Board Game Philosophy

I have never been good at checkers.

While growing up in Fridley, Minnesota and attending Hayes Elementary school, I had the chance, like all of the students there, to play checkers against the principal. Dr. Switzer looked like a grandpa. He wore gray suits everyday. He smelled strongly of whatever products older gentlemen used to primp--old spice hair pomade, I don't know. He looked sternly at kids misbehaving, and kindly at kids who came to his office to play checkers. But he never let them win. 

I wanted to be the kid that beat Dr. Switzer at checkers. I marched into his office, right to his desk where a strange knick knack of a little green hand that would take coins and put them in a bank sat right next to the checkerboard. I don't think I said more than 10 words the whole time. The game couldn't have lasted more than five minutes. Towards the end, in a panic, I looked at my disappearing pieces. "It ain't-a-gonna be long now," said Dr. Switzer.

I was not to be known as the kid who beat Dr. Switzer at checkers.

I was never good at chess either. 

I remember playing against my dad. I would try so hard to protect my queen. Pawn after pawn I sacrificed thinking I could just somehow outlast the game and keep my queen safe without having to move her at all. I didn't want to risk it so I tried to make her stay put. 

This strategy didn't work in checkers, it didn't work in chess, and I'm starting to believe it doesn't work in life. By protecting the thing we don't want to sacrifice we end up losing it in the end. After the pain of my divorce this past year I wanted to keep my heart safe. I didn't want to put it out there, didn't want to be vulnerable. 

But where would that lead me? If I don't risk it, I end up alone. I may not lose my heart, but I might end up breaking it, or burying it so deep I no longer can access it. 

Hearts are resilient and queens are fearless. Better to send them both onto the battlefield than to make them stay at home.

Soul Mate Material

There are many perks to being a single gal living on her own in this day and age. For instance, there are no battles for the remote; if I want to watch "Sex in the City" despite the static and fuzzy reception, I can. Nor are there disputes over music--I can indulge my bad taste all I want and listen to the album Crash on repeat simply because I am too lazy to pick another cd and no one complains. And to be a single girl with a blog brings even more benefits--I can look up all sorts of ridiculous topics on the internet all in the name of "research" and "material" for my writing.

Yesterday I was stuck on the word soulmate, the concept that haunts and teases the single girl of today's society and causes her to forget about all the perks of living alone. What is a soulmate? Does it exist? Do we meet just one? What chance do any of us have at long term monogamy? Are we chasing a myth? I turned to the internet to see what I could find. 

First, of course, was the sheer volume of postings on the subject. Google told me that I was looking at results 1-10 of about 935,000 postings on "finding a soulmate." There are nearly a million articles on finding a soulmate; apparently I am not the only person indulging in the word. 

More surprising than the number of postings related to finding a soulmate was the content of the material out there. The second listing I found went to a website called soulmatekit.com.  That's right. Soulmate KIT. Like a jewelry kit, or a juggling kit, but for finding your one true love instead. For $397 I could order such a kit and be magically transformed, with a 30-day money-back guarantee. I must admit, there's a certain appeal here, just like with those jewelry parties people are always throwing. You know that it's a waste of money but you find you just can't turn away from the silver pendant that allows you to interchange synthetic stones of different colors.

Not only did this site offer a kit for true love, it offered a soul mate IQ quiz, which I decided to take in the name of "research" (of course).  Nine grueling questions later I learned I was 71.44% ready to meet my soulmate, but that there were still blocks in my life preventing me from meeting that special guy. I thought back to the questions--I did answer no when asked if my home was ready to receive my soulmate because laundry currently litters my bathroom floor. Perhaps a cleaner apartment will bring love to my life?

Next I turned to the ultimate authority on all subjects--Wikipedia. It revealed the standard definition of soulmate--a companion with whom one feels deep friendship, companionship, sexuality, spirituality, and compatibility. It also explained the mythological concept behind it from classical literature. Apparently humans were made originally with four arms, four legs, and two faces, but Zeus, fearing the power of these humans, split them all in half, condemning them all to spend the rest of their lives searching for their missing half. 

I don't know how I feel about this concept. Do I want to spend the rest of my life searching for a missing piece? What about the beautiful pieces I have already found? The friends that glitter and sparkle as a part of the mosaic of my soul? 

I think that is the concept I will choose to believe: my life as a collage of changeable pieces--picking up new colors and designs throughout the years, beautiful and shining... always, always shining.

Mind Games

A funny thing happened to me last week.

I went to the local Italian restaurant a few blocks away with the local characters I run with and encountered, after a few beers, a local waitress who wanted me to kiss her. Male companions were all for this, and before I knew it, amidst half-empty pint glasses and plates of spaghetti, I found myself being peer-pressured to do something.

"What is this, high school?" I asked.

"Oh, c'mon," said the perky brunette waitress, (I'm guessing she was a hockey cheerleader back in the day). "I bet you've never even kissed a girl before."

"Yes, I have. My very best friend." I wanted to add that she was far superior to the waitress in every way, but I didn't.

Now, of course, as a mature ADULT, I knew that this peer-pressure was ridiculous, silly, and far beneath me. I knew that whether or not I kissed this girl so that she could impress the boys that had accompanied me and were now harassing me, I would still be the same person and that my worth as an autonomous entity would not be determined by whether or not I pleased this crowd. It was embarrassing, really, that any of us were even entertaining this thought.

But then I did a strange thing. I leaned over to the short, cherubic, twenty-something gal and planted one quickly on her lips. 

Why did I do it?

I am still wondering myself. I could say it was just to shut them all up. To move on. To prove it was no big deal. I could even say it was because I suddenly became bi-curious and wanted to explore my own sexuality.

But then the bartender peer-pressured me into having another drink.

And I said yes once again!

Apparently no no longer exists in my vocabulary.

That is the thing about my new single life. In some ways the anchor is gone. Two years ago I was showering every night at 9pm on the dot and settling into bed with socks on my feet in order to read for half an hour before my husband came in to kiss my cheek and I fell asleep. Last year I was caught in the middle of transition and all routines gave way to crying and exhaustion. This year I'm staying out late on Monday night, kissing waitresses and drinking beer. It's a shocking phenomenon. Could I be experiencing what John Mayer coined as the quarter-life crisis?

I think rather a new chance for identity has landed before me and it is my job this year to embrace it all. I have cast off the numbness of my past and the trauma of divorce and now get to make out with the world. 

A Softer Kind of Armor

So I was sitting in the doctor's office last week, feet in stirrups, speculum looming in the immediate future and suddenly, I was tripping all over myself to explain to my new doctor (a woman as kind and gentle and compassionate as you would ever want to meet) exactly how to find my cervix. 

"Um, so- I guess have a really long vagina and my cervix is really hard to find, so I'll just tell you now that I need, like, the longest speculum you have." I said all of this through a cheerful smile, much like how someone would specify exactly how they liked their medium-skim-vanilla-wet-latte-in-a-large-cup, somewhat apologetic for the ridiculousness of the request, but also not willing to shell out $4.16 for a drink that is not quite right.

"Don't worry," said my doctor, "I am 100% confident in my abilities." And she proceeded to tell me where to relax and how. "Oh dear," she said as I forced myself to relax (a paradox particularly cruel when in stirrups) "you have had a bad pap."

I left, after a thoroughly improved gynecological experience thanks to my cheerful doctor and her new, softer, plastic speculum with light inside the tool. The whole procedure was so much better than my previous experiences-- the metal speculum, a hot bulb shining at my crotch, repeated insertions and removals, the smell of my own sweat, angling and agreement, that, well, yes, it is a tricky cervix to find, let's try one more time, just try to relax, don't tense. It was a relief. I had a renewed faith in the medical field.  

After leaving, I started to think about fear. I felt proud of myself. I feared the gynecologist and yet I went, again, and dealt with the fear. 

Of course, as a sexually active woman, I had no choice. I needed birth control pills, hence I needed a prescription, hence I needed a physical, hence I needed a pap. Fear was a luxury I sacrificed for the greater good.

It's not the only time I have sacrificed this luxury, fear. In fact, as I started to think about it, it's the only way I deal with fear. I plunge into the fear and beat at it. I slip on the gloves, pull on the shit-kickers, strap on my ammo belt... I don't allow myself to be afraid. Spider in the closet? WHAM! no more. Centipede running along the basement hallway? Not through the cloud of Raid I spray as thick as fog. Cute boy in the corner of the bar? I would much rather try to kiss him than fear talking to him. I don't do fear. 

Thinking about this method of attack made me realize I don't reserve my weapons and armor for my physical fears alone. I wear them everyday to cope with my fear of being disliked. My smile is my armor and my charm a weapon. I please people unconsciously and effortlessly, like scratching an itch or brushing hair out of my eye. I live behind a shield. I brandish  kindness daily. I barricade myself from the emotion of fear, from the fear of being disliked, from the heavy shame of perhaps being unlovable.

And to be honest, I think I am getting tired of all this fighting. I want to retire from the battlefield and hang up the weaponry. Of course, I am not exactly sure how to do this. How does a person begin to feel an emotion they have resisted for so long? Perhaps, just as I admitted my fear to my doctor, admitting my fear to myself is taking the first step.

On Wings

I have been thinking a lot about clothes lately.

I think this is because with the arrival of 30 degree weather I have had to purchase a sweater for my 14 pound yorkie-poo who was recently nearly scalped at the groomers because of matted hair. He went from being a ragamuffin dust mop to being a chiseled hunting dog (mini-version) who wears a football letter jacket purchased from Target. Believe me, he understands the difference.

Now as we head out to the lake for a three mile run he saunters and struts. He points at the geese and the squirrels, poses for the female pugs headed his direction, and literally runs circles around me if I am moving too slow, yanking my arm nearly out of my socket. As we cross the street, people point and chuckle--I have to say, "Come on, playa" just to get him to go anywhere.

Unlike my jockified small dog, I see the cold weather as a way to retreat into my clothing. Gone are the days of strolling outside in my bathing suit and a short sun dress to head to the lake for some reading and sun consumption. Instead I am scowling at my tank tops still hanging in the closet. I am ready for snuggling and sweaters and, god forbid, snow.

I can't bare the skin right now. I can't bare the soul. I am tired of exposing both. I want to wrap my psyche up in warm blankets, cover my skin in cashmere, nurse the wounds of telling all and retreat into an emotional cocoon. 

Summer represents a time of freedom, liberation, and expression. I shrug off clothes because I can't stand the heat. Likewise, I expose my emotions, confess feelings, and describe moods to old friends, potential loves, and questioning family members. Later, like a sun burn, I feel the sting of over-exposure, the uncomfortable irritation of having said too much.

I am ready to be done with all that. Time to wrap my heart back up in a hoodie sweatshirt.

To Be as Smooth as Frank

So I have just finished reading the famous essay "Frank Sinatra Has a Cold" and have concluded that Frank, even when phlegmy, hoarse, and full of mucus, never blundered in his words, misspoke, or stuck his foot in his mouth. This of course, is not to say that he didn't blow up at people or cut others down with words, it just seems like they weren't mistakes, they weren't, as they are so painfully for me, awkward mishaps.

In this article, the writer explains how Sinatra once harassed a man in a bar because he didn't like the way the guy was dressed. What happened? After escalating comments, a crackle of violent tension, a worried bar manager hustling into the room, eventually, the guy ended up leaving for another setting. Sinatra bullied this man out of the room. He didn't like that the guy wasn't wearing a coat and tie, so he proceeded to needle the guy until he left. And what's more, he didn't apologize for being rude, didn't worry over his comment and second guess himself; no, he stood where he was, next to the pool table, drinking bourbon, a blond on either arm, cigarette smoke swirling seductively around his head, and blue eyes piercing the room. In this moment, he was a jerk. More than that, he simply didn't care. That is what made him sexy. 

If this is the definition of sexy, disregarding others in the pursuit of one's own desires, then I may be, quite possibly, the least sexy being on the planet. Let's recast the scenario- I am standing in a bar, blonde on either arm, cigarette smoke swirling seductively, piano swelling, etc. etc. I don't like a guy's outfit. Well- already there are problems. First, it wouldn't occur to me not to like someone's dress and to think it grounds for exile. Seriously. Even mullets and cutoffs wouldn't make me think I had the right to boot someone from a bar. True, I might raise an eyebrow, but I would never think it grounds for dismissal. Now, say I actually did get annoyed enough to want the schmuck out. I can't imagine picking a fight unless I was really, really, really drunk. Here is where the bourbon comes in handy, I imagine. But, were I to yell at this man for not having a coat and somehow manage to get him kicked out of the bar, I would wake up the next day wringing my hands over my rude and unattractive behavior. I would feel immediately regretful for causing my friends an irritation, for causing a scene, for being anything other than a kind, gracious, accepting, and likable human being.

This is how I am different from Frank Sinatra. 

And what is the cause for this difference? Am I predisposed to be a sort of spineless worm in this world? A worm who wants to check to make sure everyone is having fun, is comfortable, and is happy to know me? Or is it something a little bigger--a gender predisposition, or something to do with being the eldest in a Catholic family. Why don't I think that I deserve to decide what people wear in the room I am in?

Well- to be honest, I don't want that role or responsibility. I think I would find myself irritating, bull-headed, and arrogant if I behaved that way, blondes, bourbon, blue eyes or not. But what I would like, what Sinatra had, and what I continue to work at is a sense of personal conviction. I want less hand-wringing. Less worry. Less fear of being unlovable. I want to say to say-- No, I don't want to sing right now, I have a cold, and to be quite honest, blondie, you are standing a little too close at the moment--and feel just fine about my convictions. 

I am sure Frank Sinatra could look back in his life and have regrets. All of us do. But he didn't apologize to himself about it. He accepted what he had done, who he was, where he was going, and what he wanted without excuse, guilt, shame, or explanation. That, and not a surly dislike for coatless slobs, is what made, makes, him sexy. That is the sexy I am looking to be.

On Starting the Blog

I am sitting in an Italian restaurant in a small tourist town situated on a large river, surrounded by the reds, yellows, browns, and oranges of autumn, and sipping a glass of Chianti. It is time. I face the window looking out at the street, I face the hibiscus plants that have been brought inside to bloom, I face the empty chairs across from me and I realize, I need to start writing this blog.

I have long been reluctant to join the blogger phenomenon. As a writer in an MFA program, I have stuck to my journals, my short stories, my assignments and have shirked this immediate form of response between writer and audience. Why? Why have I avoided a format that can only help me improve my craft? 

For one there is the problem that I have been brought up in a family where the strict, unspoken, unacknowledged code is to glorify the family, bury the problems, and speak truth selectively. We are to portray the best, garner accolades, and smile graciously, always, even if that smile is the thin veneer covering a massive wound, a heart split open with a serrated knife. A blog is a dangerous thing under such expectations; surely the stories will begin to leak out.

The other problem is that I imagine I have little to say that interests the general audience at-large, whoever these readers might be. Could anyone possibly want to know that I am eating pasta at a restaurant next to two Russian women who are speaking in low tones and leaning into each other as they sip coffee and toy with water glasses, that the waitress who served me conspiratorially told me the wi-fi password and smiled in congratulations when I ordered a glass of wine, that I am tempted right now to take my new favorite pen and scrawl terrible poetry over the brown paper tablecloth? These are not fascinating topics. They are topics, I think, for me alone to enjoy.

And alone I am. Is that why I am finally starting my blog? Because the stability of a marriage and a sense of "we" has vanished from life in this past year? Perhaps I long for community and connections. Perhaps I am reaching out with network fibers to touch the technological souls of others. Perhaps I am merely distracting myself from the vacuous spaces in my heart- the gaping holes of loneliness that I dress up daily in fishnet tights, tall boots and sweater dresses, and hide behind carefully straightened hair and eyeliner. 

Perhaps a blog is a place where I can be myself and feel what I want, even if I hide behind a pseudonym, crouch behind a secret identity, hidden amongst the reds, the oranges, the browns, and the yellows of autumn.