Being Me

Being Me. Based on a True Story

Introduction

I don't know how you or I got here. I don’t see how any of us can be certain really. I know we are here. We are born as a part of some assigned team. Some of the teams seem stacked like a Catholic school football team. And some of us are on shitty teams with drunk coaches like the Bad News Bears. (The first one with Walter Mattheau.) It’s all by chance or Someone is doing this to us. I’m not sure how I feel about it. A few teams have great uniforms and really nice equipment. Kind of like the villain teams of every Disney sports movie. And then there are the commoners. The team that stands no chance. No athletic ability, no support, maybe one kid on the squad that can throw or kick a ball. Except in real life, they don’t pull out the miracle win. At least not from what I’ve seen. But they keep playing . Because they love the game or just because they have to. 

I have a friend that is a spiritual healer. I call her my magic eight ball. She communicates with what she calls Spirit and gains insight into people’s lives that help attain their greater good. She’s awesome. She lives far away, and we only talk through text or email occasionally. I would talk more. I would abuse her gift. I’m sure I already do. But seriously, why can’t Spirit tell me if I should grow out my hair? What’s the big deal? Anyway, I asked her once (many times) what is the meaning of life. Like, for real. What the fuck? She said, and still maintains, that the meaning and purpose of this life is to experience love. To give it, receive it, perhaps lose it, and work for it. To overcome fear and embody love.

 Ok. 

So here we all are. Walking around, living. Some say we existed prior to this and that we got together with our team of eternal traveling companions and chose what we would learn in this life. Which really pisses me off. What was I thinking? I can just see Cosmic Karen at the big table. I’m thinking about dealing with these abandonment issues once and for all. Let’s hit the daddy issues hard. And I want to feel it all. Hell, I even want to feel other people’s stuff. Yeah. That’ll be perfect. 

And so, April 13, 1965, I came down the tunnel in the universe. I landed in Baton Rouge, Louisiana. Daughter of Vance and Kay Louque, sister of Kay Lynn, Little Vance, and future Kandi. Somewhere in the distance a dog barked, and an umpire yelled, “Play ball!” And I did. We all did. 

And this is that story. The account of my journey. Not in chronological order, because I’m too lazy. I’d rather just stream this out as it surfaces. Childhood memories, yesterday, my children, all of it. Happy times, drunk abusive men, rock concerts, sunsets, laughter, nursing my children, marriage, divorce, marriage again, you get it. It’s all mine. And yours. I’ll try to only cast myself in bad lighting. I have no interest in making anyone feel bad. But some things are just ugly. And some are beautiful. Whatever they are, the experiences are truth. They are the sum, so far, of my evolution. My becoming Love. 

I Don't Want the Title to be Titties

I have no idea what's it's like to be you. I try in small moments during the day to be empathetic. Mainly it's to counter my judgements about the people I interact with at work. But mostly, all day, everyday, every moment, ALL DAY, I am me. I have things swirling around in my head, and if you are one of my five blogger fans (you know who you are), you know that I write to organize this shit. And so, this morning I have my boobs and gray hair, the meaning of life (aka Are You serious, God?), my liver, and a thousand other things that keep popping up. So I will try to get some of these in order.

I was always thought of as "skinny" growing up. It wasn't a compliment. Oh sure, girls would always say they were jealous of my ability to eat so much with no apparent consequence, but guys didn't give a crap about the fact that I could eat quarter pounders with cheese. They liked boobs.

Titties, folks.

And my daddy, who I miss every day of my life, didn't help. From an early age I only remember his pointing out beautiful women on TV or in public by their breasts. The bigger the better. Or prettier in my young mind. So I, being me, fantasied about having the biggest and the best. I was very entertaining. I used to walk in to a room at 9 years old, or the softball dugout, or anywhere, with soft balls in my shirt. Socks, tennis balls, you name it.  I drew beautiful women with cleavage. I could not wait to have them. And then puberty came. And everybody started getting them. Everyone but me. I wore a training bra (wtf) just to have the cool strap showing through my shirt. But the boobies did not come. I adjusted, of course, but I always wanted them. And there was no way in hell I would have gotten implants. That would have been surrendering. Screw that. So I carried on with small boobs and found out you could have a good butt and get by. And I nursed my children for a cumulative decade, so eat me, society.

And then I turned 50. And kids, my breasts are growing. Not leaps and bounds, but slightly. I can make that cool little line of cleavage if I try. And I will. I have gone my whole life without the pleasure of being objectified for my chest. And I have no idea how much time I have. I feel like it's a miracle, and I'm not wasting a second. So brace yourselves. I am working these girls. And I won't even pretend to be offended. I won't say, "Hey, I'm up here." It's ok. You can look.

Which brings me to my head. Or my hair. I am finally going gray. For real. (Where are you, Hatton?) I am happier every day that I become my real hair self. Like implants would have been, I have always felt like I was giving in by dying my hair. Like I was conforming to a standard of beauty that wasn't mine. So I am free.  Sticking it to the man. And in my mind, pretty. I will say more about this journey on another day with a picture or something. Maybe a cool nonchalant shot of my hair and and some incidental cleavage...

I was going to touch on the meaning of life, but that's pretty big. Bigger than my boobs.  I'm not sure what to say. I have more questions than answers, and I am kind of tired of the search. So today, I will look inside for meaning. I will love me and try to shine that light to the ones that I am with. I want to portray some hope to my grandchildren that life is not futile. That we are here to experience love and joy. That we can experience love and joy. That the crying is for a greater reason. That life is more than boobs and hair. But boobs and hair are fun. And fun is good. I work a double today at JBBQ. My life is good. I will write again soon. About my liver. I miss this.

Sonnet XVIII

Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate:
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer's lease hath all too short a date:
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And often is his gold complexion dimmed,
And every fair from fair sometime declines,
By chance, or nature's changing course untrimmed:
But thy eternal summer shall not fade,
Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow'st,
Nor shall death brag thou wander'st in his shade,
When in eternal lines to time thou grow'st,
   So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see,
   So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.