THE PATH

Thy Lord has paved a path for me

To live my life here righteously

But on this path I chose to stray

To try and find a better way

The road got bad and I felt sore

I felt I'd jumped through Satan's door

When I looked back the path was lost

And then I knew I'd paid the cost

I know Thy Lord says He'll forgive

If I can change the way I live

Sincere repentance is the key

And live His word faithfully

I feel that path will soon be clear

And that Thy Lord is always near

I live in hope that I will find

Eternal happiness, peace of mind

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A CHRISTMAS YARN

Peering out into the bustling, crowded street two stories below gave me a slight reprieve from my three-week-old office job, and my holiday worries. Christmas had become a symbol of commercialization, a negative impact on humanity. However, it was only three days away, approaching whether I liked it or not. I had three children ages eight, seven and four tremendously anticipating the upcoming event; truth of the matter be told, I was broke. Our recent relocation had been costly and there wasn't enough money to put food on the table, in addition to presents under the tree. Observing the mall shoppers across the street scurrying in and out, reminded me of mice scurrying through a maze looking for cheese. Lucky for them, I thought. 

The short loud ring of the fax machine followed by that all too familiar high-pitched whine broke the reverie. I stood in front of the sluggish fax machine patiently waiting for the curled up reminder to get back to work, and without looking at it, I sat at my desk stretching it out in front of me. As I scoured the memo from the main office, my heart started to race and my face flushed with disbelief, while choking back the tears willing to fall. Every employee was going to receive a Christmas bonus in our paycheck on Friday, Christmas Eve. Although I realized I'd succumbed to the commercialization of Christmas, an enormous weight had just been lifted, and it looked like Christmas was going to happen after all.

Shopping on Christmas Eve means bumper-to-bumper horn-blowing traffic, waiting in endless lines while listening to the mindless chatter of last-minute shoppers, to the constant blaring of Christmas music on the intercom, and, for me, a necessity. Although now I had money for gifts, it would be tight to cover all the expenses required to conjure up Christmas. Selecting gifts for the kids was easy; they needed everything. As I shopped quickly and deliberately, my thoughts flew to the abundant Christmas tree merely existing in my small tidy living room at home, an anonymous gift propped proudly by the back door a few nights earlier. With the hours melting away, I made a quick decision to bypass the decorations to try to save the money for the "Santa" gifts, and haphazardly grabbed a couple skeins of Christmas yarn.  A few hours later, loaded down with a trunk full of delightfully inexpensive presents, I rushed home to tuck them away before the kids got home.

That evening we settled down in the cozy, dimly lit living room to decorate the neglected, naked tree together. The Christmas yarn consisting of intertwined threads of holly green mixed with Santa-suit red, and angelic white, was to be our tree decorations. It would just have to do. 

The kids, oblivious to the lack of traditional decorations, chattered enthusiastically as we each tied the Christmas yarn into our own personal version of bows onto the thick, sticky pine branches, enjoying the strong pine forest scent permeating the joyful room. Melissa, the surrogate mother of the family, tied small purposeful tidy bows, while Megan, the quiet follower, tied big loopy bows with long tails. Cory, the youngest, unable to tie his own shoes let alone a bow onto the tree, rambunctiously assisted by pulling the yarn out of the skein for the rest of us. We popped popcorn in hopes of stringing it for the tree, but hysterically found out it only works in the movies. We ended up decorating the popcorn too, with oozing warm butter and a whisper of salt, then ate the rare treat instead.

 By the end of the evening, the tree was adorned in a delicate spray of holiday-colored bows, depicting an old-fashioned Christmas. Finally, tucking the children into bed, I playfully warned them to fall asleep fast, so Santa could come. Silently I prayed there would be enough time for that miracle.

Armed with several rolls of invisible Scotch tape, even more rolls of cheerful Christmas wrapping paper and a sparkling, cold bottle of White Zinfandel wine, I opened the bedroom closet to find a huge pile of toys staring out at me.

 A train set, a pink radio, fuzzy purple slippers; an endless mound of toys demanded my attention. Deciding to bypass the wine glass, I took a refreshingly large unladylike swig of the wine straight from the bottle, wiped my mouth and began the task. As the wine washed over the stress of the day, toy after toy, I began creating Christmas. 

Several hours later the big pile of toys had evolved into a big pile of eager presents strewn on top of my modest bed. With the weary chore of the wrapping complete, I quietly opened the bedroom door to listen for any possible stirrings from the kids. The coast clear, I began tiptoeing down the stairs with armload after armload of half-priced memories from Santa and placed them carefully under the naked yarn tree. Upon delivering the final load, I gazed in disbelief that Christmas, even if it was a Charlie brown Christmas, literally stood in my home. 

Maybe it was the overwhelming relief, perhaps it was the wine, but as I stood glued to the floor, a tear trickled down my face. Soon torrential sobs of self-pity laced with pride escaped my heart. I sobbed for everything my children didn't have: purple bicycles, red tricycles, crisp, new clothes......a father. And I sobbed for all that we did have: ample food on the table, a sturdy roof over our head.....each other. Completely spent, I dragged my tired body up the stairs and crawled under the cool sheets of contentment for a short nap.

Twenty-two years have come and gone since that Christmas and for me, it still conjures up memories of hardship rather than joy. Remembering was simply too painful for a long time. It was just a few years ago, at Christmastime, we sat around the table to reminisce the past about our favorite Christmas. Much to my surprise, all three grown kids agreed their favorite was the year we had the "yarn tree." 

Not one of them remembers anything of the gifts that year, just how much fun it was to have a tree with only yarn bows. My oldest daughter informs me that although she wasn't aware of the financial strain at the time, in looking back, she realizes the implication of the yarn now. Sometimes as I realize the unpleasant, hectic, societal pace at Christmas, I think back to the yarn tree and remember a simpler time, with a smile on my face.

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THE CLASSIFIED ABS

As I stare at the apple wearing my face in the full-length mirror in front of me, I make a mental note to shop looking so hard. It is something like passing an accident on the freeway. Motorists cannot avoid craning their necks to see victims strewn around, as horrifying as it is. This is the same thing. In my head, I am a 115 pound young woman; however the woman staring back at me looks a lot like my mother.  Startled by the sudden revelation, my mind shifts back through the concourse of my life to record the silent, gradual stages of my abdominal distortion.

Hanging out at the local beach in the summer was more for meeting boys than for swimming purposes. My girlfriend and I pranced around clad in skimpy bikinis, pretending to be confident, when actually we were very insecure with ourselves.  Secretly, my phobias were rampant: the pimple camped out on my forehead, was Mike going to look this way, and did the other girls look better than I did. However, my teenage belly rode tight and firm on my girlish straight frame, and frankly, the only thing I needed to worry about hanging out of my bikini was a tampon string.

Giving birth to a couple of kids works out quite nicely for the twenty-something abs. The slight womanly spread of the hips allows the tiny little pouch derived from pregnancy the room to settle back. The tight fitting black and purple leopard-print Halloween costume hid the secret while boasting a subtle hourglass figure. I was comfortable and confident in anything I was wearing - or was not wearing.  Damn! I looked good and knew it.

Somewhere in my thirties, I began to realize the post-baby bump was turning into a car bumper. In order to harness the problem, it became necessary to trade in my size five pants for a larger size, and then later, even a larger size. Clinging desperately to my pride, I was still able to mimic a tall, slender illusion by altering the style of outfits. Regardless, it seemed my thirty-something abs demanded more real estate while my waist took a permanent vacation.

The forty-nowhere abs make a simple thong feel more like an underwear enema. Girdled underwear and tummy-control pantyhose become as necessary as the right arm. Shopping in the Junior Department to stay hip, lends an opportunity for the clerk to remind you the old-lady department is at the other end of the store.  Adding insult to injury, the only remaining evidence of a six-pack is the one cooling in the refrigerator.

Upon coming to terms with my abdominal transformation, it becomes clear that living with an internal spare tie is part of the circle of life. It becomes mandatory to find new ways of defining oneself. Nourishing the mind, embracing humor, and letting go of yesterday has become my today.  The next time I step in front of that mirror, I will merely wave and say, "Hi Mom!" then turn and walk away.

BROKEN SEALS

On this particular day, my Honey and I were driving to the next town over to attend his Aunt Louise’s funeral.  A wonderful woman I only met a few times in past 27 years.  During the drive we decided to listen to a CD I had recently ordered from Amazon which was Dan Seals Greatest Hits. Back in the late 80’s, Dan spoke to me through his music, helped me through heartache, and made me feel he understood.  Since this time of my life was before I’d met my Honey, I asked him if he knew Dan Seal’s music, he said he was not sure. 

While listening and singing to the CD my mind drifted back to that time in my life and the feelings and emotions of 1989 came rushing back. It was a very difficult time in my life, however, Dan was there for me.  Deciding it would be a great idea to see if Dan was coming to a smaller concert venue near us, I began pushing buttons on my phone to look up Dan Seal’s tour schedule.  My belly got butterflies and I became very excited at the thought of seeing my Hero in person. Instead, an article came up saying Dan Seals died in 2008. 

Instantly I was crushed beyond belief, I burst into tears and kept repeating that I didn’t know, while continuing to sob.  With Dan singing in the background my mournful wails continued all the way to  Aunt Louise’s funeral at the church. 

Trying to pull myself together I wiped my tears and tried really hard to hold my emotions in check.  But I couldn’t. DAN SEALS IS DEAD. We entered the family room with Aunt Louise in her casket, family everywhere I looked, and me in the back row crying my eyes out.

My Honey’s sister, Katie, asked him if I was alright.  He mumbled something about me being emotional and crying over Aunt Louise.  Yes, Aunt Louise was a dear sweet lady, however, I sat at her funeral and cried like a baby for my hero, Dan Seals.  Gone forever.

There is no doubt in my mind his family thought it very odd that I was crying this hard at Aunt Louise’s funeral.  They kept shooting me sideways glances with a funny look on their face.  I didn’t care. This may not have been Dan Seals funeral, but, I was mourning for him anyway under the guise of Aunt Louise. I would love to believe Dan was there, as well, because this was my final goodbye to him. 

I am sure Aunt Louise will forgive me. 

DESIGNATED ASSHOLE

As a child I was very shy and backwards. There was no self-esteem inside me and I made myself as invisible as I could.  The other kids perceived me as weak because of my passive personality. Therefore, on my back was a permanent bulls-eye that said “Bullies welcome here”……….

This passiveness continued for most of my life.  I never learned the word “NO”.  This created a sense of not having value.  I did not believe my life was of any value to anyone.  I allowed people to take advantage of me in many ways over my lifetime, which cost me, more than I can even admit to myself. 

Eventually, this passiveness cost me a career.  A career that cost two years of student loans and a lot of time and effort preparing for it.  This was the last straw.  I took a good hard look at myself, which was very painful, and made the decision to change. 

The hardest part of this change was for my family.  There were some family members that used to take advantage (sad to say) of that passiveness and enjoyed humiliating me at family functions. I made it clear that this behavior would stop. Immediately. And if it continued, there would be no relationship, blood or not, and it would not be my choice.  It worked.

Unfortunately, there are more family situations that I had to stand up and say NO to.  This changed attitude of mine confused everyone.  Honestly, I think they did not know how to handle this and they probably questioned my sanity behind my back. 

Over the years, I have not had many friends. The friends I do have are very good lifetime friends.  I could count them on one hand.  Although I managed to come out of my shyness and backwardness in my adult years, I was still not popular, cool, or comfortable in large groups. 

Currently there is a “friend” (let’s call her Linda) that is mad at me.  I have no idea why. Linda has been giving me the silent treatment all week now.  Linda always promised me that if she was mad she would let me know.  This is because when she is in a “mood” everyone knows.  I learned long ago not to take these moods personally. Plus, she knows I cannot tolerate the unspoken tension.

 So, for the first few days I figured Linda was working through something.  Finally, I faced Linda and asked if she was mad at me. She vaguely said, “Yes”……. I was floored.  Then I asked, “Why haven’t you told me what you are mad about?”…..she answered dismissively, “There has not been opportunity”.  I call bullshit on that. There has been ample time.

After sleeping on this, I have come to the determination that, at this point, it does not matter what she is mad about.  By creating the unspoken tension, and refusing to talk to me about it, I consider us even. Which is what I will tell Linda if she ever decides to confront this issue. 

In looking back at my troubled relationships with family and friends, I have to wonder, am I the asshole?  Does standing up for myself when mistreated make me an asshole?  Does refusing to be manipulated make me an asshole?  While I do some sincere soul-searching, I hereby declare myself, The Designated Asshole.