First Tastes

Ran across this while looking through some old files. It amused me. Hope it amuses you too.

Autobiography

Autobiographies are written by people who have lives that others want to read about. They are rock stars and movie icons or are the leads in some homemade drama. They are interesting.

I am not interesting.

I am, by all accounts, nice enough, attractive enough, and even smart enough, but I lack that little push, that extra something that would elevate me to fascinating.

Friends say I worry too much about it, that not everyone has to be noteworthy. I say I don’t need to be noteworthy, I’d settle for not utterly forgettable. I would like to be chosen from a crowd, singled out, noticed. I suspect that if I ran three miles wearing only my lime green New Balance 880s and a good pair of socks, barely an eyebrow would be raised. Maybe I will. One day.

My life has been fine so far, but not the technicolor existence I see when I close my eyes. I have been safe and loved. My parents are still together and likely will be until they die. The only deaths in the family have been my grandparents, all at ripe old ages and quietly in their sleep. There is no alcoholic uncle to avoid at Thanksgiving, no smothering mother-in-law to disappoint at every turn, no drug-addicted teen to offer tough love to. There is just this silky black ribbon of blacktop that continues on and disappears into the horizon. As the sun sets.

What would you give for my life? What would I give to trade places with someone who boards a private plane to Paris for a romantic dinner, then lands at home the next morning with a wonderful memories and a great story to tell?

My autobiography, were I so inclined to write it, would consist of one blank page after another, a single pristine sheet for every year of my life.
A life of quiet desperation? Perhaps.

My husband and I have raised two children, both college-educated, both doctors. They are our highest achievement. They still come home for the holidays with boyfriends or girlfriends in tow, to prove that we are, in fact, the most boring, white-bread people on the planet. I’m considering charging admission.

That which makes me ordinary makes me extraordinary.

Dysfunction is the new normal. Drama and strife and spectacular mistakes abound, while I sit in the center of the storm and observe. I sit here virtually alone with the occasional friend dropping in between acts.
I long to jump into the stream. I want to know how it feels.

I want to live large and burn out. To experience life as smell and taste and touch and intensity. I want my nerves jangled, my mouth dry and my stomach dropping with each new direction. I want to feel life, to be in it, not just on the edges of it.

Be careful what you wish for, my friends say. It’s a vacuum, a vortex, slinging you around and slamming you into every wall along the way. Getting in is effortless. Getting out, nearly impossible.

I nod in understanding. I know this. And yet.

There is more than this, of that I am sure. But I don’t know how to reach out and touch it, don’t know if I can lean over the edge far enough to grab it without going over. I wanna be a rock star, but I don’t want to learn the notes.

To be embroiled in a scandal of my own making is an ongoing fantasy. In my head I can see Mrs. Johnson next door leaning on her fence in her house dress, morning paper in hand, discussing my latest drama with Mrs. Cassidy, who will be sure to pass on down the block. Both women glow, their eyes shining with righteousness and indignation.

The thing is, I never can picture my transgression clearly. It seems I have no imagination for the prurient and profane. I can’t even pass a scrap of paper on the sidewalk without picking it up and putting it in the trash. I vow to let the dust collect on my living room furniture, to eschew my cleaning routine in favor of an afternoon matinee or a walk on the beach, but there is always “just one thing” I have to do before I can walk out the door. The next thing I know I’ve fallen down the rabbit hole and it’s time to start dinner. A rebel I am not.

But people can change, can’t they? I am capable of change. Just last week I bought a new brand of shampoo, and there is a new grocery store that’s closer to the house that I am absolutely going to try next week. I used to be a bit chubby, but now I run six miles a day and eat things like quinoa. I can change. When that change is deemed acceptable.

Therein lies the problem.

I am firmly with the grain. I’ve never swum upstream. But I’ve always wanted to. I’ve always wanted to live a life that was worthy of note, a life that people would line up around the block to read about. An existence that merits recording.

I want to be interesting.

Maybe what is interesting about me is my paralysis. People are breaking out all the time; I have many role models people not only living their dreams but teaching others how to live theirs. I watch them and often wonder exactly what their dream is. To teach others to achieve theirs? I have no such aspirations. I don’t want to teach anyone anything. I don’t want to help people or even lift them up. I want to make my mark on the world, a deep scar that will endure for ages. I want to be known. I want to be remembered. I wan to stand out among the standouts. The extraordinary among extraordinaries. That I have no clue how to accomplish this is not lost on me. I am immobile for want of a direction.

There is an autobiography out there about someone who dared, a person who chucked the tried and true, strangled the mundane and broke out. It’s out there, just waiting to be written.

Will I be the author?