Peaches & Herb Knew What They Were Crooning About

My dear readers (Hi, Mom! And the other two of you out there!): I’ve come to accept the fact that this princess is smack in the midst of middle age. Sure, the gray hair and crows’ feet were early signals, but the joint aches; the night sweats; and the raging case of shingles I developed this year made the fact undeniable. I? Am no spring chicken. I’m a sweaty, aching, chunky old chicken with a very expensive hair dye habit.

I don’t really have much to complain about – except the night sweats, which are truly revolting. (And if I’m going to sweat like that, why am I not losing any weight? This phenomenon makes no sense to me and I would like to take it up with Mother Nature. That bitch has some ‘splaining to do.) Once I came to terms with my middle-agedness, I discovered and unleashed a whole new batch of neuroses. Between the sweating, the shingles, and my neuroses both old and new, it’s a miracle I’ve managed to do much else lo these past few months – but I do get out occasionally.

One of the greatest things about middle age is the ability to reconnect with the cast of characters who played starring roles in the earlier chapters of your life. In the past six months, I have been fortunate enough to reunite with three “VIPS” from days gone by – and each reunion has left my heart full of joy and my brain on overload. Christi was my childhood neighbor and grade school friend. We wore barrettes with long ribbons, shared Bonne Bell Lip Smackers, and roller skated around the ‘hood. Life took us in different directions after grade school, although a series of unfortunate incidents found me spending my sophomore year of high school at an upscale, suburban school where this poor white trash did not fit in even a little bit. I was so happy to find Christi and her spiral perm and big bangs in the midst of all that privilege – until, of course, my hoodrat boyfriend kicked me to the curb because he had the hots for her. We never spoke again . . . until about six months ago when we attended the same book club meeting. She is a mom to three young men; a wife; a dedicated employee; and she remains one of the kindest and most compassionate people I’ve ever known. Young Christi befriended me when I desperately needed someone to eat lunch with, and she made one of my most awkward years of high school okay. Neither of us ended up with the guy, which is just fine because trust me . . . we both deserved much better. Christina – thank you for your friendship in the days before iPhone and thank you for making an encore appearance in our middle age.

I changed schools in 7^th grade. While my friends were starting junior high, I transferred in to a middle school where I was supposed to learn all about technology. Spoiler alert: I did master the art of Pascal programming but my inability to wrap my dense brain around algebra and basic science dashed any STEM dreams I may have had. And let me be clear . . . I was boy crazy as hell, so my STEM dreams were motivated by the abundance of testosterone in those classrooms. “7th grade me” was awkward on a good day. I was 5’10” with bad hair and a mouth full of braces that I only came to appreciate in adulthood but worse, I suffered from crippling shyness. This was not a recipe for success for a kid starting at a brand new school, and I struggled to make friends and fit in, until I met Alexandra. We were the Bobbsey Twins of awkward – both of us desperately uncomfortable in our own skin and desperate to fit in; to be understood; and to be appreciated. We were not our best selves back then – but we had a lot of fun hanging out at the now defunct Terrace Mall, trying on eyeshadow and pretending to be grown up.

7th grade me. Check out that unibrow and those braces!

There is really nothing worse than being a 12 year old girl. You’re stuck between being a kid and thinking you’re much more grown up than you are; you’re not prepared for things like menstrual cramps and periods; and you’re a giant dick to your parents because you’re trying to assert some form of independence. No 12 year old girl can do it alone, and thank goodness I had Alex as my wing woman during those awkward years. We graduated from 8^th grade and promised to be BFFs forever in the way that only adolescent girls can – but different schools took us on different paths. We reunited again in that fateful 10^th grade year and then our friendship faded away as life took us on different paths.

Of course, as a gal of a certain age, you reflect back and wonder what happened to so-and-so from your youth. Social media has made it easier to creep on your old friends and foes, but it’s not foolproof. It wasn’t until Christina (of roller skating and boyfriend woes mentioned above) connected Alexandra and me on Facebook that we were able to connect the dots, once again proving Christina’s awesomeness. And just like with Christina, Alexandra joined a book club meeting I attended, and we caught up on life. Her journey hasn’t been easy but she is madly in love with the man she married and she is laser focused on creating the best life possible. To sit next to her as an adult, with both of us sitting up straight and not apologizing for who and what we are was a blessing and a gift – and I look forward to continuing the journey with Alexandra. (Bonus points that neither of us had to remove our retainer and wrap it in a napkin during our reunion.)  

This brings me to my most shameful confession and my most joyful reunion. I met my best friend Andrea when I was a freshman in high school, and she became my “ride or die” for the next eight years. We never attended the same school; we hung with different crowds; but we were friends from the block. We attended the same church; we were in youth group together; and we were coworkers at the infamous Bunny Store. We consumed rivers of Diet Coke; ate thousands of mozzarella sticks; and thanks to the instructional videos of John Hughes, we mastered the art of stalking boys we liked. Anti-stalking laws were not a thing yet, so don’t judge. We survived near hypothermia and assault from kamikaze Boundary Waters Canoe Area beavers.  We sang Beatles songs; got kicked out of Canada; had our hearts broken; and one year, we even ventured to WeFest in my old Pontiac Sunbird.

Early career goals 

Andrea was a ray of sunshine to everyone who met her. Quick with a smile; kind; generous; and fun – she was everything I wanted to be. She was the ying to my yang. One of us was a blond extrovert with a killer tan, a big personality and a contagious joy. The other one of us was a pasty, freckled red head with crippling introversion, a quick wit, and a fear of pretty much everything. Our friendship made the transition from high school to college to beginning adulthood . . . until Mr. Wrong came along. You can read all about that fiasco in my prior blog.

Mr. Wrong was all kinds of wrong – and although he stole my money and wasted years of my life, the greatest thing he ever did was leave my ass. I wasn’t brave enough to walk away, and left to my own stubborn devices, I would have stayed and made both of our lives miserable until death do us part. While I was so wrapped up in playing house with Mr. Wrong, my friendship with Andrea faded away – and I never understood why. For the past 20 years, I’ve missed her tremendously and I’ve wondered where she is and how she is and there has been so much I’ve wanted to share. Not to mention that I really needed to discuss those kamikaze beavers because no one believes that story!

Fast forward and social media recommends that I might like to become friends with Andrea. Hell yes, I would! Thank you, social media bots for your creepy, stalkery algorithms. After a few false starts, we finally met up for dinner – and we picked up right where we left off over 20 years ago. And it was over a platter of nachos that the truth revealed itself . . . Mr. Wrong drove a wedge between us all those years ago. Without even realizing it, I put a mister before a sister – and I let Mr. Wrong tell my ride or die that I didn’t have time for my old friends. Now, when I look in the mirror, in addition to the myriad of other flaws I was already imminently aware of, I get to look myself in the eye and realize I’m the girl who put testes before besties. Oh, the shame. THE SHAME! Thankfully, Andrea is nothing if not gracious and we agreed to make up for lost time by making all kinds of new memories together. If “making new memories” happens to include making voodoo dolls of Mr. Wrong and stabbing the living shit out of them, well, so be it.  

Andrea & me - reunited at last!

Friends – whether for a reason, a season, or a lifetime – are one of the greatest joys and blessings in our lives. Reuniting and having someone to take a walk down memory lane with is priceless, even if that friend remembers your Duran Duran obsession (Christina); the crush you had on that nose-picking A/V dork John Jansen (Alexandra); or the time when you pretended to be lesbians so no one would recognize you (Andrea. Also: not one of my better ideas. WORST DISGUISE EVER.) Whether we were riding our bikes to the park or going to our first dances or portaging canoes in the BCWA, these three ladies were my confidantes. We knew each other’s hopes, fears, and dreams – and although not a one of us wound up where we thought we’d go, we all have gone to even greater places than we ever imagined.

25 years ago, I was a cashier in a convenience store, destined to become the very first La Mere to graduate from college. (Or else. Guilt is a very powerful motivator, Dad.) I thought maybe I’d be a teacher or a writer or maybe I’d save the world like Batman. In the words of Douglas Adams, “I may not have gone where I intended to go, but I think I’ve ended up where I intended to be.” #Grateful  

© 2017 Princess D.

A Letter To Nate

Memories of the days after your funeral are blurry, like so many out of focus photographs. Entire days, weeks, and months passed. I know I visited your grave. I know I went to mass and raged at God. And since I didn’t get fired, I can only assume I continued to go to work, where I did something, talked to some people, and counted down the hours until I could escape to the safety of my car to cry.

Because there is so much I either can’t or won’t remember, the memories I do have are Kodachrome clear. I always struggled to share myself with you – I could never seem to find the words to tell you how I felt or how much you meant to me – so I wrote you letters. When I cleaned out your personal effects, I stumbled upon shoeboxes full of every card and letter I’d ever sent you . . . going all the way back to 11^th grade. I never knew you’d kept those letters carefully tucked away in shoeboxes for all those years. Of course, as it turns out, there was a lot I didn’t know back then.

After your funeral, I left letters at your grave . . . letters where I begged you to forgive me for failing to save you. Letters where I promised to carry you with me for the rest of my life. Letters where I swore I would do whatever it took to make you proud of me. These letters were carried away on the wind. I know they never made it to you but I wrote them anyway.   

I’ve probably written thousands of letters to you since that very first day when you tapped me on the shoulder, asked to borrow a pencil, and stole my heart. You, on the other hand, were a terrible pen pal. I can count the letters you wrote to me on one hand – which makes them all the more special to me.  

On the eve of the 16^th anniversary of your death, there is so much I want to share with you. I’ve written and rewritten this letter thirty times. I reread what I’ve written and I’m embarrassed at how stupid and trite it sounds when all I want is to be able to tell you is what’s in my heart. The thing is, Nate – you weren’t supposed to get sick. You definitely weren’t supposed to die. You were my happily ever after.

Not once in the 16 years you’ve been gone have I ever gotten angry at you. I was pretty sure I checked the box on the anger stage of grief, but upon further reflection, I’ve unleashed the fury on God; on your doctors; and most often, on myself. If only I’d loved you more or loved you better . . . if only I wasn’t a workaholic . . . if only I didn’t go to Memphis . . . if only I’d been more compassionate, more empathetic, more kind . . . you could fill the Grand Canyon with my guilt, shame and the if-only’s.

I’ve spent 16 years trying to figure out why you’re gone and why I was left behind. I’ve tried to figure out how to be enough – good enough, smart enough, thin enough, rich enough, talented enough. I often wonder if you’d be proud of the woman I’ve become. I desperately hope the answer is yes, but I’m never quite sure. That uncertainty is the thing that propels me out of bed each morning. It’s what motivates me to show up and give what I’ve got, no matter what. What I do isn’t important. It’s how I do it that matters to me. And no matter how tired I am, no matter how I feel, I try my darnedest every single day to be a day maker.

I feel inadequate most of the time. I don’t know if I’m honoring your legacy or not – but this old girl isn’t a quitter. I wasn’t the only girl who didn’t quit the t-ball team in 1^st grade for no reason. (And let me be clear. I should have quit. I was terrible.) I do the only thing I know how to do – keep on keeping on like a bird that flew. I wish I had the words to tell you how you’ve changed my life. I wish I’d had the courage or the foresight to tell you when I had the chance. My biggest wish, though, is to live a life that makes you proud.

16 years. It goes by in the blink of an eye and yet it feels like an eternity when you’re grieving. Of course, you’re not really gone – because I carry you in my heart and thus, I am never truly alone.

Love – for ALWAYS,

Me  

 © Princess D, 2017 

I See London, I See France . . . This Blog is About Underpants

Grief is weird. It shows up differently for everyone but it’s one of those things that we simply don’t talk about – like politics, religion, or when you have toilet paper stuck to your shoe after you leave the ladies’ room. In my case, grief is a lot like underwear. It’s a constant – I won’t leave home without it – and while there are long stretches of time when I don’t really think about my underwear, there are those days when I’m plagued by a visible panty line. Sometimes my giant granny panties get wedged up my backside at the very worst possible moments of the day, and I can’t really concentrate on anything until I get my panties out of a wad. On days when I wake up on the fat side of the bed, I’m acutely aware of how tight my panties are and I am distracted by them all day long. I have old, faded panties where the elastic is about ready to expire that I can’t bring myself to throw away, and I have a couple of pairs of fancy panties too, but most of my underwear is brought to me courtesy of the very nice folks at Fruit of the Loom and can be easily procured at just about any discount store in the nation. My grief, on the other hand, didn’t cost me a dime and while I’ve tried to return it, refund it, and leave it behind, it sticks to me like a reliable pair of high-waisted briefs.

For 16 years, I’ve worn grief under my clothes and deep inside my heart. Like my underwear, you probably never saw my grief (I’m no Britney Spears) but I assure you, it was there. My grief didn’t travel alone, bringing her friends guilt and shame along with for the ride, which may explain why my pants have felt so tight. Ha! It wasn’t the cookies – it was the grief! If you think grief is a heavy burden to carry, let me introduce you to guilt and shame. Those two bitches refused to leave my side, and they like traveling by wagon, so in addition to having grief crawl up my ass, I’ve been dragging an invisible wagon of guilt and shame everywhere I go. If you’ve ever wondered about my stooped shoulders and lousy posture, wonder no more. Some days, when the grief didn’t give me a wedgie, I’d forget about the guilt and shame wagon until I found myself tripping over it and falling face-first into the abyss. I replay the same stories in my head over and over again, trying desperately to write a different ending – but I can’t rewrite history. Everyone dies. I understand that. But when someone so young is taken from us before he has had a chance to truly live; when his death was self-inflicted; and when you tried but failed to save him from himself, you’ll experience a different kind of grief. You’ll feel the absence in your heart profoundly.

For 16 years, I have felt tremendous guilt and shame about Nate’s suicide. It’s a weight I’ve carried daily. The guilt and shame have wreaked havoc on my life. I’ve lost friends. Relationships. Guilt and shame caused me to let my guard down so low that I allowed predators into my life and into my home. Spoiler alert: that didn’t end well. Guilt and shame have led me to make terrible decisions and dangerous choices. I rationalized it all away saying, “I let Nate down. I won’t ever do that to another living soul again.” But here’s the deal. I couldn’t even save myself, much less anyone else. I faked it. I tried. I showed up. I did stuff. Maybe you saw my underwear sometimes, maybe you didn’t. For 16 years, I thought this was my destiny – to haul a shame wagon and to spend the rest of my days making amends for failing Nate. Every day, guilt woke me up in the morning, whispering, “Do you think he’s proud of what he sees?” And every day, I thought to myself, “Not yet – but I’ll keep on keeping on.”

While I was resigned to my fate, I didn’t stop trying to find a better path. I went to therapy, but therapy merely opened my eyes to the fact that I have even more issues than I was aware of. And I’m just not ready to sit down with four year old me to face those. I tried meditation, but I couldn’t quiet my mind and I was wildly annoyed by the sounds coming out of my fellow meditators . . . snot sucking; stomachs growling; wheezing; and someone even farted. I turned to the church. I went to mass.  I read everything I could get my hands on – and I learned that lots of people felt that their deceased loved ones were communicating with them through dreams. I prayed desperately for a sign, for a dream, for something. And for 16 years, I got nothing. Ten years ago, I went to an energy healer who took $300 of my money and told me that Nate couldn’t communicate with me because he was a toddler now. Sure, lady. I saw psychics; had my tarot cards read; and I did just about anything imaginable to find a way to reduce or eliminate the burden of guilt and shame.

I kept getting out of bed and putting one foot in front of the other. I met a man who didn’t care about my shame wagon. We fell in love and married. I somehow built a career. I celebrated birthdays. I visited the cemetery. I published some blogs that 11 people read. Not to brag, but I accomplished a lot in spite of the guilt and shame I dragged around behind me every single day. I got used to it, and I sort of assumed that this was my destiny, and that’s okay. My guilt and shame aren’t real problems – there are people who are struggling to put food on the table; people tortured by mental illness; people fighting for their lives. My sadness is hardly a debilitating condition. According to the experts, I’d reached the “acceptance” phase of the grief cycle. Awesome. (Note: just because you’re at acceptance doesn’t mean you stop wearing panties.)

And then, a couple of weeks ago, something happened. Just like I’ve done every other night for almost 17 years, I put on my jammies and laid my head on the pillow to sleep. But this time, I had a dream. The details of the dream have faded now, and they aren’t important anyway. In my dream, I was looking everywhere for Nate. I was searching high and low, stopping everyone I encountered to ask if they had seen him. I finally found him, in the basement of our high school (!), where he was working away on some kind of art project. I was so relieved to see him, I ran over and exclaimed, “I’ve been looking everywhere for you! Where have you been?” He looked up at me and said, “I didn’t know you were looking for me. Please – stop worrying about me. I’ve been here the entire time.” I woke up shortly thereafter.

I’m a heavy sleeper and if I dream, I don’t realize it most of the time. I can count on my fingers the number of dreams I remember in the last two decades, so a dream that stuck with me after waking was a mini-miracle in and of itself. But this was the dream I’ve been waiting 16 years for. I woke up and for the first time, I didn’t trip over a giant shame wagon at the foot of my bed. My grief suddenly felt less like underwear and more like a bracelet – something I might wear and admire from time to time, but no longer a constant staple of my wardrobe, hidden far away from the naked eye. Nate is part of my story and part of my journey, so I will never close the chapter on missing him . . . and now, I have permission to put the guilt down. He’s been here all along. He doesn’t want me to worry. And it’s okay to move on.

It’s amazing to be freed of the shackles of my guilt and shame, but it’s also a little disconcerting. It’s like discovering that Fruit of the Loom is no longer making my preferred style of granny panties and switching to Hanes Her Way (been there, done that). It takes time to get used to this new underwear and this new way of showing up in the world. In fact, I’ve been plagued with this restless energy ever since. Who am I without this grief holding me in place? What will I do now that I am free from guilt and shame? A friend asked me how I will design my life now that the guilt and shame are a part of my past. That is the million dollar question – and I’ll answer it real-time as this new chapter unfolds. Watch this space.

© 2016 Princess D       

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.