Reclaiming the Wild Child

My hubby recently celebrated his sixtieth birthday. Yes, I’m married to a sexagenarian. Makes him sound like a pervert, doesn’t it? LOL. In our case, I think the pervert label fits me better than it does him, but I’ll never tell.

I’m sure everyone sees it anyway. I’m the one with the ink, the pink hair, the foul mouth, the preference for metal music, and the penchant for smutty romance novels. Hubby is so normal I often wonder just what it is he sees in me. He’s a trucker, and he’s the kinder, gentler half of this couple. I’m not sure even he knows what to make of me half the time, but this is who I really am. I stifled this for years; it had to come out sometime.

Hubby was the catalyst for releasing the inner wild child I hid so well for a quarter of a century. In my mid-20’s, I was attending metal concerts on a regular basis, and I had long, curly, blue-black hair. Then my cousin moved away and I lost my wild best friend, the one who attended concerts with me, and the one I laughed the longest and loudest with. I’d always been shy, but with her I was louder and more alive. I grieved her moving from New York to Texas to join the rest of her family. A short time after she moved, my father suddenly got sick and he passed away, and I suffered another crippling blow. I was twenty-eight, single, and still living at home.

Knowing I could lose my mother, too, at any time, I decided I needed to meet someone with whom I could possibly share a future so I dialed back who I was. I settled into normalcy. I cut my hair; I went back to my normal, boring brown. In essence, I grew up. I had a steady, decent paying job, and I was ready to settle down. Unfortunately, I altered who I was to fit in at work, as a partner and wife, as a mother, and in life. Giving up my wild side, I hated who I was, and I didn’t even know it. I thought it was just my natural reserve that always made me feel so damned inadequate.

I met hubby when I was twenty-nine. We married when I was thirty, and we had our first son when I was thirty-one. Life moved on fairly quickly.

Together hubby and I raised two wonderful, young men. We had our challenges with ADHD, Autism, Diabetes, Celiac disease, Asperger’s syndrome and way too much time spent with doctors, specialists, administrators, teachers and others who all thought they knew what was best for my sons. I stifled a lot over the years to see two young men through the nightmare and quagmire that was the public school system. I bit my tongue so many times when all I wanted to do was swear and lash out. As their advocate, I thought I had to hold my anger inside. I tried to put my boys first at all times. Having to deal with all these strangers who knew nothing about my sons but passed judgment anyway made me more outgoing but it also made me bury all that fury and anger deep inside.

I lost my mother when I was forty-six. Shortly after that my aged pets began to leave me, one by one; not their fault, of course. Everything dies. To get by, I buried my hurt and grief deep along with all that anger. I was probably clinically depressed and didn’t even know it at the time. I was hurting so badly I was barely functioning inside, but I made it through each day.

Something about turning fifty changed things. I hadn’t even realized that my sweet hubby knew deep down inside that I wasn’t a happy person. I was just going through the motions. He pushed. He pushed at me some more. Then he pushed even harder. Over the course of a year, he kept pushing at me. I had thought that we were happy and that we were complete. Being the saner, smarter half of this couple he knew differently. He knew I wasn’t happy, and since I wasn’t happy, he wasn’t either.

Hubby pushed hard, and he told me things needed to change. When it finally occurred to me that something was in fact “broken”, I began to get scared that maybe it was our marriage. He was the one who suggested I needed to do something really different to break out of this funk that I was stuck inside, a mid life crisis sort of gesture. So at age 51, I went back to school to start on my first college degree, and I got my first tattoo. The ink actually came first. It was something I’d always wanted to do but hadn’t because I didn’t want to disappoint my mother.

Gradually, the wild child began to find her way back. I finally opened my eyes and realized I no longer cared what others thought, and I didn’t have to fit into any molds of what I should be. I only have to do what makes me happy. I finally figured out what I wanted to be when I grew up.

My marriage? It was never broken. I was. My sexagenarian hubby? He loves the wild child. Me? I’m happier than I’ve ever been, pink hair, ink, loud music, bad language and all. I wish I’d realized what was missing years ago. Me.

Images courtesy of Pinterest

Letting It All Hang Out

Someone asked me today if it was hard when I first started writing, initially putting myself “out there”. I told her the truth – yes and no. I write primarily to please myself. I found freedom and joy in writing, and I got some nice compliments when I first started doing it so I kept going. I do find many times that I have to self-monitor and tone down what I’d like to say. Do I sometimes resent that? Of course, I do.

There are times when I am angry or bitter over something that happened at work, out in public or at home. I’d like to vent, and I’d like to let off steam. If I said many of the things that I’d like to, I’d end up hurting someone’s feelings or causing problems at my job. I have to constantly review what’s been drafted to make sure that I won’t put myself in a bad light. Everybody gets mad, but I don’t have to share it online where the world can see it.

There are many days when I am blue and lonely. I’d like to wail and cry here on my blog, but my fear is if I did that, I’d end up scaring people. My hubby knows how I feel. He knows I miss him every second that he’s away from me during the week. I try to do my crying in private – in the shower or in the cellar – so that my sons don’t know I’m having one of “those” days. It serves no purpose to let others know that I feel like crap that day. It’s okay to let others know how you feel, but If I posted how low I was every time I felt that way, people would worry about me.

oldpeopleThere are also times I feel like posting less than G-rated material, but I don’t do that either. (Sorry about the picture – but then they’re just butts). I try to stay family-friendly. That’s a concern with the novel that I’m writing. The first draft is letting it all hang out. Yes, there are many sex scenes and many four-letter words. Will they make the final cut? I don’t know. It will probably be toned down a lot if it ever gets published. My hubby knows how my mind works. None of it would be a shock to him, but I still have a mother-in-law and two sons to consider. Using a pen name has also been considered.

I told the person who asked me about “putting myself out there” that I write in private to get a lot of those less than wholesome and less than “sane” thoughts down on paper. If it makes me feel good to write it, I do it. If someone finds it and reads it years after I’m gone, do I care? No. I am who I am. If my sons some day say, “wow, who knew Mom was really like that?” that’s okay. Maybe it will make them smile and shake their heads in fond remembrance of their weird mother.

I refrain from posting anything of a political nature. I leave that to my hubby. He was thrilled last weekend to see a comment that he’d posted on FOX News’s website being read aloud on their Sunday news TV talk show. He laughed out loud, and I came into the room to see a PowerPoint slide on the screen showing his question and his name. I don’t consider myself smart enough politically to voice my opinions. If anyone asks, I will tell him or her that I am a conservative, but I am also more of a moderate and can see both sides of most political issues.

I don’t comment on social hot topics like any of the same sex issues. I believe that what you do in the privacy of your own home is your own business. You can marry a doorknob for all I care. I just don’t want it shoved down my throat 24/7. I don’t run down the street telling everyone what I do so stop sharing what you do with me. Live your life and be happy with who you are. If you are not hurting anyone else, do what you want, and that’s all I’ll ever say on that topic.

I could bitch loud and long about my neighbors, but I won’t do that either. They don’t read what I write so I don’t care if they’d see my rants. I just think it’s small to detail some of the weird things that happen in my neighborhood. I don’t like most people, and if I had my choice, I’d move way out into the middle of nowhere. I know now that we should’ve picked some place more remote when we bought our house. The only neighbors I write or post about are the squirrels and birds.

So as far as putting myself out there, I do it to a reasonable degree online. The more shady parts of my mind stay private and I prefer it that way. I won’t share everything. The one who has the privilege of knowing most of my inner thoughts is the guy I married. That’s the prize he received when he took me on twenty-seven years ago.

Image courtesy of Pinterest

 

The Uglier Side of Humanity

Today I witnessed something I just as soon would not have seen. I was in the drive through at Dunkin Donuts, waiting an impossibly long time. The parking lot was crowded and more cars kept coming. There was a black Mitsubishi sedan behind me in line.

As we waited, I suddenly heard a bang and looked in the rearview mirror to see the black sedan behind me rocking after it had been hit from behind. A white Buick had backed out of a parking place and backed into the back of the Mitsubishi. As I watched, the driver (a short, heavyset, bald man) and his teenaged daughter both jumped out of the car, yelling. They were both screaming and swearing. It was quite the sight (and sound).

They approached the Buick, still yelling profanities. From what I had observed, this was not a high speed crash. Nor was it intentional. It was raining. The parking lot was very crowded (it’s a tiny parking lot), and through a rain-spotted rear window that black sedan did not show up very well. I had been watching it for some time myself (through my own rain-spotted rear window) as it crept along in line behind me.

The next thing I knew the fat, bald man was pounding on the trunk of the Buick. The Buick had pulled forward but then backed up a bit more so that it could pull into a different parking space. The man was yelling, “are you going to back into me again?!”

angrymanWhen I looked again, the Buick’s driver had gotten out, and it was an elderly woman, wearing a raincoat and a bad-looking wig. By the time I made it through the drive through and picked up my order, the Gates Police were arriving. I had to drive back around the building on my way out, and I noticed the policeman talking to the bald man. The Buick was parked, and there was no damage whatsoever to the rear bumper. The bald man’s daughter was squatting down behind the Mitsubishi with her nose against the bumper, surveying the “damage”. There wasn’t a scratch on it from what I could see. It looked like a huge amount of fuss over nothing.

What a poor example that bald man had set for his daughter. Given the fact that she was out of the car before he was, it was obvious he’d been giving her poor examples of behavior to follow for most of her life. I felt sorry for her. I badly wanted to tell the man and his daughter that they were both candidates for moron of the year for probably frightening a little old lady half to death. I can understand getting out of your car to see if there is damage and possibly exchanging insurance information, but the degree to which they both overreacted was just absurd and disturbing. There was no reason to react the way that they did. That poor old woman probably went home and had a good cry. She looked like she could use a hug.

What is wrong with people today? It’s only a car.  It was just an accident.  There was no visible damage!!

Image found on Pinterest