Eight years to grasp, twenty-eight to appreciate

The third grade was a big year for me. According to my mother, this was the year I “really came out of my shell.” Emphasis on really because unlike the years before, there was no stopping me. Or my mouth. Eight years old and I’d perfected the art of a thick skin and a lot of nerve. This was evident in two areas, in particular. One, I gave speeches at school assemblies and two, my mediocre citizenship grades. Apparently, all the “straight A’s” in the world did not a quiet girl make.

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Part of this shell exiting, I think, was that I entered my I don’t have to take crap from anyone phase. (Note: I have yet to leave that phase.) This had a little to do with our super mean third grade teacher, and a lot to do simply with my personality. I can’t really remember a time since the third grade when I did something or believed something or even reacted to something because someone else gave me crap about it. I don’t know what makes me this way. I do know that I’m blessed to have realized this so early, or even at all.

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One day, at lunchtime in the third grade, a fourth grader named Tina Wiedlick (yes, that was her real last name and yes, it does sound just like you think) was giving me particularly mean looks across the lunch room. Tina, you see, was upset with me from the day before when I walked home with a girl that used to be her best friend. Tina did not care that it just so happened that her friend and I lived next door to one another nor did she care that IT WAS WHAT OUR MOTHERS TOLD US TO DO. She was mad because she got dumped and, apparently, it was my fault for living next door to the girl that dumped her, even though the house was bought five years before I was even conceived. People, she was ruthless!

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Anyhow, that following day at lunch, Tina gave me so many dirty looks that I was sort of wishing I was allowed to flip people off because, my gosh, if there were ever a reason to use your middle finger, this was it! But I didn’t. I didn’t want Mrs. McNeil, the lunchroom monitor, to see me. I would certainly be suspended and therefore ruin my perfect attendance record of the year and completely lose out on the bright yellow ribbon awarded at the end. I had my priorities straight.

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As we were filing out of the lunchroom and onto the playground that day, I happened to get in the double line right next to Tina Wiedlick. I looked at her out of the corner of my eye and, I tell you, if there were ever a moment a third grader wished she was a fifth grader, this was it. As we both tried to walk through the single door, I committed the cardinal sin of elementary school and walked in front of someone a grade ahead of me, which means I walked in front of Tina. And then, as if it could get any worse, I bumped her with my elbow. I know!

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“Watch it!” Tina yelled.

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“Sor-ry!” I shouted back. I would not be intimidated.

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“You should be!” Tina screamed, six inches from my face.

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And here’s where I officially earned my life-long badge of hard-assdom.

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“Let me tell you one thing, Tina Wiedlick,” I said, “the only thing I’m one bit of sorry about today is that I looked at your face.”

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And I spun around, walked the other way and for the first time in my life, actually felt someone try to kill me with sheer will. I spent the rest of that day certain I was in for it. The worst that happened, though, was Tina running by me after school and calling me a “bitch.” Small price to pay.

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I don’t think I’ve allowed anyone or anything to dictate anything in my life since then; at least not by intimidation. The value in that, by the way, is not doing it but rather, knowing you have the choice. Which is why no matter the circumstances, the challenges, or events out of my control, there is one thing I know: I strive to live every day with the same strength I found that day in the third grade. It's not always easy but I do it anyway. For the ones I love, for the things I care about, for the things that matter.

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Thanks to all of you for your comments. It is wicked cool that you not only come here but are thoughtful and insightful when you do.

High Diving

When I was three, I started taking swimming lessons. It was at the same pool, same teachers, same lesson mates and it went on for years. By age five, we were well on our way to treading water and not choking on it every fifteen seconds or so. We thought we were pros.

Then came the "big" pool. It had laps and a "deep end." A really, really deep end. With a high dive, which scared the living crap out of me all summer. Just staring at that thing made me want to jump out of the pool, grab my towel, slip on my jelly shoes and high-tail it the heck out of there. Thankfully, we did not have to go off the diving boards that summer. That sweet, wonderful, seventeen year-old swim teacher didn't even mention it, bless her soul.

A year later, I walked into the pool again, having completely forgotten about the high dive. But there, sitting on the deck with my innocent little six year-old feet hanging over the edge I heard the chilling words: "this year, we'll learn to jump off the diving board." What? Diving board? High? Above water? Oh yes, and more. They started us with the "short" board. A mere three (maybe four?) feet above the water, what could go wrong?

Nothing, really. I was all about the short board. Heck, I'd take a running start at that sucker, no problem. Go off backwards? Sure. Bounce twice before jumping in? Yeah, alright. Do a handstand and then fall head first over the edge? Challenge me, puuuhhleeaaase!

All the while, people were just over goin' off that high dive all morning long. I, being the excellent avoider I have always been, just chose to ignore it. That is, until one of the kids in my class mentioned it. Stupid Dusty Reynolds and his high-fallutin', wannabe Superman attitude wanted to go off the high dive. Though I don't remember the exact words I said to him then, if I were to go back to that scene and help myself respond with the benefit of my current vernacular, it would have gone something like dude, you must be on crack!

And then, the most ridiculous moment of my year spent as a six year-old happened. The teacher told him he could, if he wanted to. Then, as if attempting to make me pee in the pool right there, she also said that anyone else who wanted to could also go off the high dive. We just had to follow the rules (no fancy tricks on that one) and go one at a time. Wouldn't you know it, all but me and one other kid lined up. Slowly, one after the next, they took the plunge. Some going down in straight lines and screaming, others looking like jacks sprawled out and creating a smacking sound as soon as their bodies came into contact with the water. Left at the bottom of the steps there was only me and one other girl. She asked me if I was going to go and I told her I didn't know. She then said that she was and me, always the chicken at first but never one to be completly beat, raced up that ladder like it led to Disneyland.

As I approached the top, I was hardly able to stop and ask myself what I was doing. I remember slowly pacing out to the edge of the board, feeling the gentle bounce that I was certain would send me plummeting with even the slightest misstep. I remember the itch in my legs from the chlorinated water dripping down from my swimsuit. I remember the distant calls from the kids below, though I couldn't tell you what their words may have been. I remember thinking to keep my legs together and my hands by my sides, straight like a pencil. I remember stepping off.

I unexpectedly hit the water in a deep plunge, eyes closed the entire time. When I finally felt myself stop, my toes just grazing the bottom of the deep end, I opened my eyes. I remember looking up and thinking I'd never get to the top. I kicked my feet and held my breath. I kicked and kicked, held and held. I didn't have enough air, I wasn't going to make it. I was about to gasp and still, in my six year-old head, miles and miles under the water. I wanted to panic, but had no where to panic in, no one to panic to. So I kicked and kicked, and finally my finger tips felt the air, then my elbows, my shoulders, my face. I took one deep breath, then another before I began swimming to the edge. I turned, looked up at that high dive and grinned, because I knew I'd do it again.

And maybe that's sort of how things are right now. I'm afraid, yet don't want to be left behind. I'm plunging in, and not knowing what to expect. I'm looking up, waiting to get to the top and with every second, doubting I'm going to make it. Doubting I'll ever be able to breathe again. But maybe I will, and maybe I'll go back for more when I do.


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Apparently, it's de-lurking week in the blog world. Not to be presumptuous (yeah, right) but if you're here and you don't comment, maybe this week you can. I suppose nothing bad will happen if you don't but, you know, I saw a hexing book at the library today and nothing would entertain me more than to check it out because then, a girl I went to high school with would have to look me straight in the eye while she scanned the book and my card and resist the urge to say I was right about you all along.

Facing Aversion

Sometimes, I avoid confrontation. I suppose I do it for a lot of reasons, depending on the situation but most of it is due to my laziness or having already moved on to occupy myself with something else.

Just yesterday, I was walking down the street and turning to go into a store. The store owner was standing in the doorway, talking to another patron. She seemed to be upset about something and the store owner was apologizing. As I approached the door, the unhappy customer had turned to leave and the owner, less than two feet away from me, let go of the handle and headed back inside. She let the door shut in my face. There, in that single second I decided that store had nothing for me. I turned to the friend I was walking with and said "never mind" and we walked away.

The store owner, apparently having seen this, came back out the door and said "we're open, come in." Obviously, she thought nothing of what she did. "No thank you," I said. And part of me wanted to walk back in there and tell her why. But that other part, that avoid it, it's hard and will make you uncomfortable for no reason part, just kept walking.

I do this too much, though. With things I think are unimportant, inconsequential. I did it when I was younger, when I didn't want to hang out with someone anymore- I'd just distance myself, until we drifted apart. I don't do that now, but the problem is, the attitude seeps into other areas. Areas it shouldn't. Some things, you have to confront.

We'd been out twice. Once, for drinks, that turned into dinner. It was nice, but I was worried. "No spark," I'd told a friend. She convinced me to give it another chance. I opened an email from him. If I were a celebrity with a fan club, I'd want a letter like this. I'd want a hundred of them. He was a fan. So we went out again. I was tired, just back from a trip. And a marathon. He was anxious, obviously so. I had a hard time engaging and I blamed it on being tired. At the end of the evening, I hugged him and said sure to another phone call, another meeting.

I knew better. Somewhere, and not-so-deep down, I knew what it was. That elusive "spark" I'd wondered about before, it still wasn't there. It wasn't going to be. Something was off, something just didn't flow. It would have been missing, even if the interests weren't romantic. No click, no chemistry. None of those descriptions we use to talk about something good. Someone good.

But the phone calls came anyway. One, two, then three. I'd legitimately missed only one of those, avoided the others. I was ashamed of myself. What was I doing, practicing something this childish, at twenty-seven? So I decided, I had to make the call. And just like that, it was easy. The words came to me, I dialed the numbers. I gave him the explanation, the honest explanation. None of that "I'm so busy" or "you don't want to date me" crap. I said genuine words. Adult words. Call it nerve, call it gutsy, call it about time. What I'm going to call it, though, is growing the hell up.