The Flummoxed Lummox
“I Can’t DoThis,” I whispered fiercely into my mother’s ear. I leaned in close enough to pick up her scent; she smelled like childhood. Oh sweet era of expected stupidity and forgiven irresponsibility.
“You have to,” from the tone in her voice I could tell she was annoyed with my indecisive nature, “you’re not getting any younger.” Who is this imposter? I was shocked those words were coming out of my mother’s mouth. She, the epitome of independence and abrupt decision making, was telling me it was too late to avoid one of the biggest life changing moments of my, well, my life? Something wasn’t right. Mom would never allow me to follow through with this if I didn’t truly want to. I peered past her shoulder to the garden-variety wedding crowd awaiting my melancholic catwalk down the aisle. So many unrecognizable faces.
That’s odd.
Wait! I see my grandfather, and just past his big bobble-head I noticed the fate that awaited me - Eddie, or wait, was it Tony? I couldn’t tell. My mom linked her arm under mine and followed the gesture with a reassuring smile. I was flummoxed. Wasn’t this moment supposed to be exciting? Where was my joy? And how the f%*k did I not know who was waiting for me at that alter? At the moment neither Eddie, nor Tony, seemed like a great prospect if forever was concerned; I threw up a little bit in my mouth. My lungs were expanding beyond the capacity of my ribcage.
I’m going to be sick in front of all these people.
The organ played its initial note and without hesitation I broke away from my mothers grip and hauled ass out the stained glass double doors. Gallons of relief washed over me.
Jesus is so pissed at me right now.
I didn’t bother to look back at anyone’s reaction, it didn’t matter, I was so out of there. I picked up speed at a surprisingly quick pace considering I was wearing heels. Hold on, no way could heels provide this bounce. I looked down and noticed I wasn’t wearing heels; I was rocking my Nike footwear.
Thank God I wore my kicks.
The organ music had faded and morphed into Madonna's Borderline; figures this scene would culminate into a cheesy 80's flick moment. The wedding dress was gone and had been replaced with gym gear. Running, sprinting through woods, past concrete jungles with waves licking at my heels, running, running, making good time towards an unknown destination when out of nowhere appeared a cobble stone wall and for no good reason, I kicked it.
OUCH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!... F$%K me!!....
A sharp electric pain vibrated up the side of my body. My left toe, injured with an ingrown nail, throbbed with pain. Have you ever had an ingrown nail? The pain is inexplicably intense. I lay in bed sobbing, but grateful. The ache was real and it was proof the jilted marriage had been nothing more than a dream. Reminder to self: move bed away from wall. I grabbed my cell phone off the floor and checked the time – 4:42 am.
Here we again.
Wide awake, I jumped out of bed using my healthy right foot and made my way to the dining room table where I had set up shop. This last week I’ve had nothing. I sit at my computer like a good little writer and attempt to extract wit infused moments from my memory bank in an effort to complete one of my current writing assignments. I write, but I write poop. I stare at the screen drowning in the voids that are my brainwaves. It isn’t my lack of stories to tell, it’s the lack of cleverly crafted storytelling my egghead is struggling with. I’m inclined to blame it on my current battle with insomnia; I have not had a decent night of sleep in the last week. I wake up at 5am to the sounds of garbage trucks, drunken fools outside my Hell’s Kitchen window, or my roommate banging out some chick in the next room. But for the most part it is nothing specific that wakes me; sometimes it’s just the silence. And if by the grace of God I manage to fall into REM sleep or something like it, I have nightmares about getting hitched to unsuitable ex-lovers. Point in case.
Macaroni and cheese, I’m beat!
My speech stumbles in conversation, syllables jumbled, sounds a skewed, all these thoughts interwoven to create a useless culmination of nothing. I fear I’m getting stupid. Stupider. Stupidest. Dumb. But how can this be? I’ve stopped my use of recreational drugs (reefer madness and caffeine crack); I can’t drink a glass of wine without acquiring a premature hang over. I am 150% sober. I have even successfully taught myself how to get high off laughter (however, this may be a side effect of delirium).
I’ve also begun to lose my initiative with love, men, give or take a term, the very topic this column is meant to celebrate. I will bitch and moan about the lack of quality of men, but quickly “have to wash my hair” or “hang out with my family” if a deserving lover asks for my time. My last relationship (see: My Bootleg Sex & the City Life), has propelled me to a new level. Casual dating just doesn’t cut it anymore. Who has that sort of time to waste? If your A-game isn’t tight, please keep it moving. Come correct, or not at all. And then I finally do meet someone who makes me think, “Hey, I could possibly, perhaps, maybe, like you”, and he lives on the other side of the country.
Now that I’ve eliminated empty distractions from my life the relevance of every moment has left no room for mediocrity. The real panic starts to set in when I began to speculate on the possibility of having caught Writers Block, like it’s a contagious disease I picked up from standing too close to a dumb ass on the train, or from wasting precious hours of my life watching True Blood reruns On Demand (a show which is actually so bad, it’s good).
I Google Writers Block; this is what I find on Wikipedia, and I quote:
“Writers block is a condition, associated with writing as a profession, in which an author loses the ability to produce new work. The condition varies widely in intensity. It can be trivial, a temporary difficulty in dealing with the task in hand. At the other extreme, some "blocked" writers have been unable to work for years on end, and some have even abandoned their careers.
What?!?!....... I was counting on my brain to get me thru my life once the graceful decline of my looks began to kick in. I had to act fast, something had to be done. But what? I am left with no choice but to make this work. People spend so much of their time trying to figure out who they are, what their purpose is, what is the driving force motivating them to get out of bed in the morning; so many of them never answer the question correctly or even realize they’ve been asking it. I’m fortunate enough to have somewhat figured it out. If I don’t sit my ass down and tell my stories, I would be averting my passion. And I tell you what, discovering what you love is frightening, it raises the stakes and surfaces brutal consequences for your soul if you’re met with failure.
But you have to have courage.
For me it’s courage to post these essays week after week and hope that perhaps they don’t suck, and if they do, at least I tried. We have to stop categorizing situations in our lives as failures, we should redefine the word. In essence, failure is a lack of success, but if our failures build the steps leading up to our successes, were they really failures? I don’t think so. I think we have to take chances and be completely willing to fall on our face and f&*k up. It is those moments that make us who we are. I met a gentleman recently who has a perfectly placed scar on his cheek; when he smiles it creates a dimple. It’s what made me notice him; I’ll gamble it has its purpose. Like that makeshift dimple, those trips and falls that leave their scars behind are what make us individuals and better versions of ourselves. Upgraded, if you will.
I have to stop running away from commitment. Not that I should have unwillingly walked down the aisle, I made the right choice there - dream, or no dream. You have to know what you’re focusing on and walking into to make it work. It's all about the follow-thru from that initial step.What's the prize waiting at the end of your journey? In my case, for today, it’s about marrying "me" and making the commitment to myself, for better or worse, through writers block and best-selling material.
And so I sit here and write this essay at the risk of it not making sense because on some level, I know it does.
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written by Em , October 01, 2009
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written by Celida Garcia , October 04, 2009
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