Tuesday, May 20, 2014

and then you get a ferris wheel

some days can be harder than others. some days it's the internal struggle of whether you eat your feelings some more or you just sit in your bathroom in the dark and have a good cry, mascara and snot running simultaneously.

twenty-four hours just isn't enough. right now i need twenty-eight or thirty. thirty hours would be great. and i wouldn't sleep, i promise. i'd study more so my mom doesn't get worried and i'd run a little farther and i'd schedule a whole hour for meals, maybe i'd even see breakfast. and then maybe, in those small moments before bed i'd be able to read this book i've had bookmarked at chapter two for three weeks. or i'd stare at the ceiling and stretch my legs while listening to vinyl...i haven't done that in ages.

sometimes you have to schedule it. the scenic route home so you get one more song on the radio, the thanks that the person painting your nails doesn't speak English because then you can ponder the significance of russian navy nails matching the swimsuit you won't be wearing to the beach because it's too cold, and then get wrapped up in the documentary on the TV-- the Discovery channel, it's actually the coolest thing.

and you have to be grateful for that time, and not judge it against the time that could have been spent doing other things.

and you have to hug the people around you who force you to get out: to play carnival games and eat cotton candy. for the one who will sneak you out to see the ferris wheel before the kiddies get to it, only slightly judging you for taking 8 pictures of it and wanting to put them all on instagram.

this is a time of year when emotions are high, time is fleeting, and every moment counts. and i want it all to last a little longer. to linger.

but i'm ready.
the final countdown.
and, you know, a ferris wheel.


Tuesday, May 13, 2014

happily.ever.after.

They all could be famous one day.

Those faces I see coming and going every day. Sometimes they are on stage in costumes and more makeup than I dare image. I see it crumbling off  hours later as they shovel in spoonfuls of ice cream. As they yell over each other trying to keep my attention from my computer screen.

They could be famous one day.

When they speak there are hushed voices. When they sing people stop and listen. With the standing ovations and packed recitals, they always stand center stage. You can see them in person or live stream it to wherever you are. When the volume is high every voice is distinguishable and individual.

They could be famous.

Because they have raw talent and educated minds. Because they are strong and independent and determined. Because they have big dreams and a plan to get them there. Because they believe that everything, even the fairy tale, is possible.

Someday, their name will be in lights and their autograph will be worth something. Someday they will be their own business with assistants and managers.

But that is someday.

Today. Well today they get to be seventeen.

They get to skip around outside hand and hand with their best friend. They get to have a major crush on the boy next to them in ecology. They get to learn how to skip rocks from their roommate. They get to lay on blankets in crop tops and short shorts with huge diva sunglasses and no one will bother them.

Today I get to witness their lives as they are right now. Delightful beautiful messes all of us. The drama of relationships and college and senior year. The question of which prom dress to wear, who is dating whom, what’s for dinner-- those are hot topics. I provide the never ending candy jar and a couch that is always open for long chats and semi naps.

That’s what I do. I witness lives.

One day we could all be famous. And live happily ever after.

Today, today, we get to be together.



mamma c: long may she reign

It’s amazing what time does to people. It morphs them and changes them. Each minute leaves a mark in some way. Nothing goes unrecognized.

From ever since I can remember she has been here. Right by me. Someone asked me once what my first memory of her was, but there is no way to separate her from me in my head, and in those early memories, there is just us. Together.

Time has not been easy on her. Those stories that spill out of her-- that I didn’t even know existed until late nights one summer when I was much older-- those stories tell a life that I can only imagine. One where the children were the grown ups and the faults of parents were too strong to ignore. I see her as a little girl with dark hair and a stern face. There wouldn’t be visible softness, just an inner light that would refuse to go out throughout any of that.

She says all she ever wanted was us. No matter how old we are or how dysfunctional we act, we were dreamed into existence by her. We are her softness, her smile, her hope.

There is nothing I am that is not because of her. She taught me to trust the world, to believe in goodness, to give more than I take, to love because it feels good, and to dream because all things are possible.

I am her biggest accomplishment and she is my biggest gift.

Happy (now belated) Mother’s Day Mamma. Long may you reign.

Friday, May 9, 2014

one grey hair at a time

I turned twenty-six this past Sunday. (Yay birthdays!) And, I was sitting at dinner surrounded by margaritas and queso dip and my dear friend Maggie, the queen of good questions and conversation starters, asks me: “So Mary, what was your favorite moment of being twenty -five?”

She was probably hoping for a good story. An all nighter. That one time I made out by the lake (which has NEVER happened mother, I assure you). Something juicy. What she got was probably much more representative of me. What she got was honest.

I said something like this:

I hated turning twenty-five. It seemed old. Solid. People who are twenty-five seem to be more put together, more direct, there is something about them that you expect just comes with the age. And I felt none of that. Plus, I knew that I would be twenty-five and working this small life in northern Michigan and I was terrified that I was somehow disappointing my sixteen year old self. That she was looking at me from somewhere in utter disbelief -- that all those late nights, the lack of social life, the grades-- had landed me here.

But instead, twenty five came, because I have absolutely no control over time, and nothing horrible happened. It became a complicated year. And somewhere between Thanksgiving and New’s Years I took a deep breath and let all that other crap go. Somewhere in there I became totally okay with being in my mid-twenties, no matter what it actually looked like. Because there is so much about coming of age and growing up that is work that never gets glorified or considered a success. No, I don’t have a husband, or a baby, or a small business. I don’t own my own home, I haven’t graduated from anything beyond undergrad. But I am here. I am strong and independent. I am getting better and better at being in my own skin, no matter what it looks like or how much it weighs. I have opinions and likes and desires. I can decorate and name my favorite band and give advice. I write and read and listen to vinyl. I bought a car and pay my own bills. I know how I like my eggs and my coffee. I have dreams and a way to get them. I am every bit my own person. And I built that. (Well, me and a village.)

And so that makes me feel good. That makes me proud and deserving of celebration.

It’s a beautiful thing getting older. It’s a gift not everyone gets. And no, twenty-six isn’t old. But it’s old enough. And wonderfully enough, it just isn’t that scary. (Next year...well that could be different…)