Merry and Bright . . . or Gloomy and Dark

Humor me if you will and hop into my DeLorean time machine and join me in a visit to December 21, 2000. Your heroine was a size eight back then – in both dress and shoe size – even though her only exercise was racing through various airports for work. But hey – I can still fit into those size eight shoes from 16 years ago. And a pointy-toed pump paired really well with my flared jeans. I colored my hair back then because I wanted to, not because I had to lest I look like an extra from the Golden Girls. When I say I colored my hair, I mean it. I favored Loreal Feria’s “Chocolate Cherry” which I applied in my tiny bathroom on lazy Sunday afternoons.

After a series of starts and stops as I tried to “find myself” personally and professionally, I finally felt like I was at the top of my game in December of 2000. I worked for a major airline (see also: airport sprinting as a form of exercise) who financed my recently acquired MBA, I had a career path, I lived in a petite duplex in an almost trendy neighborhood in NE Minneapolis, and I had a closet full of clothes acquired at the Gap. If that’s not winning, I don’t know what is. I felt like I had life by the balls – and I was so busy plotting my future (which included world domination) that the present decided to slap me in the face with a reality check.

By any definition, I’m a product of privilege and good luck. My disappointments in life were, in retrospect, the petty stuff of teen angst and delayed adolescence – things like a bad grade on a test; a mean teacher; not getting the part I wanted in the school play; being homesick when I left for college; and not getting promoted at work when I felt like I had earned it. Aside from a health scare in my mid-teens, I was healthy – and I was woefully unprepared to cope with illness, sadness, or even true disappointment. My biggest decisions were whether to spend my paychecks on food or travel back then.

Wednesday, December 20, 2000. I’d been spending a lot of time on the road, traveling to exotic destinations like Detroit, Michigan and Hibbing, Minnesota for work. It would be another seven years until Steve Jobs would introduce the iPhone to earth, thus changing the way we interact forever. Only the very wealthy and very important had cell phones back then – and they weren’t smart. They were Nokias. Since we didn’t yet live in a hyper-connected world, we relied on landlines and answering machines to communicate – and when I was on the road, it wasn’t uncommon for me to go days without talking to family and friends. Thus, I wasn’t immediately alarmed when I realized that my last six phone calls to Nate had gone unanswered.

It was bitterly cold with a foot of snow on the ground already and temperatures hovering near the double-digits below zero. Getting dressed for work was a daily debate between avoiding frostbite and trying not to look like a body double for the Michelin Man. I can still remember what I was wearing – long underwear, black wool pants procured from a second-hand store that were about a half-inch too short, a lavender silk blouse and an ill-fitting black wool blazer. My office phone rang a little after 2 PM. The caller id displayed an unfamiliar local number but I answered anyway.

It was Nate. I began to chastise him for ignoring my last zillion calls but I stopped myself mid-lecture because he sounded weird. “Where are you?” I demanded.

“I’m at Riverside,” he replied.

“At the café? Did you want to meet for lunch or coffee or something?” was my naïve response.

“Not exactly. I’m at Cedar-Riverside.”

“On a street corner? Are you calling from a payphone? Do you need a ride? Did your car break down?”

“Ahhhhhhhh. No. I’m at the hospital.”

“What? The hospital? Was there an accident? Is it your dad? Oh, Jesus – it’s not Grandma Wanda is it?”

“Um . . . no. No. I mean, I’m at the hospital because I’m in the hospital, Denise. That’s why I haven’t been able to call.”

“I don’t understand. Are you sick? Why are you in the hospital? What happened?” In my mind, you went to the hospital if you needed stitches or had a heart attack or needed surgery. I couldn’t even imagine what kind of illness had befallen poor Nate.

“I’m fine. It’s nothing. This thing happened when I was over at my mom and dad’s and they overreacted and here I am. It’s nothing to worry about. No big deal. Really.” He shrugged it off like he had stopped in for a flu shot.

“Well, how long are you there? Are you allowed to have visitors? Can I come after work?”

We talked a little longer and agreed that I would come by during the evening visiting hours. I braced the frigid elements and drove to what is now known as Fairview Riverside Hospital. I parked the car, got in the elevator, and went to the second floor, where I was stopped by a uniformed security guard and a metal detector. I had to provide identification to prove that I am who I say I am and I had to submit to a search and pat down. A spiral notebook and a book of matches were confiscated from my bag as potentially dangerous items. I remember thinking, “Gee, it’s been a minute since I’ve visited anyone in the hospital but I don’t recall these security procedures. I wonder what the deal is.” Keep in mind, this was in a pre-9/11 world where we didn’t fear terrorists or submit to TSA screening at the airport. 16 years later, I’ve been felt up and patted down by government employees, contractors, security guards, and even a couple of civilian frogs but during Y2K, I was practically a pat down virgin.

After 15 minutes of interrogation, a large metal door was unlocked with a loud clink and a nurse escorted me to Nate’s room – and it finally dawned on me that I had entered a locked down psychiatric ward.

I stood in the doorway of room 217. Nate was sitting on the bed closest to the window and he was staring off into space as if he was lost in his thoughts. A young man in his early 20’s was rocking back and forth and muttering to himself in the bed closest to the door. He saw me, smiled, and then asked me if I could get him out of there because he had plans to jump off the Washington Avenue Bridge the following day. I apologized profusely and I told him I wasn’t a doctor and I didn’t know the release procedures – I was there to see my friend. This was clearly not the right answer and he expressed his extreme displeasure with me while also screaming a variety of terrifying threats.

I apologized once more, tried not to shit my pants, and hustled across the room to Nate. I will never forget how small, forlorn, and scared he looked sitting on that hospital bed. I knelt down, held his face in my hands, looked into those big, blue eyes and whispered, “Oh, Nathan – what happened? Why are you here?”

He looked straight into my eyes and he said, “I don’t know what I’m doing here. I don’t belong here.” In that moment, I thought he meant that he didn’t know why he was in the hospital and that he didn’t belong there, in the psych ward. I later came to understand that his words came from a deep, deep place of pain and suffering within and what he really meant was he didn’t feel like he belonged here – among the living.

Christmas Eve. I brought Nate’s Christmas gift to the hospital. For security reasons, they had to unwrap and check it before I was allowed to enter the ward. It was a beautiful hardcover copy of Nathaniel Hawthorne’s House of Seven Gables – a book we both read and loved. After I gave him his unwrapped gift, we stood at the window and looked out at the snow and cold. The evergreen trees in front of the hospital were decorated with festive Christmas lights, and we stood quietly and admired the view. I turned to say something when Nate flung his arms around me and held on as if he would never, ever let go. We stood silently, in what was either an embrace or the act of a desperate man who was slipping away from me but holding on for dear life. I don’t know how much time passed – it may have been two minutes or two hours – when the nurse interrupted to tell us that visiting hours were over and I needed to leave.

I visited the hospital every day for the two weeks he was there, and I believed him when he said he was fine. He left the hospital on New Year’s Eve with a prescription and a plan to make 2001 the year all our dreams come true. We swore we’d never spend another Christmas in the hospital – and that is one promise we kept, because Christmas 2000 was the very last Christmas that Nate was alive. 72 days after he was discharged from the hospital, Nate was gone.

Christmas – this season of joy, of giving, and of goodwill to our fellow humans – was always my favorite time of year. I love the decorations, the cookies, the shopping, picking out the perfect gift. I love Santa and Christmas movies and caroling. I don a Santa hat, reindeer antlers, and any kind of themed footed pajamas I can get my hands on. But I can never forget the sound of the metal door slamming shut behind me as I walked away from Nate’s last Christmas here on earth – and sometimes, when the caroling stops, I stare out the window at the Christmas lights with my arms around myself and I pray.

© 2016 Princess D  

Feelings at 30,000 Feet

Those who know me well know that I’m kind of a princess . . .  in my own mind. I’ve never met a tiara I didn’t like – or immediately wear – and I’m partial to palaces, princes, and sparkly things. Of course, the real reason I’m a self-appointed princess is less about Prince Charming and more about the charmed life. Princesses don’t pick their cuticles or bite their fingernails with such fervor that it appears that they’ve been attacked by angry termites. They don’t have bad hair days or worse yet, stretch marks and muffin tops. They aren’t wrinkled like baked potatoes or covered in freckles and pre-cancerous moles. Princesses don’t walk around the office for half a day with their fly unzipped. They don’t get dressed in the dark, so they never discover that their socks don’t match or that their underwear is inside out. (Bonus points for those of us who show off our inside out granny panties by walking around the workplace with our pants unzipped.) Princesses don’t get called bitch. And although princesses carry Coach handbags and ride in horse-drawn coaches, they most certainly never fly coach.

Lest I forget my decidedly non-royal status, the good folks at American Airlines are always willing to give me a free reality check. The bag check? Well, that’s going to cost $25, thank you very much. In spite of my frequent flying, I have serf status on every airline. Thus, it was no real surprise that I found myself sitting in seat 834A on a flight from Philadelphia to Minneapolis recently. What was more surprising was that my hair was in a very complicated up-do, I had 15 layers of unwashed makeup on my face, and I was wearing XXL sweats. In my defense, I came straight from bridesmaid duties to the airport, and in spite of my best attempts with soap, water, and makeup remover, I couldn’t remove the seven inches of pore-clogging crap from my epidermis. (Shameful confession: I had to Google what the outer layer of skin is called. Lousy liberal arts education.) To say that I looked like a confused, transgender whore would be putting it mildly . . . and might be offensive to transgender whores.

Of course, there is no air circulation back in seat 834A, no matter how hard you turn the little knob above your head. That doesn’t stop me from trying to coerce any cool air from blowing on me, but it’s a fruitless effort. I’m sweating last night’s booze out of every pore – and since I am pretty sure I sprained my liver drinking at this wedding, I could sweat for 72 hours and still fail a field sobriety test. In spite of my intense disdain for the human race, I feel sorry for anyone seated within an eight foot radius, because I smell. Bad. (And I’m probably a little gassy but that’s not your business.) I slide into my seat, grab my ear buds, crank up the Jayhawks, and prepare for an uncomfortable nap. (See also: I’m probably a little gassy.)

As the rest of the lemmings er . . . sardines file onto the Airbus A320, I notice the middle seat is blissfully empty. I offer up a prayer to the air travel gods and consider unfolding my legs and stretching out when he ambles down the aisle. He’s about my dad’s age, give or take, and he’s kind of slow moving due to his girth and his cane. Naturally, he’s heading straight for 834B. Curse you, air travel gods!  Of course he’s sitting next to me – a fact that is abundantly clear after he accidentally gives me an “over the clothes” gynecological exam trying to buckle his seatbelt. His lips are moving, which indicates he’s oblivious to my ear buds and planned nap, and after a dramatic and self-pitying sigh, I clean out my ears and meet Ernie.

Socially awkward is a kind way of describing how I show up in public. People make me incredibly uncomfortable, so sure am I that everyone else has their shit together and I’m the lone outcast who missed the memo about how to be normal. As a result, I actively avoid situations that require me to interact with my fellow humans. When possible, I avoid eye contact completely because you never know when you might accidentally engage the crazy. I’m the person who pretends not to speak English when people show up at my door. “Guten Tag!” Ernie, however, is undeterred and determined to make friends.

After wedging himself into a seat much smaller than he is, he props his cane against my leg and begins telling me about his travels. He’s a Vietnam veteran and he’s on his way home to Mankato, Minnesota after a reunion with his Army buddies in Washington DC. I’m pleased to hear that these American heroes were well taken care of in our nation’s capital, where strangers went out of their way to thank them for their service and even paid their restaurant tabs at fine dining establishments like Denny’s and Cracker Barrel.

My head is pounding and the inside of my mouth tastes like a combination of mint gum and dead turtle. I’ve been in cooler saunas. A raging introvert, I’ve been forced into foreign, extrovert territory for the past 72 hours and to say I’m exhausted is an understatement. But I can’t turn my back on Ernie. I mean, I literally can’t move my body at all since I’m smashed against the window and folded up like some kind of human Gumby with an inappropriately formal up-do. But there’s something else that’s preventing me from shutting down this conversation. I think you humans may refer to it as empathy.          

Ernie needs little encouragement to continue our conversation, so I listen and periodically nod, smile, or make an “uh-huh” noise that shows I’m listening and participating. He segued from sharing the highlights of his army reunion to a litany of his health problems – many of which are courtesy of his service to our country and his time in Vietnam. Agent Orange exposure left him with diabetes; peripheral neuropathy; ischemic heart disease; and arthritis. Most of his fellow vets have suffered from cancer – and many have died. He describes what it was like being an 18 year old kid fighting in Vietnam and goes on to tell me how awful it was to return to the U.S. where he was treated like a leper. Strangers attacked him verbally and he was spat upon multiple times.

I make a mental note to thank all the veterans I know, and I think about how we send children to fight for our freedoms – including freedom of speech – and then we use those same freedoms to act like self-righteous, ungrateful assholes, and I feel awful. Ernie notices my wedding ring and asks about my family. I give him the highlights and then ask him about his life in Mankato.

Ernie tears up when he tells me about his wife. She passed away two years ago and life without her is hard on him. She died three weeks before their 40^th wedding anniversary – and he’d been planning to surprise her with a trip of a lifetime; a month in Europe complete with river cruises and sightseeing. She never knew what he had planned because she fell into a coma and never regained consciousness. He’s alone now with their two dogs; Murphy Brown and Astro, and all three of them miss her every single day. He grips my arm and tells me that time is fleeting and his biggest regret in life was thinking he had all the time in the world. In spite of my dehydration and emotional retardation, I’m wiping tears from my own face as I thank Ernie for sharing his story with me.

We chat for the duration of the flight, and we say goodbye in Minneapolis. His daughter – a woman whose very name causes his face to light up and beam with pride – is picking him up for the drive back to Mankato because he shouldn’t drive at night anymore.

Ernie has given me a tremendous gift. He’s reminded me that life is fragile and fleeting. He’s shown me that broken hearts may mend but they’ll never be the same. He reminds me that grief is a sinister and tricky mistress. And most weirdly of all, he reminds me of an incredibly cheesy saying about how people come into our lives for a reason, a season, or a lifetime. Ernie was seated next to me for a reason – and I will carry the lessons he imparted with me for the duration of my journey.

In case you’re wondering, a gallon of water, six Advil, and a long nap returned me to my normal state and after a long, hot shower, my hair, skin, and smell are back to normal. But my heart? Well, that will never be the same, thanks to the gentleman in seat 834B.

 © 2016 Princess D

Yes, I *WOULD* like fries with that!

If you were to Google “control freak”, you’d likely stumble upon a picture of me. And because I am a control freak, I assure you that it would be a sanctioned, approved photo where my hair looks good and my outfit doesn’t make me look fat. My insane need for control makes me an obnoxious automobile passenger (unless you enjoy gasping, foot stomping, and having the person in the seat next to you grip your arm so hard it bruises). I am incapable of enjoying amusement parks because rollercoasters and other thrill-seeking rides spit in the face of my need to control my environment (and make me vomit and urinate on myself, if you must know). I have a pathological fear of falling, which is weird because as the least graceful person on the planet, I trip and fall a lot. My entire life is managed via an Outlook calendar, and I’m known to proclaim, “If it’s not on the calendar, it doesn’t exist!” There is nary a spontaneous bone in this aging body of mine, so if it’s a good time you’re looking for, I’d suggest you look elsewhere. However, if it’s order, drive, and determination you seek, look no further! And if you’d like that served up with a good, old-fashioned side of guilt and shame . . . . Well, you’re in luck. That’s the house specialty.

In a different chapter of my life, my control freak tendencies extended to all aspects of my life, and I was very thin. And then I wasn’t. And then I was a little chubby. And then I was thin again. And now I’m hovering right around what the medical profession and insurance companies call a “normal” BMI, which means my weight is none of your business. I was born with ovaries and estrogen and in the 1970’s – so I’ve been on a diet since 1987 and I’ve been trained to hate the way I look, bar none. This is a phenomenon that only chicks and gay dudes can really understand.

After I kissed enough frogs for a marine biology workshop and found a prince, I bought a real pretty dress and a tiara so I could get hitched. Since I had a fairytale wedding, complete with horse, carriage, and castle, it was only appropriate that I slimmed down and toned up so I could look like the princess I am on my wedding day. No one wants to look like a chubbette on her wedding day, right? On the advice of my favorite author / memoirist (is that a real word?), Jen Lancaster, I decided to hire a professional to whip my butt into shape, and Trainers Jared, Dan, Eric, and Aaron entered my life. In that order.

Fast forward three years and I’m still working with Trainer Aaron. I’m 10 pounds heavier than I was on my wedding day. I’d love to say it is muscle but unless muscle jiggles when poked and unless there is a “spare tire” muscle I was previously unware of, I’m pretty sure this 10 pounds is comprised of wine, pizza, burgers, and beer. And maybe nachos. I have the eating habits of a medium sized fraternity house.

Since I’m married – which means I can get away with being as fat and hairy as I want to be and there is absolutely nothing my husband can do about it – my weight isn’t the major concern it used to be. I mean, I don’t want to be a morbidly obese, walking cardiac arrest but I’m also not trying to be a hot single gal either. Sorry, honey but you’re stuck with me for better or for worse, and I’m pretty sure I warned you that it wasn’t going to get much better than it was on our wedding day. My current fitness goals are simple - I’m just trying to fit into my pants all day long. (Side note: Just about a year ago, I had the worst fat girl wardrobe malfunction ever when I burst out of my pants at the office. Those seams were no match for all that my thighs had to offer. A less dedicated employee might have gone home. Me? I stapled my pants back together and continued to kick ass until 6 PM because that’s what I do).

There are days when no pants fit and I’m forced to consider whether or not my “dressy” sweats will meet office dress code. Worse, I’m forced to face the fact that I need to shut my pizza-hole and get my big ass on a treadmill. If those days happen to be on a Monday or a Wednesday, I leave work a little early and I let Trainer Aaron force me to lift heavy objects and put them down over and over and over again.  Side note: spending two hours a week in the gym will not undo the 300 burgers and 600 pounds of French fries you consumed when you weren’t in the gym.

You’d think that as a control freak, I’d have this whole weight and fitness thing figured out. It’s about the easiest equation I’ve ever encountered – eat less, move more and your pants will fit. It’s not matter of lacking the knowledge to be successful. No, I know what I need to do. It’s a matter of lacking the discipline and as a control freak, there is no small amount of shame in my total lack of self-discipline where my health is concerned.

So the shame spiral continues. While I cognitively understand that I’m fortunate to have a body that is able to get out of bed every day and while I appreciate that health is a fragile and fleeting gift, I continue to poison my body with salt, fat, grease, sugar, and wine. (Not necessarily in that order.) I spend an inordinate amount of time sitting on my ass, completely immobile. I’ve been known to take an elevator up one flight – and found myself stuck in it when the power went out. I don’t celebrate what makes my body amazing but rather, spend my time body shaming myself. I’m fat. I’m lumpy. I’m pale. I’m hairy. My eyebrows are growing together. I’m covered in bumpy moles like a raised relief map. I’m sweaty. My fingernails are chewed down to the stubs as if termites have been snacking on my fingertips. My skin is dry and oily at the same time. I’m wrinkled like a baked potato. I’m so disgusted and ashamed of my own body, I don’t even want to be naked in the shower. (Side note: this may be why I have such an aversion to showering.)

I try to exercise. I show up at the gym. If you don’t see me, you’ll hear me. I’m the one whining, complaining, and huffing and puffing as if I am in the midst of blowing some poor little pig’s house down. If you do happen to see me, you’ll notice I look a little different than everyone else at the gym. I’m not wearing cute, color coordinated leggings and tank tops. No one wants to see these upper arms or my ample and sagging bosom unrestrained by multiple sports bras. (Yes, I wear at least two at a time to keep everything where it belongs. Elastic and wire are no match for what I’ve got going on here.) Instead of cute active wear, I’m in giant baggy sweats and an XXXL t-shirt that has enough room to hide a family of refugees inside. I’m keeping it all covered up so neither of us have to look at this mess. You’re welcome. Of course, when I leave the gym, a sweaty and quivering mess, I immediately fling open the refrigerator and consume everything inside.

Am I undisciplined? Maybe. Am I a terrible control freak? Possibly. Am I incredibly ashamed by my ability to get out of my own way? Definitely. But I think you know that I’m not a girl who gives up or gives in when she needs to give it all she’s got. While I may take down an entire large pizza by myself on occasion, while I may eat Cheetos for dinner on a regular basis, and while I suffer more than the average number of wardrobe malfunctions due to bursting out of my seams – I’m not giving up the fight. Sure, I beat myself up both literally and figuratively – but I shroud my fat, hairy body in multiple sports bras and baggy clothes and I get back to the gym. I log my shameful eating. And while I may not be making the progress I could or should be, I haven’t thrown in the towel . . . because I need it to mop up all this damn sweat.

© 2016 Princess D.

Confessions of a Secret People Pleaser

Shameful confession number 674: I am a secret people pleaser. Now, before you go getting all judgey-judgey on me, I’m confessing to being a secret people pleaser, not being any good at it. My competence and proficiency in the people pleasing arts are an entirely different topic for an entirely different blog. I think the operative word here is secret, since I like to pretend I’m kind of a badass, and I certainly don’t mind going toe to toe with anyone who deserves a thorough verbal lashing. (I have occasionally been known to lash out at those who may not entirely deserve it, a fact I’m compelled to share here because there have been witnesses. Applebee’s waitress, I’m talking to and about you. Little jerk-off in the Chevy Malibu who cut me off in the parking lot at SDSU, you were asking for it and I refuse to apologize. May you never, ever need to come to me for a job) Nonetheless, at my unengaged and chubby core, I am nothing more than a middle-aged people pleaser with codependent tendencies. Thank you, therapy, for providing me an entirely new vocabulary to use as I berate myself for my shortcomings.

Beyond the therapy-inspired lexicon, my time on the couch has also provided me ample opportunities to climb into the Delorean time machine to revisit the thoughts, feelings, and experiences of five year old me and ten year old me and 14 year old me, not to mention the me’s at all the ages in between. As you might imagine, I have limited tolerance for these activities and walks down memory lane because I’m trying to build a better future, not rehash a past that I may not entirely remember. Since I have entrusted my mental health to an actual professional, while I may be resistant to his techniques, I’ve challenged myself to at least give the process a whirl under the heading of, “What doesn’t kill me could make me stronger.” Since I can’t let bygones be bygones, I’m spending more time than any normal and functional adult should revisiting my sordid past.

My earliest memory of people pleasing has nothing to do with actual people. Because why would it? No – my people pleasing actually started out with Muppets, or more specifically, characters on Sesame Street. Back in the 1970’s, things were different on Sesame Street. Mr. Hooper was still alive and serving as the proprietor of Hooper’s Store. And for the first 16 seasons of Sesame Street, only Big Bird could see Aloysius Snuffleupagus, his tusk-less wooly mammoth best friend. In spite of Big Bird’s insistence that Snuffy was real, the grown-ups on Sesame Street refused to believe poor Big Bird and often teased him about his imaginary friend. Even worse, the adults accused Big Bird of using Snuffy as a scapegoat (or would it be a scape-mammoth?) whenever something went wrong out of their immediate line of sight. This injustice was simply more than my four year old self could handle. What the hell was the matter with these grown-ups? Are you blind? Can’t you see the giant teddy bear Snuffy left behind? And why are you being so mean and cruel to Big Bird? He’s just a nice yellow bird with a friendly demeanor and a wooly mammoth BFF. While I looked forward to watching Sesame Street every day, the anxiety and the emotional turmoil of Snuffy-gate was more than I could bear, and if four year old me could have jumped into the television to help Big Bird out, I most certainly would have.

I eventually graduated from Muppets to actual humans, and there are plenty of people-pleasing (or not) examples from ages five to 13 I could and probably will share in the safety and comfort of my therapist’s office, where there is ambient lighting and an ample supply of generic facial tissue. (You’re welcome.) But if we fast-forward to age 14, indulge me for a moment while I tell you yet another people-pleasing doozy.

The year was 1987. The jeans were acid-washed; the jackets were denim; and the hair was big and so full of chemicals that it probably violated every OSHA pollution statute. My style icon was one part Molly Ringwald, circa Pretty in Pink and two parts fat girl who shops at Target. To describe me as uncool would be an understatement. See also, “people pleaser” which included but was not limited to my parents; neighbors; and teachers. I was a good student, I did my homework, I made the honor roll, and I didn’t get into any trouble. I also had precious few friends and was a giant dork, but hey – no one’s perfect, right? I was a freshman at a co-educational and very Catholic high school and with the exception of an incident where I was caught kissing a Jewish boy, I was a complete angel. There is no need for you to consult my mom for input on this. Trust me. I was a damn angel.

In 1987, we didn’t know much about homosexuality. For most of us, our only real education about what it meant to be gay came from Three's Company, which introduced us to gay jokes and living in the closet. We learned that landlords are intolerant of co-educational cohabitation and often exhibit homophobic tendencies, especially if their name is Roper or Furley. My parents didn’t have gay friends and although in hindsight, I think a lesbian couple lived across the alley from us, we didn’t acknowledge it back then. As a kid in a very Catholic high school, the only thing I knew about homosexuality is that it had the word “sex” in it which obviously meant it would send you directly to hell, without passing go and without collecting $200. If you were a homosexual male attending a very Catholic high school in Minneapolis in 1987, you were considered weird – nothing more, nothing less. And you probably kept your gayness to yourself.

1987 was the first time I unwittingly dated a gay guy. It wasn’t the last time and I remained very popular with closeted gay males for the next decade. For most, I was the last girl they dated before deciding to come out already . . . a fact that likely had nothing to do with me but took a toll on my fragile self-esteem nonetheless. I met a lot of parents; attended a lot of family functions; and ultimately learned the importance of a well-defined brow arch. (The secret is waxing and tweezing.) The difference between 1987’s date and those that followed was what motivated my date in the first place.

The homecoming dance was kind of a big deal. As a gigantic nerd, I assumed I would spend the evening at home with my nose in a book and a giant bag of Reese’s pieces at my side. It never even occurred to me that some boy would ask me to the dance. But that’s what happened. His name was Chad and he was what we called weird back in the 80’s. He was that kid with the thick glasses and the high-pitched voice who made everyone roll their eyes when he spoke in class . . . and for reasons unknown to me to this day, he asked me to be his date to the dance. I really, really didn’t want to go with him. If I’m honest, I really didn’t want to go to the dance, period. With my two left feet and Elaine Benes moves, I’m best served in the audience, not on the floor.

Of course, I’d never been asked on a real date before, unless we count riding my bike to meet the forbidden Jewish boy in the park for braces-encumbered kissing sessions. My desire to not spend one-on-one time with Chad was overcome by my desire to not disappoint – and so I said yes to a date I didn’t want to go on, with a boy I could barely tolerate because I’m a people pleaser. I bought a formal dress – but as a gal of a certain size and on a budget, my choices were limited and I ultimately selected what I can only describe as a shimmery, peach-hued bridesmaid dress reject that I paired with clip-on earrings (I eschew extra holes in one’s head) and very, very flat shoes. Think Drew Barrymore as “Josie Grossey” in Never Been Kissed to get a visual.

Because we were 14 years old and also a pair of losers, our parents drove us on our ill-fated date. He took me to dinner at a place that was way, way too hip for me in a neighborhood that was overrun with hipster doofuses even in 1987. I’m sure we talked. I know we ate but all I can remember is feeling incredibly uncomfortable. Eventually, dinner was over and someone’s parents picked us up and deposited us to the dance.

It was a typical high school dance . . . a decorated cafeteria, George Michael, Whitney Houston, and Roxette songs in the background, and gender-segregated gaggles of teenagers in every corner. I can’t speak for what the boys were doing, but in the girls’ corner, we giggled, gossiped and waited for the boys to ask us to dance – because apparently, in 1987, we couldn’t ask a boy ourselves. Eventually, Chad wandered over and asked me to slow dance. Had I not been a people pleaser, I would have given him a hearty “no thanks” and continued on with my evening. Alas, that was not the case.

The song was Atlantic Starr’s, Always, and the dancing was poor. Very poor. It was a lot of shuffle-footed swaying. I tried desperately not to make eye contact with my weird date, and I prayed to every Catholic saint I knew that this night would end quickly and painlessly. They were obviously otherwise occupied because before the song came to an end, I found myself being groped and slobbered on by Chad. Bad touch! Bad touch! I wanted to break his arms, smash his face in, and run as far away as I could as fast as my feet in impractical shoes could take me. But instead of doing any of those things, I merely stood there in all my people-pleasing glory, and waited for it to be over.

I don’t remember much else about that dance – or if I ever even spoke to Chad again. I left our very Catholic high school after freshman year only to return with my tail between my legs as a junior, but by then, Chad was gone and no one ever spoke of him again. It wasn’t until several years later that I realized Chad wasn’t merely a creepy weirdo but rather, a misunderstood gay kid in a very Catholic high school just trying to get by – and he inadvertently chose a girl who didn’t have the word “no” in her vocabulary as his partner in crime.

From Big Bird and Snuffy to the closeted gay boys in a very Catholic high school in the 1980’s to everyone I encounter who is suffering since . . . I’m a secret people pleaser. Worse, I cannot stand to see another human being hurting. A friend once told me that I collected the walking wounded the way little boys collect baseball cards. As I unpack this truth about myself – both inside and outside my therapist’s office – I can’t help but wonder if this is such a bad thing. If I stop being a secret people pleaser, will I still be me?  

© 2016 Princess D.

A Prescription for Change

I’ve been fascinated with caterpillars and butterflies since someone read The Very Hungry Caterpillar to five-year-old me. (And this is the only time that a reference to five year old me doesn’t result in an immediate and brutal beating, so if you’re my therapist reading this, you should take note.) I’m sure I’m not the only kid who stalked furry caterpillars to rehome them in a “mayonnaise jar, with a stick and a leaf, to recreate what they’re used to.” In spite of my loving attempts to provide a warm habitat and a welcoming environment, my caterpillars never magically transformed into anything other than dead caterpillars – but I never, ever gave up hope. I guess I’ve been a closet optimist most of my life.

I’ve been in the midst of my own metamorphosis lo these past few months, which is why you’re enduring the world’s most obvious and heavy-handed metaphor. No, I didn’t relocate to a mostly empty Miracle Whip jar. I haven’t redecorated the palace in a twig motif. (There is still a kitty condo in the living room. Because I’m nothing if not classy as hell.) And after a recent visit to the Minnesota Zoo’s butterfly exhibit with my energetic, musical, adorable four year old nephew, I dusted off my grade school science books and refreshed my memory about how caterpillars become butterflies.

In spite of my diverse liberal arts background, my grasp on basic biology is tenuous at best. I mean, I understand where babies come from, with absolutely no thanks to the archdiocese of Minneapolis and St. Paul, whose idea of sex education consisted of having a celibate Christian Brother show us a series of videos that illustrated the sinfulness of the flesh. (Hell looked really hot and miserable so I decided to stay as far away from any activities that might land me there. I think most of you know how much I hate to sweat.)  Thankfully, my parents armed five year old me (there she is again!) with a copy of Where Did I Come From which is where most of my basic biology knowledge comes from. In more recent years, the hubby and I have become amateur pumpkin growers – a hobby that involves science, plant anatomy, and assisted pumpkin procreation. I did not, however, have a real appreciation of the biology of how a caterpillar becomes a butterfly until recently. Better late than never, I guess.

The very hungry caterpillar failed to prepare me for the incredibly violent and traumatic process of metamorphosis. I won’t jump the shark but if you want to learn more, may I suggest a little light internet research? While I didn’t digest myself or release any cool enzymes in my own transformation, there were moments when it felt just as painful and violent, and with the benefit of hindsight, I can tell you that the fundamental difference between a caterpillar and me is that the caterpillar has the self-awareness to know when it’s time to make a change. I was less of a caterpillar and more like the frog who doesn’t realize she’s being slowly boiled alive. Ribbit.

It’s no secret that I’ve been living with depression for several years. My word choice is intentional. I’m not suffering from or struggling with depression. I live with it, the same way I live with my 34 inch inseam, my freckles, and my cat and dog. There are days when I don’t mind living with it and there are days when it’s a giant pain in the ass, but I’m not a victim of my brain chemistry. I am, however, most certainly guilty of hubris.

I’m not entirely sure how long I’ve been living with depression – partially because I have the superpower of selective memory but mostly because I spent most of my adult life pretending that I was a-okay. I deluded myself into thinking I’d fake it until I made it. If I just worked hard enough and wanted it bad enough, I’d be happy. Depression was something that other people dealt with – not me. I was stronger than that. And my strength would see me through anything.

What no one knew, what no one could see, and what I refused to admit even to myself (except in those exceptionally dark and honest moments that occur at 3 AM) is that I’m no superwoman. I’m not nearly as strong as I pretend to be – not physically (although I can lift the 50 lb. bags of dog chow by myself now), not spiritually, and not emotionally. To admit that it was a daily struggle to get out of bed and face the world would be to admit to a weakness I simply could not face . . . but it was real. And as it turns out, there is a difference between living with depression and pretending you’re just fine. When you’re ignoring your depression, it wraps itself around you like a weighted blanket that you carry everywhere you go. There is a heaviness to your soul that makes weariness your de facto mode. Fatigue doesn’t adequately describe your levels of exhaustion and yet you can’t sleep. You trudge through each day in slow motion, fantasizing about returning home to the safety of your jammies and your bed, thinking that maybe tonight is the night you’ll sleep like a baby. And at 3 AM, you’ll find yourself once again staring at the ceiling wondering what the hell is wrong with you.

That’s depression. Of course, strong women like me don’t have to worry about things like living with depression, right? Smart women don’t get depressed. Depression is problem for other people, not for people like me. And I believed that, wholeheartedly, until about six years ago when I got my ovaries in a twist (figuratively) and a routine doctor’s appointment changed everything.

If you happen to have “girl parts”, you’re well aware that girl parts are a lot like owning a BMW or a fancy car. Upkeep is a full-time job and there is a lot of opportunity for things to go wrong. I’m not really using my girl parts for anything but in spite of that, I recognize the need for routine maintenance. I was about 15 years overdue for the girl parts version of an oil change so in a rare moment of adulting, I scheduled an appointment with the OB/GYN. As we reviewed my health history, my physician told me she was concerned that my ovaries were conspiring against me . . . at least, that’s my interpretation of events. She talked about something called PMDD which is the overachiever’s version of PMS. It’s like premenstrual syndrome on steroids, and no amount of Midol will make it better. I left the doctor’s office with a diagnosis of PMDD and a prescription for Prozac, which was supposed to tame the mental health side effects of my rotten ovaries.

I incorporated this little pill into my daily routine and you know what? I started to feel different. Better. Normal. And that should be where this little story ends but of course it’s not. Can you imagine if a diabetic stopped taking their insulin because they felt better? Or if an epileptic stopped taking anti-seizure pills because they haven’t had a seizure in a while? That doesn’t happen because the epileptic and the diabetic are blessed with common sense and do not possess the shocking levels of arrogance that I have.

Sometime last year, my prescription ran out. I was out of refills and the only way to get more Prozac was to visit the doctor again . . . something I really wanted to avoid at all costs. If I’m being honest, the real reason I didn’t want to visit the doctor was because I didn’t want to stand on that big scale of shame in the office while a chunky nurse in rubber-soled clogs loudly told me what I already knew . . . I’ve gained a significant amount of weight in the past 18 months. You don’t burst out of a pair of pants at work – and then staple them back together – when you’re at goal weight. Because I didn’t want to face the scale, I convinced myself that I didn’t need the Prozac anymore.

Now, I’m the first to tell you that Prozac isn’t a miracle pill. I still have low days when I’m properly medicated. But I tend to shower more regularly and spend more time out of my pajamas when I’m taking my meds – and I have fewer highs and lows. I like to say that the Prozac moderates my moods and takes the edges off. And without it, I am left to experience all my moods in their full, Technicolor glory. When combined with my self-proclaimed hall monitor of the world proclivities, an unmedicated Denise means that a lot of unsuspecting people are subject to my wrath. This includes but is not limited to litterbugs; people who don’t recycle; arm rest hogs; that sweaty asshole at the gym who can’t be bothered to wipe down his machine when he’s done; everyone at the damn grocery store; and more.

I had a good unmedicated run over the past nine months – but it was harder than it needed to be. I hit a speedbump that left me very, very low recently and I had to face facts. I’m not stronger than my brain or my ovaries. I can’t outsmart or outrun or “out-strong” depression. I was humbled, and I had a tough choice to make. Do I keep fighting this thing or do I admit that I need help and take the pills again?

Four weeks ago, I renewed my prescription. It felt like a personal failing, but I took the pills anyway. Slowly, I’m beginning to feel like myself again – the version of myself who does get out of bed; who can face the world; and who washes her hair periodically. In fact, just this morning, I looked in the mirror and realized instead of a caterpillar staring back at me, I saw a butterfly, wings and all. Maybe Prozac is more miraculous than I thought . . . .

© 2016 Princess D.

We've All Got Bruises

When I was younger, thinner, and before life had its way with me (multiple times), I bought into the fairy tale that said we should all live happy ever after. The goal was to have the perfect life – straight, white teeth (the bane of my existence); a 2000+ square foot home with impeccable landscaping; a luxury car; and the right shoes and handbag for every situation. Of course, the reality is that I have terrible yet expensive teeth; hooves instead of feet, and a black thumb. How I got from my illusions of happily ever after to a place where a cat condo is considered appropriate interior décor for my living room is perhaps not a real shocker to anyone but me.  

I’m getting uncomfortably close to another birthday, which can only mean that I’m that much closer to the senior discount at Denny’s – and of course, these little life milestones provide ample opportunity for self-reflection. As I consider my past 30 – 70 turns around the sun, I can’t help but pay attention to those who’ve played a role in this sitcom I call my life. I’ve collected a fascinating cast of characters over the years. Some are on the payroll like my kick-ass personal trainer or my elfin therapist while others are just the people that I meet when I’m walking down the street. Maybe it’s the wisdom of middle age, maybe it’s my inability to establish and respect interpersonal boundaries, or maybe it’s just a coincidence but I notice that lately, most of my conversations are focused on bruises. I’m not talking about actual contusions of the flesh but rather, those bruises on our souls. I’m talking about those moments where life knocked us down hard and we had to decide whether to give up, give in, or give it our all.

Lately, the people who I find the most inspiring are those whose bruises have healed but still lurk beneath the surface. I’m talking about the guy at work who took out a second mortgage on his house to pay for IVF so his wife could have the family she always dreamed of. Or the woman on the city council who’s battled cancer three times while running a company and giving back to her community. Or the guy who served two tours of duty in Iraq, lost his hearing and some of his sanity, and can’t quite reintegrate into real life the way he wants to. Or the single mom of three down the street who works three jobs to put a roof over her kids’ heads and who wants nothing more than to see them all graduate from high school. The nurse at the clinic who just had her own son arrested after he stole her car but who manages to take your blood without leaving a single mark or bruise on your skin. A woman who lost her fiancé to accidental overdose who channeled her grief into starting an overdose prevention charity. Your dear friend who stays married for the sake of the kids. That colleague who dotes on his ungrateful wife and kids. Your coworker who has a demanding job, an adult child with significant special needs, and an aging father who is showing signs of dementia but who shows up every day with a smile on his face regardless. And of course, my very own husband who overcame addiction and incarceration and stigma to become a force to be reckoned with.

When they share their stories with me in the matter of fact way that one might deliver a weather report, it breaks my heart. I want to take their hands and look into their eyes and weep. These are their bruises and in some cases, their scars. Of course, they are more than the sum of their bruises. They are complex, resilient, strong and determined human beings. They are my friends, my coworkers, and my posse. And just like the song, their bruises make for better conversation. They’re not alone in how they’ve been . . . we’ve all got bruises.

I have my own bruises and scars, but I do my damnedest to keep them covered up – not because I’m ashamed of them but because I don’t think they’re anything special. We all have bruises and mine aren’t any more or less interesting or colorful than yours or anyone else’s. I don’t want anyone’s pity or even their empathy for the bruises I’ve endured along the way. In fact, I almost never show all my bruises to anyone. If you ask, I’ll tell you my story, but I might omit a few chapters – mostly unintentionally. Even my therapist is still learning new details about me and let’s be honest . . . I’ve let that asshole see my cry a whole bunch of times lo these last eight years. Here’s the deal. Yeah, I’ve got bruises – but I am more than that. Every single time life has knocked me on my ass, I’ve gotten back up, arms swinging, ready for a fight.

I may not live in a McMansion. I may (okay, I do) have a cat condo in my living room. (You're welcome, Carl.)  I may not be wearing a diamond ring the size of a compact car. I may buy my clothes at Target and I may forget to wear makeup to work more often than not. Do I work hard? You bet I do. But so do a lot of people. I happen to be lucky enough to get a big paycheck for the fruits of my labor. There are people who do much more important work than I do – teachers, police officers, addiction counselors, and nurses to name a few – who deserve much bigger paychecks than mine. But I’m happy with my humble little existence. I get up every day with one goal. I want to make my part of the world a little bit better than it was yesterday. I want to be a daymaker. And I want to believe that the reason this old gal has survived all these bruises and scars is because she’s here to quietly make a difference.

I guess that’s what give up, give in, or give it all you’ve got is all about. Of course, my husband just ordered a megaphone from amazon.com, so any ambitions of quietly doing anything are probably off the table.

© 2016 Princess D.

Expectations & Acceptance

As I was hosting yet another Princess-themed pity party, I caught myself lamenting, “When will it ever get easier?” Then I realized the fallacy inherent in my line of thinking. I never received a save-the-date informing me that the amorphous it would suddenly be simple and easy at a predefined date and time somewhere in the future. But without the hope and promise that someday, somehow this will get easier, life becomes pretty bleak, doesn’t it?

Maybe easy isn’t the right adjective anyway. It’s just that I’ve been banking on the notion that I’d eventually get my shit together. Does having my proverbial poop in order equate to easy? Maybe, maybe not – but one thing is certain. Life would certainly be a lot less complicated. Some of the chaos I bring on myself – things like keeping my grey roots at bay with frequent hair coloring; like the ritual pore popping I do in the name of young(er) looking skin; and like the occasional mani/pedi to keep my hooves looking polished. I recently read an article that’s become the fodder of my most terrifying nightmares. Let me share a few nuggets with you. “Women 55 and older who lose a job have more trouble than men getting another one . . . ‘older displaced women are less likely than displaced men of the same ages to be re-employed and more likely to have left the labor force.”  I might not be 50 yet, but I know a few things to be true. One, this household doesn’t operate without me in the workforce – and if someone kicks my aging ass to the curb, we’re screwed. Two, in the event that I do wind up “over 50, female, and jobless,” I'm sure as hell not going to advertise my age on my resume; on my hair color; or on my skin. I’d like to leave you guessing, thank you very much.

Why I’m worried about being unemployed ten years from now is part of my irrational charm. I’ve been in my current job for just under six months. No one has stabbed me yet, and it’s entirely possible that I’ve fooled a whole bunch of people into thinking I know what I’m doing. (Poor bastards.) The truth is, I just show up, apply as much common sense as I can muster up, and hope for the best. Lucky for me, common sense is as rare in corporate America – especially in HR circles – as the dodo bird, so as long as I can keep the f-bombs to a minimum and feign interest in what’s going on around me while using copious amounts of moisturizer and hair dye, I might survive the next ten years.

Let’s keep it real. I come from a long line of anxious people. You’ve probably met some of them. You might be one of them. My dad, a million mile frequent flier, still insists on arriving at the airport half a day before his scheduled flight. My mom is incapable of being a passenger in anyone’s car because she wants to control your driving. Never mind that she’s the one who gets pulled over all the time . . .   My brother is probably the least anxious one of all of us and that’s only because he’s too damn tired raising three tiny humans to have anxiety. Plus I think he had it all stabbed out of him in acupuncture a couple of years ago. The anxiety apple didn’t fall far from the tree where I’m concerned. Without chronicling all my anxieties A-Z, just know I am absolutely that person who assumes the worst. A blemish on my arm? Skin cancer. A headache that won’t go away? Brain tumor. Bad meeting at work? Everyone hates me and I’ll be fired any second now. Half a pound weight gain on the scale? I’m on an expressway to morbid obesity and eventually, they’ll need the Jaws of Life to get me out of my own home.

Of course, I do have therapy to help me deal with my anxiety and all the other weirdness in my head. I’d like to say it’s helping but frankly, even therapy has taken a turn for the worse lately. I was tasked to focus on ‘self-care’, which is fancy psychobabble talk for unfucking yourself. I had worksheets to complete and lists to make and the whole idea of focusing on self-care when I can’t even remember to put the toothpaste cap back on made me itch. So – while I knew the elf-therapist would be profoundly disappointed in my lackadaisical attitude toward self-improvement, I simply couldn’t force myself to do it. (And – in full disclosure, when looking up the phone number to his office, my Googling led me to this YouTube video and frankly, I can no longer take my mental healthcare professional seriously. Somethings cannot be unseen, dude.)

YouTube videos aside, therapy went south when I realized that I was not only insubordinate in completing my homework assignment, but I was also running late for my appointment. Really, really late. I sent a quick, “be there in 10 minutes” email and then hauled my ass across town as fast as traffic and my Volkswagen could take me. Naturally, I missed every light and I swear to you, I sat at one red light for approximately four minutes in impotent rage. After finally arriving, I burst into the building Kramer-style and sprinted up the stairs as fast as an out of shape, middle-aged woman in impractical shoes could maneuver. I grabbed the door handle to let myself in to his office and . . . it was locked. Flummoxed, I stood there, huffing and puffing as if I’d never encountered a locked door in my life. Do I knock? Wait? Call him? Take this as a sign from the universe and leave? I knocked. I waited. I called. I thought about leaving. I finally sent an email, all the while wondering if this locked door was some kind of psychology experiment.

Being locked out was the highlight of my therapy experience. I left with more homework – a book to read this time – and a mantra I’m supposed to repeat as many times a day as possible. On the plus side, the elf kindly informed me that I don’t have to believe the mantra, but I do have to repeat it. I’ve been trying but talking to myself makes me feel stupid, and the mantra itself makes me feel like a fraud. Do I fake it until I make it? Or do I do what comes naturally which is to avoid this homework assignment altogether?

Of course, my anxiety and fears are first world problems. I get that. And I’m more than a little ashamed of the fact that I can’t get out of my own way when there are real people dealing with real problems every single day. My body images issues; subterranean self-esteem; and the wagon of guilt and shame I drag around behind me everywhere I go are not matters of life and death. They’re boring. They’re trite. And yet . . . they are the things that hold me back.

I recently had the opportunity to see Michael J. Fox speak at a conference. Here is a guy who has been handed a whole bunch of lemons – and who has made lemonade, lemon meringue pie, and lemon bars. He spoke of optimism, of gratitude, and of hope. He didn’t wonder if it’s every going to get easier. He didn’t blather on about self-care or mantras. Instead, he talked of choice and circumstance. He spoke of gratitude, saying, “Just be grateful. Everyday. And – if there are things you don’t like about someone, just be grateful that you’re not them.” Not once did he speak of what he “should” do – and I’m confident that Marty McFly isn’t wasting his precious time shoulding all over himself. No way, sir.

The real question isn’t “when will it ever get easier?” The real question is – how do I face each day with acceptance and gratitude for the opportunity to make my tiny mark on this great big world.

© 2016 Princess D

Soundtrack to My Life: The B Side

If my life had a soundtrack, every lousy, rotten, craptacular moment I’ve endured would be foreshadowed by Bonnie Tyler’s 1983 power ballad, Total Eclipse of the Heart. It all started November 15, 1983 when, as a buck-toothed, painfully awkward and nearly six foot tall ten year old kid, my dad wrote the first of many big fat checks for my orthodontia and I became the very first kid in Mrs. Hengler’s 5^th grade class to have a full set of shiny, metal braces. What on earth does Bonnie Tyler have to do with any of this and why am I such an ungrateful brat, you ask? Excellent questions. Allow me to explain.

With the benefit of hindsight and my own Korean-car sized investment in my teeth, I’m incredibly grateful that my parents scrimped and saved to straighten my jacked-up teeth. But in 1983, I didn’t want to stand out. I wanted to blend in and ideally, disappear. I didn’t want to be the smart kid or the tall kid or the clumsy kid (although I was all those things) – I desperately wanted to be average. More than anything, I wanted to be invisible. You know what makes you visible as heck? Becoming the first metal mouth in your 5^th grade class. I endured orthodontia for four and a half long years. I had three different orthodontic headgears and I singlehandedly kept the tiny rubber band companies in business. Before I could participate in my first real “boy-girl” kiss, I had to deftly remove something like a billion rubber bands that were cleverly serving as some kind of orthodontic chastity shield. (Side note: I wasn’t real popular with the boys until college. Coincidence?)

November 15, 1983 is the day I had my braces affixed. My orthodontist’s office had zero privacy. Instead, there were two large rooms filled with dental chairs in every color of the rainbow. They summoned their snaggle-toothed patients to their kaleidoscopic torture chamber by bellowing your name and directing you to the “red chair on the left” or the “blue chair on the right.” On this fateful day, I was summoned to the orange chair on the right, where I would spent a nearly five hour shift having things stuck to my mouth.  Back in 1983, we didn’t have iPods or Pandora or Spotify or whatever you cool kids are using to listen to the tunes now. We had cassette tapes, we had vinyl records, and we had FM radio. Many businesses relied on the soothing, muffled doo doo di doo doopidy doo of elevator music as ambient noise, but not my orthodontist. Instead, he had his FM station tuned to WLTE, the “light rock, less talk” station favored by our parents. No one was going to turn their FM dial to WLTE and blow the knob off. But if you wanted to hear some Peabo Bryson and Roberta Flack; Linda Ronstadt, or Pointer Sisters – this was your station. And on November 15, 1983, as I laid upside down in the orange chair on the right becoming the most visible mouth in the 5^th grade, I heard Total Eclipse of the Heart played six times. Six.

Fast forward a few years. I’m a sophomore in high school, and I’m getting ready to start my first day at a new high school – the third school I’ve attended in three years.  Total Eclipse of the Heart plays on the school bus radio and tees me up for the worst school year I can remember. When I find out that my pimply boyfriend is cheating on me with a younger girl with greasy hair and a huge nose who puts out - Total Eclipse of the Heart is playing in the background. The short version of this story is that every single disappointment in my life felt like it was set to a Bonnie Tyler soundtrack. Jobs I didn’t get; promotions I was denied; car accidents; flat tires; you name it. And sometimes Bonnie Tyler predicted some really dark shit too. On my 26^th birthday, I woke up to Bonnie Tyler on the radio and although I turned the station as quickly as my chubby fingers allowed, it didn’t stop my neighbor from roughing me up and robbing me three hours later. The day my grandfather died? Total Eclipse of the Heart. I think you get my drift.

It might be a musical masterpiece. It might be a beautiful song. I’m a little biased. What I can tell you is that it’s a l-o-n-g song and I can name that tune in about four notes – and my cat-like reflexes will have me pouncing to change the channel, the station, the song to avoid whatever doom lurks around the corner. Bonnie and her seven minute song about vampire love or whatever the hell she’s carrying on about enjoyed a lot of popularity in the 1980’s. I enjoyed a temporary separation from her doomsday predictions during the grunge era but like any damn iconic song, I’ve never been able to fully avoid it – but here in 2016, things have gotten out of hand. Bonnie Tyler is being used to peddle Fiber One bars. Her music is the cure for constipation. And yet, if you’re someone like me, it may cause metaphoric explosive diarrhea.

I popped into my local coffee shop a few days ago to pick up some motivation in cup before a marathon day at the office. Because I’m not always a total dick, I’d taken coffee orders from my colleagues and purchased four designer drinks to go. The moment I finished placing my order, Bonnie Tyler began blaring from the sound system. The tweenaged baristas squealed and said inane things like, “Ohhh! I just love this oldie! What a great song!” while I made the sign of the cross and wondered what horrific joyride the universe had planned for me next. Would I spill coffee on my cute suit? Would I be late to work? Would I break my leg? Or would I get fired? The possibilities are endless.

I’m a little bit older than I was when I sat in the orange chair on the right. I’m not necessarily any wiser but I have grown more comfortable in my own skin. I know who I am and while I still occasionally fight the urge to fade into the background, I’m not afraid to be center stage anymore. I do my best work from the wings, though. I’ll be your biggest and loudest cheering section; your toughest coach; and your confidante. There is no greater joy for me than to see those around me achieve their goals and reach their amazing potential. While I will still go into epileptic-type seizures to silence Bonnie Tyler, just know it’s so I can fulfill my real mission – which is to be the wind beneath your wings.  

© 2016 Princess D