The Winding Road

image courtesy of stock.xchng

 

Nineteen Ninety-Eight

MAC Lip Glass, Skipping Class, Getting Ass

the prompt:

Imagine your life, or a part of your life, as a title and tagline.

Three Hundred Sixty Seconds

stolen moments on Christmas Eve

an extra long nap while conversation and love surrounded him

I knew what I wanted.

Five or six minutes, somewhere between three hundred sixty seconds.

Motherhood steals time from expected places: nightly hours of sleep are chipped away to a series of catnaps, leaving the house is packing snacks and timing naps and realizing I need to do one more diaper change before walking out of the door.

It snatches time from unexpected moments as well: sitting down to read a book and flipping to the beginning three or five or ten times to twist my tongue around the rhymes of Dr. Seuss, opening the blinds in the morning and watching the recycling truck slowly moving down our street, separating yellow lids from green bins and sliding glass and paper into labeled chutes on the passenger side.

Stealing three hundred sixty seconds from a two hour run seemed reasonable, even simple, when I finished my half marathon in April and began to set my goal for my October run.

Sliding comfortably into a training plan I’d used before, my body tumbled into the routine, my feet moving through the motions and the miles I checked off on my calendar each night.

But my mind wandered.

Writing and motherhood and relationships gathered round, throwing balls into the air at a dizzying speed, daring you to juggle them all while chasing your laughing toddler away from the fireplace doors for the eighty-first time before ten in the morning.

I hardly noticed when my training ball dropped, falling slowly out of rotation, runs missed and miles staring at me from the white page of my planner, yearning for the decorated highlighter of the miles actually completed.

With my race looming, I shifted my thinking, trusting that my mental strength hadn’t lagged behind with my endurance building workouts.

It hadn’t; I finished the half marathon with a smile, the time a respectable one for someone more closely aligned with the tortoise than the hare.

But I hadn’t stolen those minutes. 

I hadn’t met my goal time.

So this past Tuesday, I crept into the gym and climbed onto the treadmill.

This Saturday, I let the unexpectedly warmth of forty degree sunshine beat onto my shoulders as my feet tentatively found their familiar loop.

Saturday night, I registered for my fifth half marathon, three hundred sixty seconds pushing me towards October. Again.

This week we’d like you to write a memoir piece about an unfulfilled goal or a broken resolution, beginning with the words, “I knew what I wanted".

 

If you haven't read enough about my running today, I'm over at Just.Be.Enough., hosting the weekly link-up and talking about my first run of 2012.

The Perfect Apple

then

She clasps an empty plastic bag in her small hand, surveying the trees with a critical eye.  Delicately, she parts leaves and touches ripe apples, settling on the perfect specimen, red brushed with hints of gold.

“I think this one!” she yells, though I am right next to her.  Only now beginning to understand the distinction between inside and outside voices, she is thrilled to be outside, flexing her vocal chords amongst the neat lines of apple trees.

Snuggled against my chest in his carrier, Dylan looks around at the sound of her voice, content to be carried in the sunshine.

“It looks perfect,” I agree, waiting for her to plop the perfect apple into her bag.

She plucks it from the tree, turning it around in her hands.

Instead of putting it safely inside the bag, she raises it to her mouth, nibbling a bit before tossing it onto the ground.

“No, that’s not it,” she declares, leaving the apple to be pressed into cider.  Handing me the bag, she moves on to her next find.

Choosing six apples may take longer expected. 

Around us, kids fall into two categories: speed pickers and taste testers, tripping on apples brought down by gravity and thrown down by hands finding flaws in the golden red skin.

Two or three more apples fail her quality inspection before she turns to me, beaming.

“Moooommmmmy,” she breathes, “It’s perfect!”

The apple she hands me is slightly small and bruised on one side, near the stem.

Her eyes meet mine, expectantly, so proud of the apple she’s finally chosen.

My lips graze Dylan’s forehead; I briefly rest my palm on her head, her hair warmed by the sun.

I gently place her apple in our bag.

“You’re right, Abs.  It’s perfect.”

now

the prompt:

autumn...

Delicious autumn! My very soul is wedded to it,
and if I were a bird I would fly about the earth seeking the successive
autumns. ~George Eliot

Respectfully, Mr. King, I Disagree

ready to slide

photo by Purple Sky Photo

More than fifteen bottles of nail polish languish in my make-up drawer: shell pink, tangerine, a metallic teal that stained my toenails for months.  Used a time or two before being forgotten.

My gaze wanders to our mantle, mentally redesigning the space.

I flip through running magazines looking for new workouts and training plans.

So when the Write On Edge prompt presented itself this week, I hesitated and considered calling it a night without a post scheduled for the morning.

In “On Writing” Stephen King wrote, “The scariest moment is always just before you start. After that, things can only get better.”

Disagreeing with the prolific Stephen King seems ridiculous.  His success is legendary, his path paved with best sellers and respect and ownership of his genre.

My path is unsure, a hill obscuring what is next.

And there are moments I agree with his statement.

I hesitate before throwing aside warm blankets on a cold morning; I shrink from jumping into Lake Michigan at the beginning of the summer, the water still chilled, waiting to be warmed by months of sun.

But bigger moments?  Realizing I was ready to get married? Choosing a new career path?  Starting a family?

Those moments don’t scare me.  I relish the planning, the anticipation, the adrenaline of putting my plan in motion. 

Follow through is what brings the fear. 

What if I made the wrong choice?

Why was I entrusted with the two most amazing creatures on the planet?

Am I crazy to think I’m capable of that? 

Stephen King might have a problem getting into a plane to skydive, but my doubts creep in after I’ve leapt into the sky, as I’m spiraling to the ground.

I can only pray that my parachute catches the wind on the way down.

the prompt:

In “On Writing” Stephen King wrote, “The scariest moment is always just before you start. After that, things can only get better.”

Write a memoir post – first-person and true – inspired by that statement.

Word limit is 300.

And while we’re talking Stephen King, don’t forget! The first Read on Edge tweetchat will be Wednesday, October 19th! Happy reading and writing!

Running at Night

Three shapes loom in the darkness, directly in my path.

My eyes strain into the shadows, my breathing ragged.

Turning off my music, my heartbeat floods my ears, quickening beyond recognition.

They’re only trees.

The undeniable glow of a cigarette gleams in the darkness.

One of the figures lurches forward, then back, forward again.

My feet are committed to my route.

I find energy for one last sprint, pounding past the lurching body as it reaches out.

My gasp is audible.

Mocking laughter follows me as I finally slow, escaping the clutches of a smiling fall scarecrow.

why run when you can ride a horse?

the prompt:

This week I want you to conjure something. An object, a person, a feeling, a color, a season- whatever you like.

You have 100 words, use them wisely.

Her Mother's Pearls

INT – GUEST BEDROOM, DAY

Sunlight streams through a window, curtains pulled back to allow for maximum light.

The room is spotless, a cream shag rug contrasting sharply with the dark wooden floors, clean but worn.

The closet door is firmly closed, the only signs of the room’s inhabitant are the glass perfume bottles and leather jewelry case sitting on the elongated dresser, in front of the mirror.

ABBEY walks into the room, slowly, wrapping her oversized sweater more tightly around her waist.  The rich grey picks up the few strands of silver threaded through her long hair, twisted into a neat chignon, slightly off center.

Muffled voices grow almost imperceptible as ABBEY closes the door to the hallway

ABBEY (V.O.)

My mother always said she lived a very ordinary life…

ABBEY opens the jewelry box and picks up several strands of pearls, letting them slide through her fingers before placing them absentmindedly in the pocket of her sweater, hand remaining in the pocket, closed around the necklace.

ABBEY’S eyes follow the shaft of sun to an old trunk sitting against the wall.  Dust dances in the sunlight as she opens the lid, revealing frame photographs, yellowing journals, and worn books.

“Wonderful Tonight” (instrumental) quietly plays (BACKGROUND)

ABBEY (V.O.)

…blessed by a collection of extraordinary moments…

Kneeling next to the trunk, ABBEY picks up and gently places a wedding photo of Ryan and Angela on the floor next to her, fingers tracing the outline of their faces.

MUSIC fades into “Baby Mine”.

ABBEY places two more frames next to the wedding picture, a pink framed photograph of her as a baby, holding a pink cell phone upside down, wearing a pink gingham jumper, and a black and white photo of DYLAN as a newborn, wearing only a polka-dot diaper cover, fist curled under his chin.

ABBEY (V.O.)

She told me, more than once, that she knew she wanted to be a writer from the time she knew how to write…

She carefully pulls a journal out of the trunk and places it on top of the frames.

Her hand reaches back into her sweater pocket to feel the pearls as she looks back towards the perfume bottles.

ABBEY (V.O.)

…but she said she knew she would be a writer the summer she went to journalism camp at Columbia University.

AIRPLANE TAKING OFF (Background)

Fade to black.

I'd say "be gentle," since I've never even attempted screenplay formatting until now.  But I guess I can't say that, since I helped come up with the prompt.

Obviously, I've taken some artistic license with this piece.

 

the prompt:

Congratulations! Your best selling memoir has just been optioned by a major motion picture studio, and the producers want you advising on the script.  Write the opening scene for the movie.  Would you begin with a visual montage?  Voice-over? Flashback or forward? A conversation? The trick here is to look through a lens. The camera needs to tell the story through visuals, action, dialogue.

An Evening in Louisiana

*I originally wrote this post for writing prompts noted at the end of the post.  If you're reading it again, I think you'll agree that I couldn't change my idea of the perfect gift.

All week, our swimsuits stayed tucked into suitcases, tank tops and sundresses hidden beneath cardigan sweaters and, one night, a black and silver feather boa purchased from a little store that didn’t mind us shopping with to-go cups of deceptively sweet hurricanes in our hands.

Cool air kept the infamous humidity at bay, hidden behind the wrought iron fences embracing the lush yards of the Garden District Home. 

I planned one night of relaxation before driving back to Michigan, but raindrops and cloud cover meant the tiny, private pool would languish unused during our stay at Nottoway Plantation.

Wrapped in a sweater, I settle into a wrought iron chair in our courtyard, glad Ryan upgraded our room as a surprise.  After the garish lights and bustle of Bourbon Street, the privacy is luxurious and surreal, aqua lights shining from the pool to cast a cool glow onto the stone walls barring us from any distractions.

Champagne flutes sit on the little table between us, pushed back slightly when we pull our chairs together, edges touching.  He sips once or twice, then his glass is forgotten, effervescence bubbling to the surface like our conversation, natural and effortless.

I relax.  Even in the cool air, the chilled champagne is cold on my tongue, sweetly tickling the roof of my mouth before dancing dryly down my throat.  The ornately detailed chair presses into my thighs, etching its pattern onto my skin like a memory.

My bare legs are ready to go inside before long, but Ryan takes my hands in both of his, his warmth banishing the chill in the air.

Looking into his eyes, blue and grey and green, the cool breeze grows still.  Slowly, our effortless conversation morphs into something else.  The turquoise water bathes us in a reflective glow, powered by words that do more than ask a question, the question. 

Yes.

Tears prick at my lids but are whisked away by our matching smiles, the fierce tenderness of our embrace.  Laughter bubbles as we realize he’s still on one knee, making our hug perfectly awkward and unforgettable.

Yes.

He lets go of my hands at some point, because suddenly there’s a ring nestled in black velvet, the sheen of platinum circling around to a diamond, made for my finger, made for this moment.

Twinkling in the muted light, each facet reflects a new color, every color a promise.  In its sparkles, I see our family, hugs of comfort and celebration, this ring circling a finger bent and riddled with old age.  I see a life together.

Our life together.

Forever and ever, yes.  

Every MONDAY join us…
Write, post, link-up, share your story and your voice. Be part of carrying the weight of confidence and share our mission
to empower, inspire, and remind women, parents and children
that the time has come to celebrate ourselves!

Next week’s prompt: Priorities

(Remember you can also write on a topic of your choice.)

the prompt:

Choose a moment from your personal history and mine it for sensory detail. Describe it to us in rich, evocative details. Let us breath the air, hear the heartbeat, the songs, feel the fabric and the touch of that moment.

I'm also linking this over at the Lauren Nicole Gifts Blog, for their new monthly link-up.This month's theme is "the best gift you've ever received."

Space for Sweaters?

I miss my childhood closet.

Each time I’m visiting my parents, generally once a week, I climb the stairs of the 1970’s colonial and peer enviously into the room they still call “Angela’s room”.

Over the years, gold shag carpeting and yellow wallpaper gave way to delicate blue and white paper and blue plush carpeting, then finally a cream Berber and spring green walls.  The feminine, off-white furniture has been pushed around in every possible layout.

The closet remains unchanged.

Ryan and I don’t live in a 1970’s colonial.

People generally sigh wistfully when they hear our house was built in the 1920’s.

“Old houses have so much character,” they say, looking around at the built-in bookcases and coved ceilings.

I generally sigh in frustration as the seasons change, and I try to rearrange our closets.

Our house has two relatively large linen closets, but our master bedroom has two miniscule closets, built into the part of the room where the ceiling slopes, rendering much of the already cramped space unusable. 

When we moved into the house, and Ryan had time for projects other than tucking Abbey into bed for the third time each night, he carefully measured and engineered a series of shelves in our closets, trying to maximize the space.

It was a valiant effort, and it generally works for him.  Also, he has generously allowed me the entire dresser for my things.

I still struggle.

Shoes in boxes, so they can stack?  Out of boxes, so I can see them easily and cram my size sixes into the corners?

Bags in the hall closet or my closet?  Accessories on shelves or in boxes on shelves?

 

Clothes hung by color or clothing weight or length?

Every configuration seems wrong.

I try not to think of my childhood closet, empty and open, at my parents’ house.

Innocently, I grew up taking my walk-in closet for granted.  Graced with clothing bars and shelves and oodles of floor space; I never filled it, even as a teenager.  I would laze on the floor, reading books, writing in my journal, whispering into my pink, plastic phone.  My closet was a little cave, carpeted and safe.

My current closet is a little cave as well, cramped and dark, littered with mismatched shoes and belts that Abbey pulls on and off with interest, abandoning them and moving along to eye my jewelry box.

In the 1920’s, I guess people weren’t concerned with whether they had room to add a pair of jewel tone heels to their fall shoe collection.

My old house might have character, but I miss my childhood closet.

prompt:

This week’s prompt is to use this image for your inspiration and begin your post with those words…”I miss my childhood…”

The image is a lined sheet of paper, the writing in a child's handwriting, and I originally had a different concept for this week's piece.

Then it got cold, and I tried to find something warm to wear.

Eggs and Manicures

Lazily I awaken, the sounds of breakfast coming from the kitchen.  I stretch luxuriously, the satin pillowcase a silky contrast to soft cotton sheets.
"Always sleep with satin next to your face," she instructs.  "It helps keep the wrinkles away."
Maybe she's right about that; my pillowcases are all cotton, and fine lines are creeping around my face, make-up for my emotions, emphasizing my smiles and frowns.

Sizzling butter coats the pan as she cracks open brown eggs, making sure not to break the yolks.  Eggs at Grandma Rose’s house are always the dippy kind, served with hot toast soaked through with real butter. 

Eagerly, I poke at the sunny orb, encouraging the yolks to run across the plate as I gently follow their path with the toast.

The solid egg white I can do without, but Grandma coaxes me to join the clean-your-plate-club, and I take little bites, the promise of our next activity propelling me to finish.

With a reasonably clean plate in front of me, I look expectantly at my Grandma. 

Small bottles sit in front of me, sparkling, glossy, and waiting for my small fingers to close around the cool glass, making my choice.

Only now, as I sit in front of Abbey, letting her choose between pale pink with sparkles and pale pink without, do I understand my Grandma's courage in this moment.

Red.

Gorgeous, stoplight-inspired red.

"That's one of my favorites," she says, nodding in approval and taking the bottle from me without pause.

Watching Grandma shake the bottle, a tiny metal ball magically mixing the polish, I yearn for the day when red or pink or any rainbow shade will grace my fingers, glamorous exclamation points at the end of my arms.

But for today, I am the polisher, not the polishee, perhaps because Grandma knows my mother would prefer my fingers to come home without punctuation.

"Ok, honey, now remember, drag the brush against the bottle to get off the extra polish.  A little more..." her voice is patient, my concentration great.

"Good.  Now don't paint right up to the edge of the nail.  Leaving just a little bit of unpainted nail on the sides makes them look longer.  See?" Perhaps this is true, though it may have been a preemptive attempt to keep red fingernail polish from smearing onto her skin.

Even with her step-by-step guidance and unwavering hand perched atop a tissue, I can see the places where my hand-eye coordination fell short of my determination.

"Perfect!  Thank you so much!" she gushes.

Buoyed, I try to sneak a look at her hands, remembering the smudges on cuticles, the places the brush slipped.

But she is waving her fingers in the air, exaggerating the purse of her lips as she blows on the still-tacky polish.  In motion, they are beautiful, ten glittering gems fluttering through the sky.

Great-Grandma Rose and Abbey Rose

Your assignment for this week is to write about a memory of yourself WITH someone else.

Wrapped in an Afghan

I was in fifth grade. 

Being called into my parents’ room, all four of us curled onto the king size bed seemed like the introduction to some sort of festive game.  After all, their room was a safe haven, the door always open during storms but closed during summer, window air conditioner blasting away, our sleeping bags on the floor, board games jumbled onto the bed.

The air was different that night.  Unmoving.  Heavy.  Serious.

Still, I clung to my childish optimism that home was a safe place, blissfully unaware that not all homes held hugs and smiles and hope within their walls.

I intentionally avoided eyes, attempting to form a smile through the tension.

I might have asked if we were finally going to Disney World, not expecting an affirmation of that hope but expecting a laugh, an indulgent smile.  There was no smile.

No.  We were not going to Disney World.

Instead, our family would be going on a different journey.  One with words like Hodgkin’s and cancer and lymph nodes and chemotherapy.  Words I didn’t comprehend and words I didn’t know and only one real question.

“Are you going to die?”

Ten years later, I would have asked the question differently, tripping over my words to cushion their blow.  Ten years later, I would have thought before speaking, gauged faces to discern an answer without asking.  Ten years later, the weight of that question might have smothered my voice.

“Are you going to die?”

No.  The answer was no.  My father was not going to die.

Relieved and buoyed by the answer, I relaxed, slightly confused about the utterly serious looks on my parents’ faces.

He was going to be fine, I thought. Why were they so sad?

Later, I saw glimpses of the ravages of cancer.

A naturally thin frame growing thinner.

Missed days and weeks and months of work.

Dry heaves and vomiting.

My energetic dad, sitting exhausted in his brown recliner, wrapped in the brown afghan my mother had made, no matter the temperature.

An artificial suntan from the radiation, affecting only his neck. 

Snapshots of a disease that allowed us to glance at his pain, not realizing the enormity of the horrific possibilities. 

My brother and I were sheltered from the worst of it.  We never set foot in a hospital or doctor’s office.  Used to his second and third shift schedule, we actually saw him more now that he was sick.

Our teachers knew; my teacher, in a brief period of remission from her own struggle with cancer, was particularly sympathetic and attentive.

Later, she succumbed to her second bout with cancer, beloved by so many students, wept for in classrooms and a memorial service.  My tears joined others in her memory, but they were tinged with guilt, and a slight, selfish joy.

My dad was going to be fine.

the prompt, paraphrased:

write about your worst memory

let it go

This isn't my WORST memory, but it’s not a good one.

I apologize, but some things just can’t be shared in a place I’m creating for Abbey and Dylan to look back on one day.

Though the prompt has led me to think about a lot of things the past few days, and for that, I appreciate it more than Cheryl, Katie, & Nichole can know.

It All Began with a Vanity

It seemed so simple.

Pull out the outdated vanity in the bathroom, toss it in the trash, and install a pedestal sink.

Have you seen pedestal sinks?  They’re compact and don’t have many parts.  I couldn’t think of an easier first project to ease ourselves into home ownership.  HGTV figured prominently into my television viewing line-up, and pedestal sinks were so basic they didn’t even have their own show.

Looking back, I must have known it wasn’t going to be exactly painless, because I neglected to tell Ryan about my plan before enlisting my mom’s help to rid the bathroom of the offending vanity sink and cupboard.

Awkward and unwieldy, it protested only slightly as we pulled it into the hallway, making room for modern, streamlined bathroom décor.

Not wanting to sit on the curb alone, the vanity convinced parts of the plaster wall to come along on its next journey, leaving gaping holes in our bathroom wall.

Undeterred by the prospect of patching a wall, I stood by the decision to start remodeling before even deciding on a paint color.

My eyes drifted down, noticing that the tile border along the floor stopped where the vanity had once started.

We would have to find matching tile.

Inspired by the unique and quirky finds HGTV home designers manage to conjure from thin air, I traipsed out of the house to buy some tile.

Trips to several tile stores failed to find matching tile to continue the border.

Trips to several more tile stores failed to find anything remotely close to complementary tile to continue the border.

Discomfort began to set it as we pulled the rest of the tile away from the wall, planning to replace it with wood molding.

Projects always take a little detour, right?

More wall damage.

So we would need thick wood molding.

Perhaps we could paint it a funky color, like an HGTV home designer would.

Still more wall damage.

Make that extremely thick wood molding.

Maybe white molding would work.

We lacked any knowledge of miter saws and cutting on an angle and somehow making straight, extremely thick wood molding fit against the curved wall in our bathroom.

Ninety-seven trips to Home Depot, several panicked calls to my dad, and countless borrowed tools later, our bathroom was again presentable, complete with a gleaming white pedestal sink.

I turned off HGTV.

Lesson learned.

the prompt:

start or end with "lesson learned"

a little note: years later, when cleaning out our basement, we found an entire box of brand new tiles, obviously leftover from the bathroom project

curse words were spoken

giggles ensued

Slow Down

Mascara dampens my eyelids the minute I open the front door to leave the comfort of our air-conditioned house.  Humidity immediately presses my lungs a few inches smaller, Ryan’s words “take it easy” ring in my ears before I insert my earbuds and quiet the world around me with music.

Starting slowly isn’t a problem.  A little sore from the previous day’s long run, my muscles need a few minutes to find ground.  Balmy air blankets my body; I felt my legs picking up pace, the heat working out aches and worries at the same time.  The fast stride is freeing, but I force myself to slow down.

Left.  Pause.  Right.

Right.  Pause.  Left.

Thick, hazy air lulls my legs into submission, slowly moving along to the cadence I had planned.

Left.  Pause.  Right.

Right.  Pause.  Left.

Propelled by muscle memory, my body pushes through the familiar route without thought, allowing my mind to wander.  My growing to-do list plays on an endless loop in the background.

Dinner for the week – turkey burgers, tacos, homemade pizza.

I should make bread tomorrow.

Bangs or no bangs?

Need bananas.

Milk.

Right.  Left.  Right.  Left.

You and me could write a bad romance.

Left.  Right.  Left.  Right.

Lady Gaga invades my subconscious.  My controlled pace quickens with the beat.  Sweat burns my eyes.  Slow down.

Working against the music, I concentrate on matching the slapping of my feet against the pavement to my mental count. 

One and two.  Three and four.

Slowing down should be simple, especially with sweat coursing down my back and the muggy air tangling my ponytail into a damp nest against my neck.

It’s not.

I can’t imagine that Lady Gaga slows down when the lights on stage get too hot.

Focus.

Slow down.

Five and six.  Seven and eight.

Go Brooklyn, go Brooklyn…

LL Cool J pulls my legs into a slower, smoother run, offering relief from the pounding beats that normally pulse out of the metallic pink square that logs all of my miles with me, clipped to my shirt or shorts.

Relaxed, my arms swing back and forth.  Dusk threatens to slide into darkness.  I fleetingly wonder how fireflies know to glow as the night fades.  Maybe they blink on and off in the daylight, but they’re eclipsed by the sun?  An easy fact to find, but I intentionally let the question dissipate into the air behind me.  Some magic shouldn’t be explained by science.

Back and forth.  Back and forth.

One and two.  Three and four.  Five and six.  Seven and –

The hill.

The one that always hurts.

Up and down.  My legs are pistons, tired yet strong.  Up and down.  My breath catches.  Up and down.

The ground levels out, and I gasp a little before regaining my breath and my stride.

Left.  Pause.  Right. 

Right.  Pause.  Left. 

I want somebody to speed it up for me, then take it down slow.  There’s enough room for both.

Right and left.

Left and right.

Madonna might be onto something.  An almost imperceptible breeze grazes my cheek.

Right.  Left.  Right.  Left.

Home.

the prompt

Write about a time that rhythm, or a lack thereof, played a role in your life. And don’t use the word “rhythm.”

thanks to Lady Gaga (Bad Romance) LL Cool J (Doin' It) & Madonna/Justin Timberlake (4 Minutes) for getting me through a steamy run

Hidden

Seventh grade gym class was my own little circle of self-conscious hell.

I couldn’t throw.  I couldn’t catch.  I couldn’t serve.  I couldn’t return.  I couldn’t dribble.

Despite years of dance classes, when I exited that stale locker room, filled with mustard yellow lockers and cracking mirrors, I became clumsy and slow to react, unable to mimic the movements that looked so simple as an observer.

To make it worse, when I ran or jumped, my overdeveloped assets participated in gym class with a mind of their own.

Eyes followed my every move.

Not actual eyes of course, but the imagined eyes that so many teenage girls feel watching and judging and laughing.

Undeserved shame hindered my efforts in class.  Trying to master athletic feats without any sort of quick horizontal movement or any vertical movement at all was impossible.

I stopped trying.

Defiantly, I stopped dressing for class. 

Defiance wasn’t causing the tears stinging my eyes as I realized what would happen if I continued to refuse to participate.  Agonizingly, I watched zeros appear next to my name in a grade book.

I forgot my shoes.  I forgot my shorts.  I had cramps.  I pulled a muscle.  Excuses ran into each other, ringing falsely through the air and falling with a thump onto the waxed basketball court.

I easily passed every written assignment and test in the class, yet my participation points dwindled into nothingness.

Looking my frustrated teacher in the face soon became impossible.  Bolstered by other girls unwilling to participate, I sat on the sidelines, pretending I didn’t want to mess up my hair or my (non-existent) nails.  We huddled on the outskirts of class, whispering about the very boys I was struggling to avoid.

Accustomed to a different sort of attention from teachers, I wasn’t sure how to act.  I could handle being called a teacher’s pet; I wasn’t sure how to handle the humiliation of bra strap snapping, and I removed myself from the situation.

Used to excellent grades, my parents were angry, especially when I tried to hide my grade instead of admitting how awful I felt during those fifty minutes each day.

By high school, I discovered sports bras, and a weightlifting class for cheerleading took the place of a regular physical education class.  Thankfully, weightlifting didn’t require a swim unit.

But I still can’t throw, catch, serve, return, or dribble.

Thankfully, distance running only requires that I put one foot in front of the other.

In a very supportive sports bra.

The prompt:

Take us back to an embarrassing moment in your life.

Did someone embarrass you, your parents perhaps? Or did you bring it upon yourself?

Are you still embarrassed or can you laugh at it now?

I will do everything I can to help her not experience that feeling of embarassment

or to help her get through it with more grace than I did

I will also do everything I can to help him understand that snapping bras and laughing at self-conscious seventh-grade girls will get him in trouble

big trouble

Denim Jackets and Pretend Microphones

My friends and I would pretend to be part of their group, imagining ourselves on episodes of the show just like we were playing school or house.

In our minds, our hair was longer, more permed, and much bigger than our own locks when we looked in the mirror.

Our imaginary clothes were fashion-perfect, slouchy socks and oversized tunics and colored Reebok high-tops, perfectly styled by someone other than our mothers.

We would chat casually about the boys in our group, though none of the boys we knew in real life would have been caught dead playing our game, nor would we have ever had the nerve to ask them.

Finally, but crucially, we could all sing and dance better than anyone but Madonna herself. 

We, of course, were the girls from Kids Incorporated.

Like so many kids' shows in the eighties, Kids Incorporated addressed serious issues, like bullying and child abuse, but the hook was the "incorporation" of pop music into each episode.  The music was our focus.  The music and the effortless cool that the group members exuded as they burst into song in the middle of an after school hangout/entertainment mecca.

Playing our game didn't involve much preparation.  Most of it took place in our imaginations, requiring only some item that could stand in for a microphone during our painful performances.  I might not been able to pull my short hair into much of a ponytail, but I could pretend to fling it around while singing and swaying to the music.

We would take turns playing the different parts, switching back and forth between Stacy and Renee, sisters who looked nothing alike. 

We would push up the sleeves of our denim jackets and morph into older, more worldly versions of ourselves, dreaming that our dance lessons were preparation for what was surely a destiny of stardom and success.

Slowly, the game lost its charm.  The cast changed, the actresses outgrowing the parts, the seed planted for the eventual explosion of Stacy Ferguson into Fergie, other stars from the show reaching lesser heights.

As innocent as it seemed at the time, I wonder a little about the show's hesitation to follow its characters past their preteen days.  If the producers were willing to tackle seemingly tough issues head-on, why not tackle the toughest obstacle of all for so many kids - growing up?

Still, I remember my time as an imaginary child singing sensation fondly.

Even if the closest I can get to that reality is turning up the Black Eyed Peas just a little louder on my runs.

the Kids Incorporated girls would have rocked the tutu pajamas

I just know it

This is a response to the RemembeRED prompt:

This week, we want you to think about tv show from your past.

What feelings does the show evoke? What memories does it trigger?