...a whirl of fantasy

My aunt’s question sounded innocent, “So, when are you going to write a book?

It was New Year’s Eve and she and I were standing body to body in a festive crush of family. This is the day that is officially recognized as National Delusion (Resolution) Day, so I’m not totally responsible for my flippant answer, “Oh, I have one started."

Heads swiveled as forks halted midway from plate to mouth, or mouth to plate, and all eyes looked center stage.

In the lull, I heard repeated, “…writing a book, she’s writing a book.” Suddenly there I was, caught with no way to back out and no way to blame the children or the husband. This was bigger than baby or wedding announcements! It was exciting. It was crazy!

And it would best be ignored.

The memories of our youth seeped back into my siblings’ brains and they remembered that it was me talking—me, the master storyteller—the drama diva, and their collective attention flowed back to the buffet table.

Shocked by the full weight of what my mouth had just blurted out, I stumbled backward and dropped into an overstuffed chair that squirmed with children—while I waited for the familiar surge of regret.

Food and family are always a deadly combination for me, but over the years I thought I had mastered the technique of speaking fluently around my speech impediment—one foot firmly inserted.

I mumbled a clarification, “I have some stuff written, already,” and then a half-hearted retraction, “I’ve just been too busy to put it together,” but it was too late. I had been replaced as the court jester by two-year old cousins who, perched together on a stool, were elbow deep in the dessert.

I have tried for years to assure the family that random blood testing is unnecessary—that my ebullient enthusiasm is not artificially induced. I only wish I could blame artificial stimulants for this last lapse of propriety and good sense.

I had the eerie feeling from the moment the words left my mouth that I had pitched headlong into a mid-life puddle of something that would be so much messier than a sportier car or a younger spouse. The light-hearted swirl of verbal recklessness hit the surface of the stagnant pond that was my life and demonstrated how loose lips can sink ships.

Back at the New Year’s party, my brain returned to my twirling body sitting askew amid tickling children. I feigned an outward calm, but another unhealthy personality trait surfaced and made me decide, “That’s it! I’ve said it and I’m doing it! I am writing a book!”

Reality Bite: Stubbornness is motivation. It should be a virtue.

...weird but wonderful

     The whole point of this book can be summed up in this one essay.  I am unique, just like everyone else and I have found that through forthright examination of my/our peculiarities, I/we can find unanimity in purpose and understanding---if for no other reason than to elicit laughs.  

Dear Me,
When I’m asked by a form-filler-outer to state my occupation, I say, “I’m an enigma.”  

“Oh,” they respond, “Could you spell that?”  It's Me, T. 

     I’ve never been comfortable with the title of soccer mom, domestic engineer or goddess, because all those titles suggest a perfectionist slant that I don't have time for and while some would insist I'm merely a homemaker, I would have to insist that that's a bald-face lie and stay-at-home-Mom really means hardly-ever-stays-at-home-Mom. The fact is that I defy description and more so now.  When I mutter the newest title, alternative schooler,  I expect someone to show up at the door to review my credentials and revoke me entirely.   

What it is that I do is cook, garden, repair, sew, mud walls, paint, make bread, craft, remodel, collect bugs and I delight in making my children do all of those things—which makes me an oddity. Forty years ago, the term would have been “hippy,” now I'm an unfocused pinterest junkie.  

Wallpaper in my Mom's kitchen growing up.  Must have molded me somehow.

I’m happy to settle for the word enigma.  I suspect that most people are enigmatic and deeply interesting, but we all just muddle along striving to fit in and to appear on the surface as if we live homogeneous lives just like everyone else.  

I'm outted.  I admit it, I'm an adventurer.  I beam with delight when I hear the words, “Why are you doing that?” or “I didn’t know people did that anymore,” because deep down in some part of me, I enjoy being inscrutable.[1]   I'm struggling to dump those remaining bits and pieces of the matching set of teen baggage—the pubescent paradox that seeks to be different while struggling desperately to fit in, and I have decided to get comfortable in my skin and become my authentic self.   

Just the other day, one of my neighbors made the "you're inscrutable[2]" reference when she said, “Why are you doing that?” when she dropped by and I was attempting to quilt.  I had material and padding stretched in between frames that were placed strategically over the couch and between the end tables and television, and I was crawling over and under the maze, tying it all up with yarn. She said, “People don’t do that anymore,” and I hoped she meant it in admiration, “…because they don’t know how,”  as I’d like to be an innovator rather than a relic. 

I’m from pioneer stock and that fact makes conformity difficult.  I'm constantly beating down my yearning for challenge and therefore I camp (begrudgingly), hike (accidentally), fish (badly), preserve food, and cook in Dutch ovens (in desperation, when all the other pots are dirty).  Although I sew, cook and grind my own flour, I’m too young to be an artifact so that makes me an enigma—which really means inscrutable[3] .  

Inscrutability does make for interesting and amusing conversation at company dinner parties. [4] 

Dear Me, 

Today the doctor wanted to know what "I did." 

"For a profession?" I asked, knowing full well she was trying to understand why I had attempted my own medical procedure before I went into her.

"Yes, what is it that you do?"  

I reply with the standard answer, "I am an enigma." 

I'm effecting a personal mystique because it only seems fair that if I haven’t yet clearly defined who I am or what I’m doing, then no one else should figure me out before I do! 

 Reality Bite: My children are just grateful that different, for me, doesn’t mean headbands, fringe, experimental drugs and psychedelic hose.

---

[1] I had to look it up too.  It means difficult to understand.  Use it twice more today.  I plan to. 

[2] Twice,
[3] Thrice,  Did it!

[4] More about intriguing conversations at dinner parties later. I’ve lost track of where and when.