The Idea of Me

The idea of me is that I am intimidating.

I am unapproachable.

I am a "tough" chick.

I let everything roll off my shoulders.

Nothing affects me.

Nothing hurts me.

I do not feel.

I am dead on the inside.

I am a "pretty" girl who can snap her fingers and get what she wants when she wants it.

I am a princess.

Yeah?

Really?

Just once I would like something handed to me.

Just once.

I would love for that something to be along the lines of remission, financial freedom, or a guaranty for my children that I will be there to watch them graduate, get married, have babies...

I do not want diamonds, shoes, purses, cars, or bikes.

I don't want promises of a fairy tale that appeals to you and not me.

I don't want to fit into your box.

I don't want anyone to buy me anything.

I don't want anyone to do anything.

I don't want anyone to give me anything.

...or attempt to save me.

I just want to be treated like I am a human being capable and deserving of love, understanding, and the same respect that you expect from me.

I don't want you to explain to me the many ways in which you can "satisfy" me. You can't.

I do not want you to ask me my stance on one night stands. (Am I not deserving of more than a fuck to satisfy your selfish needs?) Seriously?

I am not a bitch or a cunt or a snob because I won't sleep with you. I am a girl with a lot of common sense and a little more self-respect than you may be used to. Deal with it.

No, as a matter of fact, it isn't flattering to be asked out by people who only see my face or some other physical attribute they find appealing without having a clue as to who I am on the inside.

Can you tell me one thing about me that you cannot see with your eyes?

Would you still find me attractive, cool, funny, silly, if I didn't protect you with my laughter and constant smile?

Would you still love me, want me, need me if you heard me scream and cry out in the pain that never goes away and is at best a dull throb?

Tell yourself what you must, I know who I call in the middle of the night when the pain closes my throat, burns my eyes and makes me tear at my own flesh and bite my lips to keep my children safe from a pain that they should never know...

I am not the enigma you have created in your mind.

I am just a girl.

If you cut me, I will bleed.

If you hurt me, I will cry.

You cannot buy me.

You cannot fix me.

...and my tiara was knocked off when I was a child...

I am better and more real than your idea.

The Rebel Princess Coalition Sans Two

This weekend is now a blur.

In 3 days I relived fears I had thought I was long ago over, some of my darkest high school bully nightmares, awkward adolescence moments long abandoned, black eyeliner/too much make-up/too much jewelry, teen aged angst and insecurity, emotional torture inflicted by parental units, sorrow, pain, happiness, excitement, anger, frustration, and my ability to always find time to squeeze in some needless shopping.

Two friends with whom I attended high school came to town for a much needed get-together.

We were at least two fabulous females shy of a perfect get-together, having not planned ahead far enough, leaving the other two with practically zero notice.

The 80s party that was planned for Friday night proved to Weirdo and me that we could still have fun and be completely inappropriate in a paper sack. Not the party itself, but the shopping at the Goodwill and other little shops while we searched for vintage treasures to adorn our less-than-80s-bodies.

Weirdo and I had never shopped together in high school. That was a treat shared by Goofball and myself. Instead, in high school Weirdo and I exchanged talk about nails. Mostly, I would give myself French manicures with Liquid Paper on the drive to school and she would bite her nails while I bribed her not to.

Goofball and I were shopping goddesses. We knew the ins and outs and could teach a class on the topic. The current irony being that she now loathes shopping and is married to someone who has a career firmly rooted in women's fashion. She hit the goddammed husband lottery, other than diamond broker, when it comes to fru-fru shit. I won't even mention that he is also a more than decent human who actually loves her. If I didn't love her and like him, I would trip them both. I married a rocket scientist. I'll let you know the next time I need an effing fighter jet.

Saturday was spent from sunrise to almost sunrise again with the three of us (plus 2 male offspring) giggling, snorting, comparing, constructing, climbing, posing, cackling, crawling, and crying our way through The Lou.

It was a blast!

It was absolute glory to be surrounded by two fab chicks who knew and loved me when I was an awkward, insecure, damaged little brat with Flock of Seagulls hair and a shitty attitude...regardless of my imaginary fantastic fashion sense.

It was fantastic to be surrounded by these girls who still do not give a crap what I have accomplished and/or what I have not accomplished either personally or professionally and only care what I have accomplished with regard to our friendships.

We sat there, the three of us, reveling in how we were and are so different and so alike and how none of the latter was abundantly obvious until we were deeply ensconced in discussions about the bowels of our personal hells.

We are all pretty introverted in personality. Oddly, that picture is very different for each of us. Weirdo being the most verbal in her thoughts was both astonishing and exhausting. And although my frustration at the lack of silence I have incorporated into my little world was at times palpable, I knew in a very short time her excited and animated voice would be gone.

Over the weekend I had found myself wishing that we were the women we are today back then and how much we could have supported each other or even simply been the silent comfort in the corner of each others' conscious.

As it was, none of us knew of the others' private hells and we became who we are. Mothers, teachers, healers, comedians, leaders and advocates.

As I arrived home early in the morning after dropping Weirdo off at the airport, I stepped into a room thick with sorrow at the loss of her presence. The silence I had thought that I had wanted exposed itself for the truth it was like a mule kick to the face. They were gone.

I was alone again in the scary world that wanted me to be things that I am not.

I was again without the friends who knew that I was more the punk than the cheerleader. More the shy little girl than the outgoing social butterfly. More Liquid Paper than eraser. More Suzanne Vega than Madonna. More alive than dead.

There is no way to sugar coat or minimize it. I miss them.