M: 1/17/03

Work Diary, 1/17/03

The other day, while speeding down the highway, I started digging
around in the glove compartment. I wanted the pack of gum I'd stashed
in there, but instead I found a Bing Crosby CD of Christmas carols.
That didn't seem right, so I opened the case and found an old Yaz CD,
"Upstairs at Eric's." God only knows why old Bing was housing the Yazoo
duo. In fact, I don't recall buying either CD, which just goes to show
you that alcohol and shopping don't mix.

I popped in Yaz and immediately was transported back to my high school
days. It was kind of creepy, really. I fully expected to look over and
see a backpack on the passenger seat, or a beaten up Eurythmics
cassette on the floor. Had I looked in the rearview mirror, I would
have seen the great swoop of forelock I wore until I graduated, as well
as the bi-level cut that meant, "Yes, you are a New Waver."

But I wasn't a New Waver, just a poser who liked the music and who knew
where to go dancing on Friday nights (to places where the real New
Wavers hung out, though each and every one of them was a suburban
refugee like me, veritably screaming to rid ourselves of
boredom).

To me, the eighties represent neon colors, plastic pumps, and hair-do's
that resembled blooming orchids. It was an alternately ugly and
beautiful time, when Reagan palsied his way through office and girls
used gold eyeliner. It was also a time - I discovered today during a
therapy session - that I completely missed.

Oh, I was there all right. I came home each night before my curfew; I
never drank; I received straight A's. I even became vice president of
the senior class, a ridiculous distinction I won by feeding my
classmates lollipops during the campaign. I dated, avoided impregnating
anybody, and my car ran out of gas exactly once. When I left high
school, I had just over $40,000.00 in scholarship money (it pays to
check the orphan box on your financial need statement). My biggest act
of rebellion was refusing to wear the disgusting retainer my
orthodontist gave me when my braces came off, and even that was my
little secret.

So now, I'm making up for it. At least, that's what I'm told. "You
shouldn't smoke," someone says, and my sixteen-year-old inner child
immediately buys a carton of Camel Lights. "Your drinking is out of
control," says an aunt, and I double the shot in my glass.

Also, I'm told I don't value myself. I think this is true, despite my
going to the gym, trying to eat healthy foods, and refusing to wake up
in a bar buck naked on a pool table with an empty can of Crisco on my
head.

The questions: If you saw someone drop a $100.00 bill on the sidewalk,
would you pick it up and give it back to them. "Yes." Would you extend
the same courtesy to yourself? "No."

If, as a teenager, I had wrecked my car, spent weekends passed out in
my own vomit, and punched out convenience store clerks, would I be any
different today? If I had recognized that I was seventeen going on
forty, would I feel the need to ruin other people's lives? Is adult
bitterness a carryover of teen angst? Or, rather: Is adult bitterness
just ordinary immaturity?

I'm striving to be ordinary, that much is true, because I'm sick of
what "poor little me" brings into this world. I'd like it if "poor
little me" got hit by a truck and dragged into the next state. If
that's not possible, I'd like to spend at least one year looking in the
mirror and actually raising my head.

I'm going to a therapist because I want to and also because I'm old
enough to question that little voice in my head that says, "Why
bother?" If I've come this far, there's plenty of reason to bother. I
need to keep reminding myself of that.

Besides, sitting in the therapist's waiting room is the only chance I
get to read People Magazine.

Note to self: "Therapist" is not a compound word. He doesn't appreciate
being called "the rapist."