.

You all know I’m soft on Joni Mitchell. Have been since I was a young teen. “Blue” of course, was a seminal album of the 70s. Like “Frampton Comes Alive” was standard issue to rockin’ teenagers in the suburbs all over, “Blue” was standard issue to the emo teens of my day (how cool IS it, really, that artists and their works are used as measuring sticks in the passing of time? A lot of other great stuff happened, but music and the arts help break it down for us, in ways we don’t even consciously comprehend. That’s why I loved theatre so much, especially as a teenager. I loved going to those amazing architectured halls and seeing that immediacy, that intimacy, feeling and seeing people having those forbidden things – emotions – and feeling them along with those on stage, and being able to take the lesson, without the horrible consquences. What magic. It’s still like that for me today too, but I’m so annoyed with the cell phones, the candy wrappers, the nose blowing…).

Joni talked about Paris, France. Reading the news and it sure looks bad (it always looks bad in the news, don’t it?)

That was just a dream some of us had
Still a lot of lands to see
But I wouldn’t want to stay here
It’s too old and cold and settled in its ways here
Oh but California

Oh…but California… indeed. Will you take me as I am? Will you take me…as I am? Will you?

I hope so. I’m taking you as you are… and you’re lovely.

California, coming home…

Daily Prompt: Menagerie

Posted on 03/21/2013 by maeveala

What can I say about our family? Anyone who tells you that having pets instead of kids is easier is lying through their pie-hole. At least with kids they grow out of the whole vomiting-pooping-themselves-teething-on-the-furniture stage. Having cats and dogs is like having toddlers who are just learning they are their own little person, that “NO!” is a great word, and not doing what their told can be enormous jolly good fun!

The first cat I ever got on my own was named Slippers. I got her in Boston after a breakup, and she teased me with her paw through the cage at the SPCA. When I looked closer, she was polydactyl, and sweet as pie. She came home with me and she nursed me back into society, and I nursed her through pneumonia. She was a study in evolution, because those bad boy front paws were like opposable thumbs – I saw her pick kibble up in a pincer motion once, and it made me sleep with one eye open from then on, waiting for her to start using the phone and coordinating the cat uprising. We moved to LA together and I survived (so did she) her falling off my balcony. She was nowhere in the house and I was totally puzzled until the doorbell rang and a neighbor had her, looking a bit worse for wear. She was my Picasso-painting-faced love bug. She would dough-knead and wool-suck on a blanket all night if you’d let her.

She was joined a few years later by Henry, a very proper B&W Tuxedo. This cat was a little man in a kitty suit. A real gentleman. I kept searching for his suit zipper so that maybe Prince Charming would pop out – but he was neutered, so that wouldn’t have been much help anyway! Henry liked to talk. He was very insistent in trying to tell you something, and he would always look deep in your eyes imploring you to understand. I went in to Petco for food one day and walked out with him. His owners were moving back to Lebanon and couldn’t bring him. Henry smelled like Patchouli and Sandalwood when I got him and his fur was like velvet. Smart and spoiled rotten. The sweetest, most loving cat I have ever known.

Slippers and Henry did not get along so well – Slippers being grumpy and Henry being assertively friendly. So what was my solution? Get another kitten to bridge the gap. My ex brought this little white ball of fluff home from a foster home, where her whiskers and eyebrows had been cut off. I called her Cricket, because she made a sound in between the monster from “Predator” and peeping. She did bridge the gap, and we had pretty much harmony at home.

One day, I noticed Slippers was not eating. Now, she is very much like her mommy and there is not a meal she has met that she didn’t like. Upon further inspection, her ears, lips, and mouth were jaundiced. She had gotten liver disease and died soon after that. I was inconsolable. Henry and Cricket missed her too.

I moved in with my then boyfriend (now my husband), and brought them with me. They tentatively checked out the house, and soon found their favorite spots in the new digs. Now, along comes a little Force of Nature named Bella.

Bella is a Pug. She was bought as a puppy from a pet store by my husband’s brother and his girlfriend. When they broke up, she went to Grandma, who lived next door to us. Bella got toast and jam, carrots, green beans, and pretty much anything else she wanted! My hubby would walk her and generally, fell in love with her. He brought her over from Grandma’s a couple nights after I moved in, to meet the cats, and immediately, she knew the house was not just hers anymore. So what did she do? Chased the cats, barked, snuffled, turned away from us… and took a huge dump in the middle of the dining room. As if to say, “MY HOUSE!”

We lived in family bliss for quite a while. Bella came to live with us full-time after Grandma passed. If you didn’t know, Pugs are notorious food hounds (I’m sure all dogs are, but Pugs are… something else). Bella got schooled one day from the REAL alpha in the house – Henry. She had thought it fine to gobble up Henry’s kibble, and sat grinning and panting at the front door, very pleased with herself. Henry walked up to her, sniffed her muzzle, raised a paw, then smacked her in the face, as if to say, “How DARE you eat our food!” Bella knew her place then, for sure.

Henry made it to 18. It was the most difficult thing I had ever, ever had to do. I didn’t want to let him go, but he had to. The house seemed duller and quieter. Cricket was despondent and alone, and started throwing up a lot, and got very skinny. Bella missed him too, as they had developed a camaraderie and mutual respect.

Well why not, let’s bring in to the mix, my husband’s first kitten. We got her from the Humane Society and had her fixed. Cricket did not take kindly to her, nor did Bella. We kept her secluded in our bedroom after the spaying surgery, and she slept with us, out of it. She wolfed down wet food and purred and growled as she ate. She also peed on the duvet the first night, but that was our fault! She was too little to get off the bed herself to get to the litterbox. Neither of us had really had a kitten before, so we were a bit like new parents I’m sure.

So, here we are… Cricket, 13; Bella, 9; Sissy, 3. It’s a non-stop barrage of treats, wet food, prescriptions, nail trims, anal gland extractions, vomit, hairballs, litter boxes, shredded toilet paper rolls, dog farts, snorting, snot flings, grooming, attacks on the feet under the blankets at 3:00 a.m., constant meowing, purring, barking and howling… and you know what? I wouldn’t change a thing. At least none of them has ever given me attitude the way teenagers give it to their parents. We’ve had adventure, heartache, terror, joy, and tears with them, just like their human counterpart children. They love me and my hubby absolutely, unequivocally, unconditionally, and we reciprocate it right back.

Photographs are not Memories, as such

Posted on 02/25/2013 by maeveala

Photographs and memories are deceiving. They can cause a lot of emotional distress for perfectly innocent reasons. I’ve been sorting through old photographs of mine, and also of my husband’s, for a project I am putting together for our “wedding.” (We were already married in August of 2007, but we are doing a little celebration for family and close friends in May). There’s a book for me, a book for him, and one of us.

I turned 40 last year, and to help take the sting out of that, someone suggested crafting a book of photos that chronicled my life so far (a “Maeve” retrospective, if you will 🙂 ) It really did help put things in perspective – that high school and college were a fun time (sometimes) but so small in the grand scheme of things. I saw myself younger and full of potential and passion, and it was interesting to see how life and time change your face. It has been said that at 50 you get the face you deserve. I honestly can’t wait to see mine. I’ve worked hard at becoming a better person and to mend fences as best I can so that it doesn’t “wear” on me as I get older. In a lot of ways I feel younger and more focused than I’ve ever been.

God, I love my husband. How did I get so lucky? What cosmic pixie dust blew my way that night I returned his “wink” on match.com? We talked about this yesterday, how much choices influence us, and sometimes, even the wrong choices can put you on the right path. The documentary “Prince of Paisley Park” was on, and I was fascinated by the fact that Prince’s father moved to Minneapolis, MN as a Jazz musician. Now, forgive my ignorance, but Minneapolis MN in the 50’s doesn’t seem to me like it would be the Hub of musicians and a mecca for playing (I’m probably wrong, but just go with me). The circumstances that led to Prince becoming Prince were woven into that choice. A neighborhood that was almost completely white. Clubs and bars that were places to shine, but not really on a country-wide scale. Frustration on his father’s part – maybe enough to set the wheels in motion regarding alcoholism and abusiveness. For better or worse, Prince was forged in this fire and came out the other side, to become one of the most formidable talents and performers of his generation. Who’s to say that if his father had moved to Chicago or New Orleans or some other area more recognizable for Jazz, that his life would have turned out that way? Sometimes the crucible has to be really hot to burn away the impurities and filter the precious metal to the top.

This is how I have to take my husband’s youth. We went through a whole box full of memories and photos, and proms, and dances, together yesterday. I was actually glad he was there to tell me the context, rather than me making up my own stories.

He had a relationship with someone from the end of high school through his mid-20s. There were an awful lot of photos chronicling this era. While I was looking for pictures of him when he was younger, I got to know him a whole lot better. I couldn’t help it, I started to cry when I saw him with this woman and looking so happy and in love, and most of all, young. Proms, dances, sorority functions, they were all there, smiling up at me from their youth. A youth filled with love, excitement, and probably, lots of sex!

I think more than anything I wished I had had a youth like that. I was a late bloomer, and coupled with the alcoholism in my family, I barely remember my teenage years and early 20s very well. I was desperately trying to find out who I was. I never really had a high school sweetheart or a boyfriend till I was well into my 20s.

I am envious of this American phenomenon called “prom.” In Canada, at least where I grew up, we didn’t have proms. We had dances throughout the year, but no “spring formal” or anything like that – certainly nothing that would warrant having a formal picture taken with one’s date, and a different dress and tux rental for each! Date? We all sort of showed up and hoped nobody had puked in the corner of the gymnasium when we snuck over to neck with the cute jock from freshman year. There were only 400 of us in the whole school, grades 9-12. I graduated with about 30 other people that I had gone to kindergarten with, out of a hundred or so total. So high school was more about seeing everyone grow up with you, and having the same friends since grammar school. There wasn’t that anonymity that larger high schools have. In looking at Sean’s yearbook, he didn’t know a lot of the people he graduated with.

So, you see, when I see Sean in his tux, with the matching cummerbund to his date’s dress, I think I’ve missed out somehow.

It helped to hear that his relationship with her through all those years was not the best. Yes, he was smiling, but it was rocky – separations – physical and emotional, studded it through the years. Normal teenage and young adult emotions played a part in all of it.

I can’t be jealous of the woman who got so many of his years through his youth. We met at exactly the time we were supposed to, for exactly the right reasons. She may have photographs, but I’ve got him. I’d like to say I can rise above it and see it through my adult eyes. But somewhere, the teenage me is still feeing rejected, and like I wasted the best years of my life NOT having sex. Cripes – if I had that body now that I did then… OY!!

So, like Prince, our life together was forged by some bad choices, or choices we thought were bad at the time, but turned out pretty well. If he HADN’T had the relationship with her, he might not have ever gone to Berkeley, and then come back to Burbank. If I HADN’T had the brief affair with a friend’s friend when I came out here on vacation, I might have moved to New York instead of Burbank. And I know, deep down, so far, further than I’ve known anything ever before, that we are meant to be together. I know it like I know how to breathe.

Anyway, I did the only thing I could at the time while looking at the photos – wiped away my tears, and instead of focusing on “them” together in the pictures, I tried to look at my husband as a young man, full of promise, and love, and passion – those blue-green eyes so open and honest, those long legs like a young colt – and I fell in love with him all over again. How lucky am I that I got him and that he HAD this fabulous past that he can remember and share with me as we grow older together and get closer. I’d rather have him now, with that past AS the past, than to have loved him when we were younger and lost him, to have a lifetime of “what if,” and “if only.”

And, after looking at all of those pictures with his dark hair and buff body, the sea-green eyes and crooked smile, I did the other only thing any normal woman in love would do – I took him to bed and chased away our ghosts, exorcised them to the past, where they will firmly stay.

Hormones & Hostages – A Love Story

Posted on 02/14/2013 by maeveala

I have recently found a whole new wellspring of empathy for men. Hard to believe, yes I know, but I actually feel badly when I see them dealing with something so foreign to them as “PMS.” Or for you European readers, “PMT.”

A good friend of mine had the fortune (or misfortune?) to grow up the only brother of three older sisters. While he turned into a man strong in his own right, he is so in tune with women on so many other levels, it is a bit frightening. Most men panic at those three little letters; you can see their eyes darting left and right and the light sheen of sweat suddenly appear on their upper lip… it’s fight or flight at its best! You can actually see and hear their mouth go dry and the smell the gears turning as they rack their brains trying to come up with the right answer to any of the loaded questions that seem to just beg to fly out of our mouths at those hormonal times. Not him. He had it perfectly under control, with no sense of capitulation, nor arrogance, when he smiled knowingly, empathetically, and touched your shoulder – lightly, as he knew how sensitive to touch we are – and said, “I love you.” And you knew he really meant it, wasn’t just saying it to allay your anger, fear, sadness, or any of the other emotions that come flying at you. Or even to get himself out of the bear’s den. He just knew, and he meant it. Then he would go about his own work, not ignoring you, but leaving you alone like you wanted (or did you?). It was uncanny. There was no comeback for that.

I’ve recently started living with someone, and it’s been well over five years since I’ve even had a roommate. As the tell-tale mood swing started to happen, I was like a werewolf frantically trying to hide from the full moon. “If I don’t SEE the moon, perhaps I won’t change!” It didn’t matter; I became withdrawn, sulky, prone to crying jags. I could be in denial all I wanted; I was in the throes of a really good bout of PMS. The bad thing is I’m so in love with this man that the thought of barking at him and hurting him makes me want to overdose on Nyquil and wake up in a week so he doesn’t have to bear the brunt. It’s really exhausting not to be sarcastic! He says the most innocuous things, like, “Oh, wow, Shannon Doherty is really pretty!” while watching re-runs of “SO Graham Norton” on TV and I want to dive over the coffee table and slap his eyes out of his head. How DARE you look at her!! Just because I’m bloated and pimply, is that any reason to be so CRUEL? How COULD you!

Well, thank goodness I’m able to reign myself in and manage a polite, “hmmm” to his off-the-cuff remark. He has no idea. And it’s so funny, I’m angry, emotional, “don’t touch me!” but the thing I really want is for you to just hold me, even though I can’t stand the touch right now. And a special thanks to all those helpful people who say, “drinking 8 glasses of water daily may help with the symptoms of PMS.” Wow. Thank you. Such pithy platitudes from the wrapper of a Kotex pad. “Get more exercise” and “eat more fruits and vegetables at this time” are such a hoot to hear too. Hmmm… OK, great, thank you very much. Let me tell you how it is, shall I? I KNOW that the frickin’ fruits and vegetables would be better for me than the Kettle Chips and Hershey’s Special Dark. I do! Can you not understand that’s like asking a heroin addict going through withdrawals and needing a fix so badly, to shoot up with powdered sugar and expect the same results? I’m sitting here staring at a luscious, ripe nectarine on my desk, and all my thoughts are just running back to the rippled, crunchy salty spicy WHAM of the potato chips I want. I can taste it now – the salt, the starch, that satisfying CRUNCH as it’s masticated on my back teeth – I can feel my anxiety level decrease, my mood elevate, my eyes glaze over as my blood sugar rises and the she-wolf retreats back to my subconscious, till the next time.

Men, let me bring you in on a little secret. This shit is real. Don’t let anyone tell you differently. We’re not drama queens trying to get attention or do it on purpose to punish you, or anything of the like. You know those times when you’re so exhausted that lying down on your bed, and sleep is almost upon you, you can feel its tendrils tugging at your subconscious, and then you shake your whole body, like you were falling and wake up? That’s what it’s like, awake. I’m just blissfully going along my day, and the bottom falls out of it. I feel 180 degrees differently than I did just a few minutes ago. That in itself is enough to depress me even more – the fact that I can be a hostage to my hormones as badly as you can. And I can’t do a thing about it.

If I want a bowl of ice cream, or a chocolate bar, or whatever my crazy mind is telling me would make me feel better, for the love of Mike (and George, and Bob, and Harry), don’t tell me I don’t need it, or that a walk would be better for me. You’re singing to the choir. Deep down, I know that’s true, but come on, better chocolate than your balls retreating up into your body in defense of my bloodcurdling, laser-tinged stare and stony silence that would follow your innocent little quip. If you love me, tell me you’re going on a walk and would love my company. That is going to have more success than anything you might throw out there.

itsmaevealous

Writer of alcoholic family exploits, the zeitgeist of today, and things that make me laugh. Plugging along, mostly wrong, but happy. Oh, and I swear too much.

Tag Archives: Emotions