HERE’S HOW I KNEW SOMETHING ABOUT MY LIFE HAD to change. I
was sitting in the dentist’s chair, waiting for the topical
numbing goo to take effect on my gum so the dentist
could jab
a needle into the same spot. My only choice for
entertainment was to stare at the light blue walls
surrounding me or flip through the channels available
on the
television suspended on the sea of blue. I chose the latter
and discovered an infomercial: Learn to preach in Spanish.
The sincere narrator promised to tell me how many souls
needed saving, and what an impact I could have, after I took
their course, of course.
Maybe this was the answer to the problem I couldn’t name,
the cause of the sadness I felt just under the surface of my
life? I could become a successful Spanish missionary. I
stared at the screen transfixed until Dr. Bane
appeared to
administer the shot of Novocain.
Unfortunately, I missed the rest of the infomercial as my
tooth’s issues took center stage.
I was at my dentist’s office because, overachiever that
I
am—even when it comes to grinding my teeth—I had ground down
through a thick plastic mouth guard and cracked a tooth.
This, I knew, was not healthy, but it was simply a fact of
my life. Or was, up until that moment when I knew something
had to change. Which, as I said, was just a moment ago.
At age thirty-nine, just, and dreading forty, I have one
gray eyebrow hair that angrily grows back when tweezed, two
adorable boys—a teen named David and a tween named Sean—and
a husband named Patrick. I also have two loyal and trusty
steeds: my dog, Oreo, and my car, Doug. I am in the middle
of life. In a suburb in the middle of America. And I cracked
a tooth because I am too busy being restless in my
subconscious—“chewing things over,” as Dr. Bane put it. And
whatever that busy subconscious had been doing at night,
during the day it was drawn to infomercials about preaching
in Spanish even though I’m not particularly religious and I
don’t speak Spanish. I’m a mess, actually, but I have to
say, especially compared to some of my neighbors, I’m lucky.
On the misery scale, far beyond tooth-grinding people like
me were the people who were unhappy. And then there were the
truly miserable like my neighbors the Thompsons. Heidi
Thompson departed yesterday to I don’t know where, the tires
of her black Lexus sedan screeching as she reversed out of
her driveway. She fell in line behind the three moving vans
that had showed up at her house as I was taking a shower and
left fully loaded before I headed out to run errands.
Heidi’s kids seem not to have made it either on any of the
vans or in her car, though it appears that the family dog
did make the cut. Heidi’s husband—well, soon to be ex-
husband— Bob was sitting alone on the front lawn of his
empty, furniture-less house this afternoon when I left for
the dentist. That was miserable.
So at least I know I’m not Thompson miserable. I am just in
the middle. Middling. Muddling. I’ve looked ahead and
thought, wow, there are so many things I want to do. I’ve
looked behind and felt proud of what I’ve accomplished,
especially how my kids have turned out so far. After Patrick
and I married and I got pregnant with baby boy number one, I
gladly gave up my job as an account executive at a public
relations firm. Sure, I had loved my friends at work
and the
creativity at the office, but I knew I wanted to be a
stay-
at-home mom. And Patrick’s career path at the law firm
has
been remarkably smooth. It’s worked out as planned, and he’s
a partner now.
We have a wonderful standard of living based on Patrick’s
success, my sons are reasonably independent these days, and
everyone is healthy. We’re doing well. So what’s the
problem? I feel stuck. Between what I’ve done and what I
want to do. There was a time when every moment of my day
revolved around my kids and their needs, but not anymore.
And that’s the question I need to wrestle with, the cause of
the restlessness: What’s next?
The thought of reentry into the PR field is daunting.
Regard-
less of how much progress women have made—and we’ve come a
long way, baby—stepping back into that world after a long
hiatus would mean, if I were lucky, a job behind the
receptionist—literally behind her, filing. Actually,
interns
hold those jobs, not somebody like me. And maybe there isn’t
even filing anymore? It could all be digital,
paperless. So
obviously, that field isn’t it.
I’d once dreamed, in my most private of dreams, of being a
television reporter. I think it’s time to finally
cross that
one off. That whole high-definition television
isn’t
flattering, even to the twelve-year-olds who anchor
the local
news every night.
Other women found answers. A friend of mine started her
successful restaurant while raising four kids after her
divorce.
Another friend of a friend makes healthy meals and delivers
them to busy working moms’ houses in time for heating and
serving. Who am I kidding? I get overwhelmed cooking for
just the four of us.
I attended a luncheon last week featuring jewelry made by
women in Kenya. The beautiful woman in charge of the program
spoke passionately about how our purchases will make a
difference in these burgeoning jewelry designer’s
lives. How
was I going to make a difference, though, aside from
buying
jewelry made by a woman in Kenya? In fact I am, at this
moment, wearing a gold ring with an elephant carved into the
center. The artisan who made it did so with care. Looking at
it now, I could almost cry because of its simplicity and
beauty. I hope I helped the artist’s life in a small way;
but what can I do to help mine?
I can’t feel my chin. That’s disturbing in and of itself,
but what’s most disturbing is the fact that my two sons will
arrive home from camp at the end of the summer and ask me
what I’ve been doing. They’re busy sailing, shooting things,
fishing, climbing mountains, swimming, building
campfires, and
eating really unhealthy food. Me? I’ve been stewing,
thinking, pondering, grinding my teeth, supporting other
people’s passions, and—eating really unhealthy food. Patrick
says I’m using carbs and my summertime spending sprees—
elephant ring included—to replace the comfort of kissing the
boys good night, driving them to practice, and basically
caring for them.
After seventeen years of marriage, I’m not about to admit he
might be right. Each summer David and Sean are gone, I
manage to pack on at least six pounds, not an
insignificant
amount of weight on a 5’5” frame. I also tend to indulge in
shopping sprees that fill my closet
with assorted clothes and accessories I don’t need. A check
of my closet right now would already reveal a few hangtags.
I rationalize that if I keep the tags on, I can always take
the clothes back.
The weight is harder to return, though. This summer I’ve
already gained two pounds, and we have another six weeks to
go before I get my babies back. They—whoever “they” are—say
that once you hit the big 4-0, you gain up to ten pounds a
decade just doing what you’ve always been doing. At that
rate, plus the annual camp pounds, I’m headed for obesity
land, or maybe just the Deep South. Today’s paper claimed
that Mississippi, Alabama, and Louisiana have the highest
rates of obesity in the states. Perhaps I’ll find my
future
there?
Drool just made its way to the crease below my chin. Maybe
it’s a crease between my double chins? Here’s the thing: too
much time on my hands is making me care about small things
and lose sight of the big ones. Ever since I opened that
seemingly innocuous letter on December 15 last year, I’ve
been torn between trying to be happy in the moment and
focusing on my future. I guess that’s what happens when you
get a wake-up call.
Mine came in the form of a letter from my doctor instruct-
ing me I needed a diagnostic mammogram. And that I should
schedule it right away. Two things I’ve learned since: Don’t
have your screening mammogram right before Christmas.
Waiting for results during the holiday season was hell. And
the second? I am so lucky. After a double needle biopsy;
after stitches for the one site that wouldn’t close, just
below my nipple; after waiting for four days including the
weekend before Christmas; after Googling and finding
everything tragic and horrible about ductal cancer; after
crying on my couch and trying to be brave; and after the
call came telling me that all was benign, I was fine.
I know I need to do something—something more. For me;
outside my comfort zone, just like my boys are doing while
they’re at camp. Sean, for instance, left for camp sure he’d
conquer water-skiing this year, and that was his biggest
fear. What’s mine? What am I going to tackle? A friend of
mine just climbed Mt. Everest, for the fourth time. But
that’s not my dream: I hate heights—and cold weather.
My New Year’s resolution was to seize my year. I’d been
given a gift: a cancer-free breast. But here I sit, six
months into the year, with drool working its way under the
blue paper shield around my neck and tracing a line down
between my breasts. Maybe I could invent a better dental
drape?
Maybe I need a nap.
I never sleep well during my boys’ summer absence. Last
night was no exception and I’d had a horrible dream. Not
only had my one gray eyebrow hair turned into two gray
bristly hedges above my eyes, my face was covered in
wrinkles. Not just crow’s feet, not just laugh lines: full-
out, you-didn’t-wear-sunscreen (I hadn’t) and used- mirrors-
to-tan (I had) weathered lines that looked like crevasses.
It was a sign. I need to take charge of my life, take
advantage of the sense of urgency I’d felt when I thought
I’d had breast cancer. While I want to grow old gracefully
and happily, and I want to be a grandmother and enjoy slow
walks on the beach, between now and then I need to get
moving. Seize my year.
Fortunately I’ve just invested in the latest sonic skin
scrubber—like an automatic toothbrush for your face—and it’s
guaranteed to keep those wrinkles at bay. At least I think
that’s what the saleswoman at Sephora promised. Or did she
say it simply helps the lotion sink into the wrinkles
better?
I’m a salesperson’s dream. Even a suggestive selling novice
can
make me buy. Just ask the Sephora saleswoman. She’d even
talked me into buying the latest blush, called Orgasm.
Everybody had one, she said. I bought two.
Hey, maybe I could work retail. I could talk women into
Orgasms. I could convince other women like me that the key
to happiness was the next wrinkle filler, scrubber,
zapper,
blush. I could wear a black apron and learn how to paint on
makeup in just the right way to make it appear as if you
weren’t wearing any makeup at all. And, since the new look
is “dewy” instead of matte—according to my sonic scrubber
saleslady—I would tell women to toss their old facial
products and start all over. I could do that!
No I couldn’t. I’d have to work for someone else and pretend
to care deeply about makeup. I’d have to go to the mall,
thereby being in close proximity to all the things I didn’t
need but would buy if given the right push. “We’ll need to
give you two bags!” the Sephora Siren had gushed with a big
smile while tossing in a couple of free samples and my shiny
new frequent buyer membership card.
“Okay, Kelly, that’s all for today. We’ll need a follow up
in two weeks, and the bottom guard will be ready then too,”
said the perky dental assistant.
My head was back and my eyes were closed. Maybe she was
talking so loudly to try to wake me up. A quick image
flashes
across my mind: I envision myself climbing into bed each
evening, top and bottom teeth covered in plastic. Patrick
gives up even trying to kiss me good night. I just clack my
guards together as a sign of affection, like a seal
slapping
her front flippers. At least my face will be smooth
and
sonically scrubbed.
As the dental assistant elevated me back to a sitting
position, I
tried to feel my lips. Nope. Chin? Nope. Could I learn to
preach in Spanish? Nope. Could I start a restaurant? Could I
go back to the PR firm? Could I move to Kenya? Could I
sell
sonic face scrubbers? Nope. Nope. Nope. And nope. I headed
toward the door and friendly, helpful Susie sitting at Dr.
Bane’s front desk asked when I would be free to come back.
“Really, I’m free anytime,” I slurred, sounding and feeling
pathetic.
“I’ll call you when the appliance arrives,” Susie chirped
back happily.
You’d think I’d ordered a new refrigerator; that’s how happy
she sounded.