Picture it. June 1985. Gainesville, Florida.
One hot summer. Sticky. Oppressive. Too humid to even be sultry.
And I was doing time in summer school. Working to get ahead on my credits.
Listening to a lot of music. Watching a lot of MTV.
Nursing a shattered heart -- the by-product of the end of a messy, complicated relationship that spring.
Kissing a lot of boys to try and at least numb the pain of relationship finality.
Living in an apartment with two other pals -- we were all subletters, having lived elsewhere during the main school year. Trying to dodge the landlord because the fourth regular roommate, who didn’t find a subletter, was late with her share of the rent and we kept having these horrible EVICTION FORTHCOMING notices plastered to our front door. (That chick finally did pay what she owed, but damn, did it take too much time and energy to get her to pony up.)
Drinking a lot of cheap beer. A lot. Sometimes spending my laundry quarters to do it, as my regular drinking haunt was right next to my regular Laundromat.
Having lawn chairs and beach loungers for apartment furniture because the regular dwellers took all their furniture with them when they left for the summer and it just wasn’t worth it to schlep sofas and chairs up from home for six weeks. Reading Rolling Stone religiously while burning a candle and listening to my Broken Hearts Club mix tape. Over and over and over.
Riding the bus back and forth to campus because I STILL didn’t have a car at school. Sweating like a hooer in church, even just walking to the bus stop. Damn, was it hot.
In the midst of all that, I was taking two classes.
A Journalism Law classzzzzzzzz.
And an Oral Performance class. Which I adored.
Madly. Truly. Deeply.
I’m one of those rare beasts -- ok, weird people -- who, to be blunt, totally gets off on speaking in front of people. Love. It. It’s fun. It’s energizing. And it’s about as close as I get to being on stage in my regular, mundane life.
This oral performance course was tailor-made for me -- a frustrated theater girl who often regretted the decision (her father made) not to be a theater major. For class, we had to select different pieces -- prose, fiction, drama -- and not only read them aloud in an interpretive fashion, but provide a written narrative of our analysis and choices for the pieces.
I was in heaven.
Writing and performing. Bliss.
Which is what I needed in my hiding-from the-landlord-man, post-relationship ending funk.
Throwing myself into doing something I loved to get over a man. As only a broken hearted college girl could do.
I lived and breathed this class. I chose pieces that were challenging and smart and interesting: scenes from Neil Simon’s “Barefoot in the Park.” A Shakespearean sonnet (CXVI, to be exact) And the piece that tested me in more delicious ways than I can count -- a dramatic monologue -- one from Martha, natch -- from Edward Albee’s “Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf.”
There was one more piece that I remember. It was a poem, author unknown. I think I found it tucked within one of my dog-eared copies of Rolling Stone. I wish I’d written it. I could have. It perfectly described the very state of my being that long, hot summer.
Oh this roller coaster...
am I on forever?
It was screaming thrills
when I had the stomach
for it. And I told
everyone to try a
roller-coaster sort of
life. “The ups are
won-der-ful!” I yelled
from somewhere near the sky.
But now my guts
ache and my heart wobbles
dangerously at the downs
and I have to cling on
tightly, alone in my
seat. A couple on the
grass over there are
sitting quietly with
their arms around each
other, looking into each
other’s eyes and probably
thinking “the ups are
wonderful.” I’d hurl
myself off the roller
coaster if I had someone
to sit with on the calm
grass. But as there’s no one,
guess I’ll stay here and
try not to feel sick
sometimes. “Some people
envy me this ride” I tell
myself and with heaving
stomach I remind myself
the ups are wonderful.
I poured myself into the reading and interpretation of those words. My twenty-year-old self infused them with the sense of melodramatic weariness that seemed to envelop me. A release came with the sharing. Lemonade made from the bitter fruit I'd been toting around. And I got a GPA boost out of it as well -- Lord knows I needed it.
I’ve long since moved past my state of mind that summer -- the residue of that broken romance was washed away with the tears from other heartbreaks and the waves of new experiences. But the words of that poem are still part of me. They’ve been applicable more than once since the summer of ‘85. Each hurt a little different, yet the same.
Yeah, the ups are indeed wonderful. Not a bad idea to keep your hands in the car. But don't be afraid to let go, even if it's just for a little bit.
• If the whole world were listening to you right now, what would you say?
“All we are saying is give peace a chance.”
• If you could meet anyone on this earth, who would it be?
Former president Jimmy Carter, I think. I admire him greatly for putting his money and time and conviction where his mouth is. We share many of the same perspectives and he is an honorable man of God. Plus I suspect he’s a very charming Southern gent, and I’m a sucker for those.
• You just got a free plane ticket to anywhere. You have to depart right now. Where are you going to go?
Either New York City, or Barcelona, Spain. However, if I could pull it off, I’d head to Havana.
• What do you think about most?
Young William. Followed by flashes of writing ideas.
• You have the opportunity to spend a romantic night with the music celebrity of your choice – who would it be?
Please. Have we just met? Stewart Copeland. An evening 30 years in the making.
• You can erase any horrible experience from your past – what will it be?
The days when Will was very critically ill two weeks after his birth and we were given dire prognoses about his mortality. I would not wish that time on even my worst enemy. No parent should have to even consider the death of their child.
• What’s your strangest talent?
I have double jointed fingers that can move in slightly disturbing ways. I can also burp the alphabet.
What?
• What would be a question you’d be afraid to tell the truth on?
How much I weigh. Just like every other woman in the world.
• Ever had a poem or song written about you?
Sadly, no. I date my share of creative types, but interestingly enough, none of them immortalized me in song or verse. And I dated a good number of musicians, too. Bastards. Hrumph.
• When is the last time you played air guitar?
This morning. You know how quirky my house is….
• Do you have any strange phobias?
Snakes. Snakes. Snakes. That is all. That is enough.
• What’s your religion?
Christian. Proud member of the Religious Left. Baptist, but a very very very very to the 100th degree moderate one.
• What is your current desktop picture?
A night shot of Manhattan streets, taken looking down from a top floor in a building.
• When you are outside, what are you most likely doing?
Working out. The outdoors is my gym.
• What’s the last song you listened to?
This one!
• Simple but extremely complex – favorite band?
Simple but extremely easy answer: The Police
• What was the last lie you told?
“No – I’m just going to the bedroom to watch the Gator game. I’m not going to take a nap.”
ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ
• What is a saying you say a lot?
“Please.” And “WHAT IS WRONG WITH PEOPLE!!!”
• What is your greatest weakness? Your greatest strength?
Weakness: my insecurity. I am riddled with self doubt regarding so many things…
Strength: my intelligence. The one area about myself in which I am confident.
• Who is your celebrity crush?
So many from which to choose, but let’s go with Jon Hamm. Try to act surprised.
• What is the first thing that comes to mind when you hear the word “heart”
Life. Love. Pursuit of happiness.
• How do you vent your anger?
Two ways: I either cry or speak in very measured tones using what I call $10 vocabulary words.
• Do you have a collection of anything?
Cookbooks! Snowglobes! Hotel china from classic St. Petersburg hotels and clubs.
• What is your favorite word?
Grace. Defined as unmerited favor. If Will had been a girl, I would have either called him Lucy or Grace.
Well, I missed it.
You know, the big ball drop. Dick Clark -- who I understand was made up in such a fashion that he could have played Grandpa Oompa Loompa. The countdown ushering out the old and bringing in the new.
I fell asleep. 11:15 pm EST to be exact.
And so I missed the big-kiss-at-midnight-smooch-to-welcome-the-new-year thing.
In the spirit of that lovely tradition, I offer this little ditty. It rather covers the bases (first, to be specific. Heh.) for those who are near and dear but far away.
MWAH! That's me, blowing you big kisses in the wind. You know who you are...
I'm brimming with optimism about this next 12 months. More so than I can ever remember. Not sure why, but I'm not going to over-analyze in case I jinx something.
Every new beginning comes from some other beginning's end...
Made a set of resolutions last night. Different from the sort one usually makes at the turn of the calendar. You know, those promises we make to ourselves to espouse healthy living, break bad habits, become kinder, gentler, more dignified human beings.
Not this year. Not for me.
My resolution list looks like this:
Now this is a list that's manageable. Do-able. Achievable.
That's not to say that I don't have loftier ambitions. They're just not "resolutions."
They're commitments.
To taking care of me. With healthy, sustainable eating. Exercise. Fresh air. Surrounding myself with people that affirm me. Whose approval I already have. Whose company I genuinely enjoy. Keeping myself mentally sharp. Shaking out cobwebs of the cerebrum. Carving out my identity.
I'm already committed to the mothering thing. If I do say so myself. That's a given. As you know. I'm just adding another layer onto the foundation of my life.
Exciting, isn't it.
Here's to new beginnings. Long may they live.
The best is yet to come and babe, won't it be fine...
