Going Out Of My Head

There's a little less than half an hour officially left to a rather incomplete Mother's Day. I have to be up in six hours so, of course, I can't sleep. As I wait for the Tylenol PM to kick in and make that nasty little head throb go away, I'll just sit down and write whatever gets past the temporal blockage.

When I was but a wee youngster - yes, I once was a wee youngster - I wasn't terribly well liked. I had the social skills of a rock. An igneous rock, granted, but still...The other kids wore cooler clothes, had all the gadgets, knew things I didn't. While other parents were listening to Q104 (the coolest radio station in the 70s and 80s), buying Pong and getting cable, my parents were watching Lawrence Welk, making their wills, and forcing me to wear purple plaid wool suits to amusement parks. (Obviously something I never got over) I was the kid who got picked on for being always a day late and a dollar short. Not to mention just plain ignorant of just about anything. And I hate feeling ignorant. I don't mind not knowing things. That just means there's something else to learn - which I kinda find exciting in my own weenie-esque way. But I don't particularly like having my shortcomings publicly noted - especially when I wasn't aware of them until that moment. You know, like the fact that the earth makes one revolution in 24 hours, not 24 days. Like the fact that if you stuff your training bra with a small amount of kleenex, you probably ought not to tell Tricia Querry who'll tell Ida Snyder who's just bound to tell Susan Moppet who WILL touch your chest with her elbow (on a dare) to see if it's cushy.

It wasn't until the summer before seventh grade (Jr. High back then and a different school) when Barb S. decided she liked me that I had a true friend. And somewhere around ninth grade (the last year of Jr. High) I became active in just about every musical anything there was. I don't really know what would have happened to me if music hadn't found me. I wasn't particularly good in school. Not that I wasn't smart enough, but school usually bored me. Teachers seemed to go so god awfully slow and my mind started wandering. I wasn't expected to get great grades and so I didn't. And then...music. I excelled at music. I was in demand - you know as much as a 7th grade accompanist for girl's glee club can be in demand. I had my first boyfriend (okay, so we never actually talked to each other much less hold hands or kiss. But I slow danced with him once and he passed me a note that said 'Will you go with me? Check one: yes [box] or no [box]' and then he started making out with our go-between but he was still an official boyfriend because I checked the yes box). In high school I had a glorious time and it was then that I found out I had skills. A blooming comedic style (not nearly as finely honed as it is now *ahem*), a tendency to be all out there when with friends and a spot near the top of the drama geek food chain.

In fact, just a few years later, when I was 19 and had my first leading role in a community theatre did I realize that I was attractive. And I was cast in 'attractive' roles. So I tried to become more attractive and found that even more people found me attractive (you can kinda see the underlying Confusciousness going on, right?). And it wasn't necessarily the big red hair (it was the 80s and 90s, after all), china doll skin and the ability to sing every Hall & Oates song ever written. It was the vivaciousness, the passion for life - right or wrong, the need to be my own person.

So, to recap, in grade school I marched to a different drummer by force. As a young adult, I learned to follow my drummer and find an acceptance with those whose drummers were a tad bit different as well. In my full-fledged adulthood, I'm way out in front of my drummer and expect him to be there with well timed rim shots.

All this seems to be coming from a viewpoint this evening/morning/whatever that, lately, it seems there are those who think I should be...I don't know...sorry for who I am. The only thing I'm sorry about is that I'm not able to be even more of who I am right now. But life is what life is and sometimes you just gotta pay the bills. I like who I am. For the most part. I'm an ongoing work of art, if you will. Maybe I might not match the couch, or even the decor, but that doesn't mean I'm not a masterpiece in my own right. I'm never going to hide behind others, or not enjoy meeting and greeting. I'm always going to perform in some venue or other. I eat life for breakfast, lunch and dinner. Conformists fear me. Not because I'm some George Carlin (another dated reference) daring to challenge the conformists. But because I don't fear being different. And I ain't talking your Goth-ish, notice-how-different-I-am-as-I-look-like-every-other-Goth-ish-non-conformist. There are those who fear people like me because I am not afraid to be just as weird or just as normal as I chose to be on any given day. I try to be a good person. And sometimes that means being honest when the truth is difficult and painful to face. To make tough decisions to do the right thing even though it is angst filled and tangled. To try my hardest, love without regret and pray for strength and wisdom. I am a Christian with some seriously atheistic beliefs, a musician without a voice and an actress without a stage. And yet I am a believer, a singer and a jester. Every single day. I love my children. Both my children. No matter what they may or may not think of me. I love my dog even though I have to pick up his shit every day. I love my cats except when they puke hairballs on my new shoes. I love to laugh. I love to cry. I love to stop and smell the lilacs. I love little baby ducks, beat up pick up trucks, laughter in the rain...and something else that rhymes.

I am who I am. Or, as the Pope(ye) eloquently puts it: I yam whats I yam. No excuses. No regrets (well, none that I can share here). No artificial filling. The hyperness is all me, no caffeine. The passion is all me, no bullshit. The outgoing honesty? Well, I'm working on balancing that one.

I have so much that I would like to get off my chest in this strange diatribe. But, hell, I'm barely a B cup so I better hold on to as much as I can.

Happy Mother's Day. To the official and unofficial mothers of the world. You know who you are. And so do those who love you.