mama

On Monday afternoon, Kristy came out to the barn with a Mother's Day greeting she'd colored that day. She handed it to me. "But, I'm not a mother," I offered, feeling like Captain Obvious–Kristy is autistic, maybe she was confused. She paused for a moment, then said, "Yes you are."

My little helper

To my knowledge, I've never given birth to anyone, much less had a living being in my womb for nine months. Biologically speaking, I am not a mother. But when Kristy said that I was, I knew almost immediately that I wasn't going to win the argument. Sometimes sanity falls short.

I think it was sometime last summer that Kristy started calling me Mama. "Hey Mama," she calls across the parking lot when I get out of my car. The staff says that Kristy's much less willing to help outside when I'm not there. Nine times out of ten, she meets me in the barn within five minutes of my arrival.

Kristy's eager to tell me the latest animal news–show me a strange bump on Diamond's neck or discuss a recent incident wherein both horses managed to free themselves while being moved from the pasture to the barn, initiating, according to Kristy, an exciting victory run across the farm. She wasn't worried; she knew they would eventually go to their stalls of their own accord. And they would.

Kristy knows a lot about the residents of the barn. While I start to groom the horses, she pokes around, checking on the goats and the chickens. She brings me an egg, freshly pulled from a roost. She's never in a hurry, much to my annoyance when it's her turn to ride, and she'd rather discuss how Diamond is feeling than pick up a brush to help groom him.

Harder than it looks

"How is your little boy?" Kristy often asks. The little boy to whom she refers is my best friend's son Eli, whom I sometimes bring to the farm with me. Because he lost his daddy two weeks after he was born, I lived with Eli the first month of his life. In the morning, when he woke up, I'd steal him out of the bedroom and rock him quietly while he stared intently at the multi-colored lamp shades above my head. I wondered how he felt about not being able to care for himself–was he frustrated or did he feel safe?

When I hold other people's babies, I can often feel their parental misgivings. But I've never dropped one–though I once nearly lost the battle with a baby swing; thankfully, someone showed up to help before I had to consider Eli's legs a casualty.

I've explained countless times that Eli's not actually my little boy, that he lives with his mother, and she cares for him; but Kristy doesn't seem to care, offering suggestions for where I should take him or what I should feed him. Missy, who also lives at the farm, assumes the same. "Are you taking your little boy to get a flu shot?," she wants to know.

"No, that's up to his mom; she decides those things," I explain.

"I think you should take him to get a flu shot."

"Well, I'm not his mom, so..."

"It won't really hurt that bad, ok?"

"Ok, but..."

"Just take him to get a flu shot, okay, Tash?"

"Okay, Missy."

------------------

Recently Eli spent the night at my apartment. We had blueberry pancakes for dinner because it's easy to be the coolest mom for one night.

"I'm going to sleep in your bed," Eli says.

"Okay, as long as you don't kick me," I agree.

After an episode of Pink Panther and sufficient story-reading, I tuck him into bed.

"My mommy usually lays down with me for five minutes," he tells me.

I lay next to him, and remember doing the same until my little sisters fell asleep. I remember trying to sneak away after my childhood Chihuahua Chi Chi fell asleep–which was much harder. Eli turns and squirms. Then he faces me and looks in my eyes. He reaches an arm over my shoulder: "I love you," he sighs. Is he trying to manipulate me? Who cares.

Ten minutes later, he remembers he needs to brush his teeth.

Cat reminders left by my little boy

The first thing I remember wanting to be was a mommy. And I wanted five children–because two wasn't enough, three meant awkward dinner table arrangements, and four was too even–five seemed just right, enough to feel like a big family, but not too big.

Now I'm not sure I'll have any children, biologically speaking. Suffice it to say, I have some complications, not least of which being the lack of someone in my life to have babies with. And though I've witnessed the incomparable beauty of birth, when I think of birthing five people out of my body, I nearly pass out. But I'm not all that concerned. As they say, "The show ain't over till..." That saying just took on a whole new meaning for me. And if the final act never comes, I think I'm gonna be OK.

I certainly never imagined having a 'child' several years older than myself. Life is funny that way. I take the greeting from Kristy's hand and smile. "You're right," I say and give her a squeeze.

"C'mon, Mama," she says, and we head toward the house.

OneArmGirl

 

real women have dimension

I don’t want to write about this. It goes against my instincts of self-preservation and privacy. But I should have considered that before I started this blog, which is nothing if not honest. 

I recently experienced a heart-bruising, from which, I am finding, I am still recovering. This hurt in love was as much my fault as his, if not more so, but hurt it is nonetheless. It’s left me tender, wanting to listen only to classic rock, a now familiar sign that I am trying to feel less vulnerable.

And so, you may well understand why this was not a good week to stumble on a soft-porn site and find pictures of myself, the one-armed girl, posted thereon. Not only were pictures skimmed from my blog, but comments were left, one particularly disrespectful, and another stating that I am currently “looking for a boyfriend”–something of which I was unaware.

Unfortunately this is not the first time I’ve found my particular handicap pop up in a search along with sexually degrading web sites–I’d recommend you not try this type of web browsing at home–But I’ve never actually found myself on one of those sites. I guess I’d be flattered if I hadn’t felt so disgraced and upset. I actually felt shame for “contributing” to the objectification of women and handicaps. And this on the heels of writing about freak shows-apparently, objectification doesn't discriminate. And I'm a freak?

Now I have a few things on my mind; don’t worry, they don’t involve cutting off any part of the male anatomy.

I would like to particularly address any visitors of the aforementioned site who are directed to TheOneArmGirl.com thanks to the poster conveniently leaving my blog address in the post.

A) Welcome. I'm glad you're here, and not there.

B) You may be disappointed because this site is about empowering, not degrading, people with handicaps (of which, incidentally, you fall well-within the demographic).

And...

C) I feel sorry for you. Not sorry like I want to hit you over the head with a tire iron–that was yesterday. Today I feel sad for you, and all men (or women), who are believing a lie because of two-dimensional, photoshopped spreads. Thinking this is sexual gratification, you are missing out on the superior gratification of loving a real woman. Expecting the same thing from a woman that you get from a replication is like expecting gourmet to taste like fast food. It’s time to raise your expectations.

Loving a real woman is hard, yes-as Meredith Brooks puts so appropriately: “I’m a bitch, I’m a lover, I’m a child, I’m a mother...” Couldn’t have said it better, I think to myself, shoveling manure as the song plays through the barn. I’m sure it was appreciated by both male horses as they munched their hay–we won’t talk about what happened to their male parts.

But since when does difficult mean time to back down?

----------------------  

But I have some good news. Not coincidentally, I ran into two real men this week.

On Saturday night, I went to dinner with one of the kindest guys I’ve ever met. He ordered more sushi for us than I could dream of eating at one sitting, and asked the sort of questions that I giggle with delight to answer–none of which included ‘What’s your sign?’ or ‘Favorite movie?'

I also received an email from an admiring fan–No, not my mother. We’ll call him Guy, he’s new to OneArmGirl, and I’ve never met him. As if it weren’t flattering enough that Guy’s read every post I’ve written since I started blogging, he called me “enchanting” and said I “write with a hint of the sort of charming understatement, even self-deprecation” which he generally identifies with British writers. Could I hope for a better compliment? So much for self-deprecation. It doesn’t count against me if I’m quoting someone else, does it?

But Guy’s email wasn’t superficial flattery. Having “seen” me only on a computer monitor, Guy recognized real things about me–things certainly influenced by my handicaps, but none directly related. He made me feel real, parts aside.

Real women have curves?–Even porn peddlers can join that bandwagon. No, real women are more than arms or lips or toes–or the absence thereof.

"This may mean you'll have to be a stronger man."

Using my pictures for cheap gratification is your loss. Real women have more than two dimensions. We live in 3D. You might want to put on your glasses for the full experience. 

OneArmGirl

freak show

Thanks to a new follower of this blog, I've been made aware of an important Facebook page called Armless Wonder, dedicated to the men and, probably, mostly women who were exhibited in freak shows, demonstrating various mundane tasks such as smoking a cigarette or using a writing utensil with their feet. Apparently, for the Victorians, this was not only freakish, but also provocative, as women rarely showed any part of their legs above the ankle, much less made dinner with their toes.

And, as I hadn't a clue as of yesterday what I was going to write about today, this find provided a perfect opportunity to share something I wrote several years ago for Confessions of a One-Armed Girl: 

from us-smkr.info

It used to be that people with disabilities joined freak shows. That was how they made it in this world. When I was a kid, my mom read us a true story about conjoined twins from Siam (now Thailand), who, through various stints in show business, popularized the term 'Siamese Twins.' Not only did they make a living from being joined at the stomach, they both got married and fathered 21 children all together. Yeah, try to get your head around that one.

I watch freak show documentaries with interest. “Why’d they do it?” I find myself asking. Why would people with some sort of physical deformity subject themselves to public display and possibly scorn, even contributing to the stereotype of being less than human? They were labeled freaks by their own employers. You’d hardly get away with that in today’s society of political correctness. I’m sure there must be endless hypotheses as to why the bearded woman and the half lizard man joined the freak show. Maybe it was for the money. Maybe they got attention they’d been denied all their life. Maybe they had no other option. I don’t know. But sometimes I wonder if they actually chose to be a 'freak' because the title fit. Like there was maybe nowhere else in the world like the freak show, where being a freak was a good thing, something lauded and praised. Is it possible that these people joined the freak show because they actually felt like they belonged there? This is just a theory I’m working on.

It doesn’t take much for me to feel like a walking freak show. Just going to Target or the food court at the mall can feel like stepping on stage in front of hundreds of eyes. “And now, the amazing one-armed girl! Yes, folks, she’s got just one arm and she still goes shopping just like any other person. Amazing, isn’t it? Watch closely, you might get to see her tie her own shoe!” Sometimes I have to giggle because people can hardly conceal their amazement at most anything I do.

But sometimes, mostly when I’m tired and introverted, I don’t like feeling like a float at the Macy’s Day Parade. So I’ve become an expert at concealing my handicap. If I walk fast, wear a coat, or smile a lot, I may get by even the most observant onlooker without being found out. When I first met my best friend Audra, she didn’t notice that my coat sleeve was empty. In fact it took a few weeks before she thought, ‘Hey, why is Tasha wearing her watch on her right wrist?'

Considering my innate aversion to stares, one may find it a bit counter-intuitive that I became very actively involved in drama in high school. But something drew me to the stage, every aspect of production, but I loved acting. I loved standing there at the end of a musical number with the cameras flashing and the crowd applauding. It felt like all eyes were on me and I loved it. I hated auditioning, but I did anyway, just to have that chance to stand on stage again. The thing is, I knew I had talent, I knew I had something to say and to do, I just needed my big break.

But my big break never came, unless you consider singing “Beauty School Dropout” dressed in a pink leotard and a shower cap, a big break. I never had a starring role, never. And to this day, I’m a little bitter. That’s when I felt my disability was really working against me. Maybe I didn’t have the talent, but truthfully, I believe my greatest talent, taking on the world with only one full arm, turned out to be too much of a distraction for the stage. I imagine waltzing on for my crucial opening scene, where I leave my lover standing at the alter, and all the while the audience is thinking, “Hey, what happened to her arm?” And then, in the next scene, they’ll be like, “Hey, did they break up? And seriously, what happened to her arm? This play sucks.” At least that’s how it goes in my mind.

from aurelia.mx

Later in college, I got some callbacks for leading roles. But it never really panned out there either. Eventually I just got tired of being one of many in the ever underestimated ‘chorus’ or ‘villagers’ or ‘townspeople.’ They go by many names but are often told the same thing by directors all over the country: “There’s no small roles, just small actors,” which is partially true and partially meant to stop the grumbling that accompanies late nights and long rehearsals. So I guess I just got tired of small roles or long rehearsals or maybe I’m just a small actor, but nonetheless I began to put less stock in the stage.

I think it was in college that I realized why acting came so naturally to me. Shakespeare said that all of life is a stage, and in my case, nothing could be more true. Not unlike a movie star, I feel noticed everywhere I go. I am, in essence, living my own personal freak show. So somewhere along the way, I decided it might be worth taking advantage of my high profile. I never chose to be noticeable, but since I was, I figured there had to be an upside. For instance, I often have the complete attention of the world around me, if only for a few seconds. It’s kind of like those movies where everything is suddenly frozen except one character who is still moving. I also realized there was little I can do to make people stare more, they were already looking, and there was freedom in that.

Suddenly, my liability as an actor became an asset in my regular life. I decided to give myself permission to do pretty much anything. I could dye my hair purple or dance to the music in the elevator and it wouldn’t matter because people were already staring. I had gotten used to being in the spotlight and, over the years, I actually started to enjoy it. Carrying cafeteria food trays with one arm, a sometimes daunting task, became an opportunity to show off my ability. Not only would I carry it from the salad bar to my table, I

Most likely to be a freak?

would stand at the edge of the table while the waitress finished clearing it, then set it down, just for show. I get a small high when fellow gas station patrons peer through the filling stations to get a glimpse of me pumping my own gas. If I’m feeling generous, I’ll squeegy my windows as an encore.

And while I was coming to my quiet conclusions, Hollywood had the same idea. Lately, certain prominent celebrities with handicaps are appearing on the reality television circuit. Heather Mills, former wife of Paul McCartney, appeared with a prosthetic leg on ABC’s ballroom dancing competition Dancing with the Stars. Next came actress Marlee Matlin who found her inner sense of rhythm despite not being able to hear the music. I don’t think I’m the only one who watched with interest. The judges were consistently blown away by the commitment and level of competition these ladies brought to the show.

Just a few nights ago I happened to catch the latest episode of something I consider to be the closest thing to a freak show since Wild Bill Hickock. Celebrity Circus enlists the Hollywood B-list to attempt various big top endeavors like the Wheel of Death as they vie for the top spot. Oh my goodness, can you imagine my reaction to a show that would put Burt Reynolds on the high wire? Of course Burt Reynolds has too much good sense for that, but still, can you imagine? This week, I watched Wee Man of Jackass stunts fame, born with a form of dwarfism, attempt and succeed at balancing a gigantic weight-lifter on his back. Impressive. And this was after he’d beat out other competitors with acts like the wheel of fire.

Wee Man is a modern day freak. He’s making a living doing things that we love to watch because it's strange, and it might be impossible. There’s just something extra interesting about watching a deaf actress do the Mambo. People want to see the underdog get ahead. It’s as primal as eating and buying something on sale. It makes us feel good inside.

from androidbees.com

So I’ve realized that maybe the freaks were onto something. They knew something that it’s taken me years to learn. They looked at disability and saw opportunity; they made a living at just being who they were. Several years ago I began to ask myself a question: “Are you ready to be a career freak?” And simultaneously it occurred to me that I may not even have a choice. I’m interested in people like Heather and Marlee and Wee Man because they are helping me to understand my place in the world. When I decided to join the freak show, I started to feel much less like a freak and more like a person. I found identity and purpose like I’d never known before. I started to find me.
 

announcement

I don’t know if it’s coincidence or not that I started back into a project this week that lay dormant all of last year, and, on the same day, inexplicably put my right leg into my pants first, when I always start with the left.

 

But what better time than Spring for starting new things. And it seems appropriate, as we approach the one year anniversary of TheOneArmGirl blog, that I go public with another project that’s still in the wings. 

Curtain, please–I am writing a book! Tadaa!! For some of you this is not an announcement, but old news, and you’ve probably already given up hope of ever seeing it in print. But for those unaware, five years ago, also in the Spring as I recall, I decided that I was going to write a book. There is a great deal of garbage and life composting from which this idea grew, but it sprouted from the realization that my disability(s) were giving me a shit-load of material that couldn’t be ignored. And so I began to write, in the midst of upheaval, sitting on a mattress in my parents house, the frame having been already taken as they packed up the house to move.

The working title is Confessions of a One-Armed Girl. I tell people it’s not personal; a joke that hasn’t gone over especially well. Then I tell them it’s a collection of essays on the disability experience, specifically mine. When they nod sympathetically, I’m quick to chime in, “and it’s funny.”

One of the first essays I wrote was 'Joey’s Theory' because he shifted the spotlight onto what I most wanted to hide, leading to the creation of OneArmGirl. I loved to act, but now my handicap was

Sneak peak

becoming the star.

I’d wanted to write a book forever, probably before I was even conscious of wanting to write. I wrote a series of chaptered books and self-published them when I was nine, but since then, nothing had materialized. From time to time, I’d open a new document with the best of intentions, but I never got more than a few paragraphs down before I got bored and filed it as a ‘work in progress’, never to be opened again. But Confessions was different. Ideas were tumbling out chapter after chapter, like it was coming from a wellspring I’d never tapped into. I knew the concept wasn’t mine because the last thing I’d ever wanted was to be associated with the handicapped. How could I have known I had so much to say?

Since the Divine push, I’ve worked on Confessions in spurts over the past few years, around writer’s block and other demands and delays of life. Then, a year ago, at 33 chapters and 144 pages of the third draft, convinced that it was all mildly entertaining rubbish, I decided to take a break. I was sick of my own confessions. I sent the draft out to some readers for feedback, which they generously returned, and I put the manuscript and feedback in a pile where they proceeded to collect dust for the next nine months.

Writer's desk

However, with my book temporarily shelved, I finally overcame my fear of commitment, and started a blog; the very same blog you read today. Really, TheOneArmGirl.com is a reflection of the book, kind of a PR experiment. And largely because of my readers, the blog has encouraged and inspired, and even surprised me over the past year. I soak up the feedback like water on cracked earth.

And so, with renewed determination, I’ve taken Confessions off the shelf, and spread its bits and pieces over my tiny kitchen card table. It seems inviting, especially sitting atop the red and white checkered tablecloth, like a book writing picnic. I even borrowed a book of agents and publishers from the library, which makes the whole thing look much more official.

I don’t know where this is going to end up, but I hope you’ll join me on the journey, to eat an unhealthy amount of carbs when I get rejected, and to raise a glass of champagne when the time comes. Because it is you, who read what I write, that make it all worthwhile.

So, here’s to new beginnings; though I think I’ll continue putting on my pants, left leg first. Let's not get carried away.

OneArmGirl  

politically incorrect

I'm shocked, incensed, and disappointed. Last week I ordered a custom designed debit card from my banking institution. I spent a good ten minutes of my valuable time browsing through my photo library to find just the right pic, and I knew it was a stroke of genius when I came to this...

You may remember this was a photo taken last year at Joey and Heidi's Birthday Karaoke Throwdown. I uploaded with excitement and placed the order with dreams of shocked and confused store clerks everywhere, asking "credit or debit?"

"Debit, please, with a side of stereotype-flipped-upside-down-crazy-confetti-party." I was going to spread the word, one plastic transaction at a time.

And then...I got rejected. Several days later I received a letter in the mail from said banking institution, denying my request on the grounds that it did not meet their guidelines for debit card art. What?! I felt a little silly as I skimmed the guidelines, realizing that my photo did potentially fall under several categories for dismissal. It could be considered 'shocking' and 'offensive,' even, I had to admit with embarrassment, 'sexual in nature.'

But that was the point! That's why the photo is so great. It embodies everything I want to say about disability–that it's interesting and edgy and challenges the status quo. It is sexy, darn it, and I'm bringing it back. I don't even care about custom debit cards; I only did it because they lured me in with a free offer. And now I've been censored. I'm just like Alice Paul, dragged off to jail to stop her protesting for women's suffrage in front of the White House. Well, at least a little like.

I feel like I got slapped on the wrist and put in a time out for even attempting something so 'outrageous.' And this isn't the first time. I can't tell you how many times I've told a joke about my arm to the reaction of an uncomfortable grimace and "Oh, no, you can't say that." Let me repeat: I'm telling a joke about my own arm. But that is not allowed. Those are the rules. They're meant to protect me, but it turns out, I'm the most offensive one.

----------------

I went out for a beer with Beto on Sunday evening. He's been depressed lately because he never went to college and, now in his 40s, feels like he hasn't done anything with his life. I tell him that some of my favorite people have not been formally educated. 

"I love their fresh perspectives," I say, "They don't have a filter. School is supposed to open minds, but it teaches certain acceptable ways of thinking, making sure everyone comes out politically corrected. It's like they're all..."

Beto at work

"Brain-washed," Beto finishes. I nod sadly.

Beto should know about brainwashing. He was 'inducted' into a notorious gang in the late '70s. He pulls up the Gangland episode from YouTube on his iPhone to show me his old neighborhood. I can hardly contain a bemused smile at this.

He got out of the gang in the mid '80s, but under the tattoos, he still bears emotional scars. 

"I should be in jail," he admits. But he spends every chance he gets with his ten-year-old son. Otherwise he's at the gym or the restaurant where he works, unmistakable at 6'2'' in 50's style, always ready with a hug and a cheerful greeting between bussing tables. "I always tell people, I'm not what I do," he says, "This isn't me." 

"I tried to dress mainstream for a while," Beto says, "it just wasn't me." Respect for individuality seems important; he gets excited when he talks about defending people who get picked on and bullied. 

"You're a mentor," I conclude.

"What?! Me a mentor?," he laughs, shocked at the suggestion.

Beto is getting ready to go to a Rockabilly convention in Las Vegas. "So, what exactly happens at a Rockabilly convention?," I ask, "Is everyone wearing poodle skirts and singing 'Greased Lightning'?" Beto rolls his eyes under a perfect pompadour. Apparently poodle skirts are a stereotype. But I had to ask. How else will I learn?

Stereotypes have to be poked, squeezed, and up-ended to get to the people underneath. That's what humor is for.

Politically correct me if I'm wrong, but how else will we learn?

OneArmGirl 

 

reunited

I have some very good news. At long last, Ferb the hook-arm-rabbit, has been reunited with his partner, hook-arm-rabbit #2.

As you may recall, these two prosthetic-wearing bunnies were unearthed about a year ago in the process of clearing out my grandparents' house, where they'd spent my childhood as ready objects of play for fifteen grandchildren. Although, if my memory serves me correctly, we never actually played with them because, to be honest, they were creepy. I'm sorry, Grandma, but they were. In fact, they still are. But how on earth my grandmother discovered

Ferb (left) and his lady (right)

these enigmas in the pre-internet days of the early 80's remains a mystery.

 

Ferb came to live with me last summer, with what I imagined to be his twin brother remaining back east at my parents' place. But while rummaging through their closets recently, I discovered Ferb #2, who, aside from a disturbingly similar handicap, is not only not an exact twin, but seems, most obviously to me, to be a female rabbit.

Well, it just seemed cruel to keep them apart, so female Ferb was tucked away in my already overly stuffed luggage and secreted west. After all, I thought, what's funnier than a hook-arm-stuffed-rabbit? Two hook-arm-stuffed-rabbits, of course. That they both have a carrot velcroed to their hook arm is just the icing on the cake. And for you speakers of 'proper' English, that's cuddly toys. I'm thinking 'stuffed rabbit' may have gotten you off on the wrong track.

And so, after nearly a year of separation, the two handicapped bunnies are back together again. And for inanimate objects, they both seem much happier. It's nice to see love flourishing around here, since my own love life, or romantic antics, of late have failed to bloom, sprouting instead into flowerless stems that eventually get pruned. Hey, it was a good Spring analogy.

But in some strange, no doubt delusional way, those hook-arm rabbits are making me believe that sometimes, when it's right, things work out, and you find your handicapped soulmate.

---------------------

When I'd taken Ferb on an outing to the farm last fall, I noticed his hook arm was sadly detaching at the seam; and when I left, Kristy insisted that I leave him in her care so that she could sow him back together. I was doubtful, but agreed.

Weeks went by without his return and one day before I left for the winter, fearing his forever disappearance into her bedroom, I insisted that Kristy bring him to my car. But when she returned, it was not Ferb she was carrying, but this...

Impostor rabbit

...which, though wearing rabbit ears, is definitely not a rabbit.

"Here," she said happily, "he can keep you company till I fix Ferb."

Won over by the hilarious outcome of my pathetic pleading, I acquiesced––but only because the aptly named Care Bear was wearing bunny ears. And to my amazement, three months later, Ferb was returned, carefully stitched back together, as promised.

And not a minute too soon for the re-furbished Ferb to hook his arm under his gal's and hop off into the sunset; or sit in the narrow strip of grass between the street and my apartment. Whatever.

But I've had a firm talk with these two. The last thing we need around here is a bunch of little hook-arm rabbits.

Is it just me, or does he have a mischievous smile?

OneArmGirl


PS. Help! Mrs. Ferb needs a name... 

slump

The transition back to my life in the USA has been surprisingly easy. I found my beloved apartment mostly like we left it, aside from a light covering of dust. And yesterday, I went out to the farm, where I was welcomed back with open arms by everyone...aside

Horse hug

from the horses who, if they remembered that I’d been gone for nearly four months, didn’t let on. But then, they also don’t have arms. 

So, maybe it’s post-India blues, but since I got back, I’ve been just...slumped. Sometimes I’m sad, but mostly I just feel uninterested and unmotivated. There are more than enough exciting options I could pour myself into right now, but I’m lacking
the desire.

Needless to say, I was drawing a blank for this week’s post. So while I wait for what writer Julia Cameron calls ‘marching orders,’ I’ve decided to post a fitting essay I wrote at another slumpy juncture...  

Where do we go from here? 

I turned 28 last month, which means, according to plan, I should be a) Just returning from a three year ex-patriot adventure in India, b) Falling in love with a sexy Latin man who believes dancing is just an everyday activity, and c) Have everything about life pretty much figured out so I don’t waste any more time with the circular philosophical questions that plague me constantly.

Things aren’t looking good. I never imagined that somewhere in my mid 20s, suddenly and out of nowhere, I’d spend about a year (OK, maybe two or three) in an existential crisis, and then get plopped down not far from where I left off, but feeling completely lost,

In transit

without a clue what to do next. A year or so into my crisis, I met my friend Colleen at Wendy’s for a salad. I was telling her my tale of woe and lostness between bites of lettuce, turkey, and bacon bits when she said this: “I don’t think anyone our age really knows what they want to do.” I sat there sullenly. “But I did know,” I wanted to tell her. “I had it all figured out and now it’s all gone.”

But not only have I not accomplished the goals I dreamed up six years ago, I think my goals are actually changing (pause for shocked gasp). Disturbingly, in the past three years, not all at once, but slowly I’ve been changing my mind about things. I’m starting to understand some things that I didn’t know in my early 20s, like that rest and health are the foundation of anything that might follow; that sometimes your life’s passion is right under your nose and you don’t even know it; and that travel is way overrated. I’ve also been thinking more about getting married and having babies, which scares me so badly, sometimes I have to go sit in a closet and breathe slow, deep breaths until I settle down. I also have to promise myself that if I have babies, they will be miniature clones of Antonio Banderas.

The thing is, instead of dreaming about backpacking through Europe, I’m starting to feel more and more like wanting to contribute something important, right where I am. I feel a need to create, to produce something that might outlive me. I’m hoping it’s not just my

Laundry out to dry in Greece

biological clock ticking.

But lately, I’ve been lying in bed, unable to fall asleep, just thinking and thinking about what I want to do with my life. Thinking really isn’t the correct term; obsessing is more accurate. Just after repeating to myself the long list of helpful things I’ve learned about life in the past few years, like how true satisfaction comes from simply appreciating things like a great cup of coffee on a cool morning, something inside immediately begins to cry out, “But, but, I never got to live with orphans in Guatemala or traverse the Sahara on a camel.” What will I tell my children for heaven’s sake, that Mommy was going to live

A favorite pastime

abroad for a while, maybe start a school for blind Russians or learn to speak Italian while drinking cappuccinos in outdoor cafes . . . but then, she changed her mind and decided to stay home?

When my cousin Lynell stopped wanting to play Barbies with me, I told her reproachfully, “I will never stop playing with Barbies.” I just can’t let go of some dreams. Like my dog, Chi Chi, who used to lock her jaws onto a sock and refuse to let go even when we’d lift the sock so high, she’d dangle in the air. I’m passionate and driven, and when I want something, I have a hard time letting go. I’m willing to risk everything; I want it so bad, it seems impossible to start un-wanting it.

But now, nearing 30, the barbies are packed away in a box in storage (I don’t have the heart to get rid of them) and I have to acknowledge that people do change and some desires will eventually wane and change into new, different desires. I guess I just wish the change was less painful, less drawn out, and a little more clear cut. I’ve told God several times that if he just came down in all his shining splendor and told me what I should do with my life, I could go any direction, no problem, no questions asked. But then I have to

Morning chai in India

remind myself that I always have questions. I would throw out some hypotheticals. I would want God to really consider all my options.

But there seems a fine line between shooting for the stars and jumping into a black hole. I’m starting to accept that having it all figured out, at 28 or any other age, is not a realistic goal: that asking, “Where do we go from here?” may be a monthly, if not weekly or daily question. 

And sometimes it’s a question that just has to get lost for a while.

OneArmGirl