What It Feels Like To Be Me

Jenny Manson is asking people to write about 'what it feels like to be me' and send it to her.  She's put their stories onto her website. http://www.whatitfeelsliketobeme.com as a follow-up to a book she's published.  So this is the essay I sent in (and is now on there).

This Is What it Feels Like To Be Me

Sugar and spice and all things nice, that's what I'm made of....well not really, but there are days when the three children have driven me mad, everything has gone wrong and I wish I was made of these things. That is, instead of the screaming harpy that I'm really seem to be made of.

So what is it like to be me? Confusing most of the time, as I have many names, mother, wife and far too often, way down the list, Dandelion Girl. Each of these 'me' are kept boxed and stacked inside each other in ascending size order.

Starting from the bottom, the smallest box is dark and dusty. This is the 'me' that could have been. Look inside and you can see a dancer, an Olympic gymnast, a swimmer, a wine buyer, a recruitment expert. She is one dimensional and so faded that I don't bother to look at her often. Luckily it gets swallowed up in the next box up.

This one holds all the things I've seen and done in my life. The cover is a rainbow, shimmering in the full spectrum of light, fading in places as it gets older. If you look inside, it's full of books, stories, magic, animals, fairies, photos, mementos, words from friends, music and different languages from all the places I have lived and visited. Strangely there seems to be a lot of sand and sea in here as well. This is one of my favourite boxes where I get to shut myself off from the outside world and dive into the swirling vortex of memories and thoughts, swimming through them, trying to catch some of the more elusive ones. Sometimes these leak through to the world around me, then I'm a Lost Boy in the woods, a femme fatale in the pub or an explorer in the jungle. Or it can superimpose itself onto the people around me. An annoying person's head turns into a donkey as they lecture me, the dewdrops caught in the spiders web, bright in the low morning sun, are the lights the fairies left out from last nights party. Life with this box of 'me', is never dull although not everyone understands it, so I have learnt to guard it, showing only a select few.

Red jagged lines, stretched elastic sides and the patches on the next box should give you a clue. This is the 'me' box of love. Every expanding and contracting, the stretch lets it give until you think you are going to burst or tightens until you can't breathe. The stretch-marks on the sides is where the love was explosive and fast, like the first time I felt my baby move, or the first time they looked into my eyes with love. Over the years this box has been shattered, pierced or scratched, but my tears have mended the holes and I wear the patches and scars with pride. This is the core of me, beating and alive beneath the outer layers.

It's covered with a paper-thin, vibrant red box. This layer is a flirty, passionate box of the 'me' who loves life, the kind of box that acts first, then thinks later. The two are very close, sometimes making it hard to see where one starts and the other ends. This is the one that will make me flirt with strangers, dance on the table, drive to the beach in the middle on the night in my pj's just to look at the stars and hear the waves lapping on the beach. It's also the one that makes no-one believe me when I say I'm really very insecure and shy. It's a very cheeky box!

Then we are on to the penultimate one and my least favourite. This one has a broken padlock on it. Sometimes it locks, and sometimes it doesn't. In here is the 'me' that gets scared to walk into a place where I don't know anyone, that hates confrontation, where the voices whisper that I'm stupid and useless, that I shouldn't even attempt to try it because I'm bound to fail. Faceless people hide in the shadows telling me that no-one likes me, that I'm old and ugly. I try not to open this one, trying to focus on the 'me' directly below it. Maybe one day I'll be able to shrink this one and put it in the bottom along with the 'could have been' box, because that's where it belongs.

So then we get to the outside box. The one that all the others sit inside (which are tucked away for people to find as they get to know me). The outside of this changes and grows over the years as the others fill and grow too. It's appearance is updated as it gets worn round the edges by all the lives of the people who touch mine. Anyone who enters my world, no matter how brief, leaves a tiny part of themselves behind. I used to think that this box had to be beautiful and flawless to attract the attention, admiration and love of others. The wiser me, now understands that what is really important is that the packaging reflects the real me, even if that changes from day to day, hour to hour. If the lines aren't quite straight, or the colours don't quite go together, it doesn't really matter, what matters is what's in the other boxes down through the layers.

So this is what it's like to be me, sugar and spice and all things nice, with an occasional harpy hiding in the gloom. A mother to three small graces, a wife, a woman and an aspiring writer. Me!

A muse

Medium height, long dark hair,  she is curvy and very attractive.  Her dark brown eyes stare deep into mine as we stand almost toe to toe, eyes on the same level.  "Go on!" I give her a little shove.  "You can't make me." comes the growled response.  Hmmm, I try some music, skipping through using shuffle, trying to provoke a response in her.  In the corner of my eye, sand is slowly, relentlessly trickling through an egg timer.

Then something sparks in her eyes.  There is a smile that slowly reaches down to her pouting mouth.  Her two friends appear by her side and somewhere in the back, half hidden in the shadows is the only male of the group.  He's the hardest to see, intensively secretive, but I smile encouragingly at him, trying out my best 'come hither' look.

It's like an artists brush has touched blotting paper, colour and life starts to appear, spreading out from her.  We stand more relaxed, smiling and looking around ourselves.  Her friends are whispering in her ears, egging her on to tell me what they've been up to.  Her mouth opens but just before the words come out, the last grain of sand falls to the bottom and everything freezes.  "Sorry!" I mouth as I turn to leave.

My muse stands there looking really, really annoyed and frustrated, her face a reflection of mine.  She's not amused...

Baby's got Blue Eyes

Blue eyes. 

Long lashes. 

I'm captivated by them. 

The world around them fades, insignificant as I gaze into them, my body stills and I pause to try and drink in every detail.  The only thing that matters is the blue and the emotion that lies deep within them.  They say eyes are the windows of your soul and it is definitely hard for someone to hide their true feelings if you look carefully enough. 

A line of poetry comes to mind..."My face in thine eye, thine in mine appears."  

I have a bad habit of staring deep into peoples eyes as I talk to them.  It can come across as intense to people who don't know me, but it helps me read them, to have an understanding of what they are thinking and saying.  It's why I hate talking to people on the phone, I need to see the face to be able to gauge their response, to feel a connection.

I blink and focus back on the face before me.  The eyes so familiar, yet they never cease to amaze me.  They have total trust and love in them and I wish that I can capture this moment forever, because before long these eyes will grow older, harder and the innocence will fade.  I will no longer be the universe to orbit round, but the gravity pulling them down and getting in the way.

I scoop up my youngest child and bring her face to mine.  Her blue eyes so different to my green, wise in so many ways, stare back into mine and for that moment, nothing matters, everything fades as I absorb the love and happiness that projects out at me and I'm lost in the blue.


Here is the "The Good-Morrow" by John Donne,

                        I wonder by my troth, what thou, and I

Did, till we lov'd? Were we not wean'd till then?

But suck'd on countrey pleasures, childishly?

Or snorted we in the seaven sleepers den?

T'was so; But this, all pleasures fancies bee.

If ever any beauty I did see,

Which I desir'd, and got, 'twas but a dreame of thee.

And now good morrow to our waking soules,

Which watch not one another out of feare;

For love, all love of other sights controules,

And makes one little roome, an every where.

Let sea-discoverers to new worlds have gone,

Let Maps to other, worlds on worlds have showne,

Let us possesse one world; each hath one, and is one.

My face in thine eye, thine in mine appeares,

And true plaine hearts doe in the faces rest,

Where can we finde two better hemispheares

Without sharpe North, without declining West?

What ever dyes, was not mixed equally;

If our two loves be one, or, thou and I

                        Love so alike, that none doe slacken, none can die.

My Essex White Van Man

A text came through on my phone from an old, old friend saying "U OK?"   He was just concerned about me because of something I'd written on a social networking site.

We live in different parts of the country and so seeing each other is really hard, but we'd worked together for about four years and we've always had each others backs.  Working in a male dominated environment, he was like a big brother, annoying, always playing practical jokes, but no-one else was allowed to mess with me.  He'd make me laugh when people got to me, let me bunny hop his white van down the road (OK, I wasn't supposed to be bunny hopping it...but we were laughing too hard) and has a heart the size of the England.

He still brings up the first time I went on a treadmill.  When I said I wanted to start going to the gym, he and his friend offered to take me and show me the ropes.  Like the old pro he is, he took me round the different gym equipment starting with the dreaded treadmill.  We decided to have a race, running side by side taking the mick out of each other as we went.  Slowly we got quieter as we focused, trying not to be out done by the other, concentrating harder on the running and the breathing. 

Finally realising I just had nothing left to give, and instead of slowing the thing down, I just stopped running.  I KNOW!  My graceful exit off the end, falling delicately in a heap (cough) nearly caused him to fall off as well.  As he was bent double, laughing, feet safely either side of the moving part, I knew I would never live it down, but you know what, I didn't mind because it was really funny!  There are other stories, but to be honest, most of them I can't repeat on here.   Life with the Essex white van man has always been interesting!

So instead of texting him back I gave him a quick ring.  After the usual banter he dropped the bombshell.  He has a growth in his brain.  It's not a tumour, but they can't remove it and its cutting off some of his glands.  If he has replacement hormones his liver will pack up and he'll have to go onto dialysis.  If he doesn't have replacement hormones.....

To my questions and worry, he laughed,   "Well, I've got a beautiful wife, fantastic kids, a home, a job and great friends.  What more could I ask for?" 

The conversation moved on and we went back to the usual teasing and laughing about the times I used to chase the shoplifters out the shop while the boys just waited for the police.  Knowing he'd appreciate sharing in some more of my humiliation, I told him my running style hasn't improved much, I was cat-called and wolf-whistled by a bunch of teenagers when I was last out running, denting my ego.

When he finally got his breath back, "Dandy, you should have stopped running the day you fell off a treadmill!"  

Maybe I will, but I'm not quite ready to give up on life and laughing.  He's taught me to embrace everything that happens to you, to have a go when really you're scared and most importantly to see the funny side.  You might not have a second chance.

All Grown-Up

So when are you officially grow-up?

When you have a job?  A mortgage?  Kids?

Just when you think you've got this all sorted, a look, a word, a night out sends you spinning back through the decades and you're trapped in the the younger you.

Sometimes this is fun, exhilarating even, like going to watch a friend play in a band is a simple example.  He was amazing, totally blowing me away with complex hand and feet moves,  mimicking the band they were covering (It was a cover band competition) to near perfection.  And they were totally robbed of a placing.

Everyone at the competition knew me as Dandy, I wasn't a mother, a wife,  I was me.  I barely remember a time before all that and it was liberating and very heady stuff.  It also helped that the bands were playing music from my past, each song, had a memory attached to it, like when I first heard the Pixies 'Hey' in a friends room in Halls.  Before I knew it, I was admiring a strange man's (and I mean strange as in I didn't know him, I'm sure he's perfectly normal!) tattoos on his chest, totally blown away by the simplicity and beauty of them, then realising that I was staring at a naked man's chest, just about to trace the patterns of the lines to try and memorise them, because I could use them in the story I'm writing at the moment....and I was married. And have kids.  And should definitely not be doing things like that! (Maybe a picture...NOOOOOO!)  That's the kind of thing I did when I was 19 and single!  Plus I think it would have totally freaked the poor boy out.  But for those hours, in that environment I was a younger me and it was great fun.  Although my social skills are a little rusty.  When asked about what music I was into, I didn't think nursery rhymes and "The Autumn Song" from Cbeebies would really cut it.

Then there is the downside.  Having escaped the playground drama and bulling of school, I suddenly found myself dragged back there again.  It doesn't matter that I'm the adult in the playground waiting to pick up, nothing has changed in some ways.  Everywhere you look there are cliques and the odd person who has to make sure you are put in your place (well below them).  You know the ones from school I'm talking about.  A certain person was going around slagging me off to friends, but was all sweetness and smiles to my face.  At first I was upset, going over in my mind what I could have done or said to warrant this attack, but without knowing exactly what they was saying, it was hard.  Every time they smiled at me and said hello, I'd smile back, kicking myself for being so weak and eager to please.  My resolve to confront them turning to mush whenever I was face to face with them.

So what has changed?  Well I'm lucky.  I have lots of amazing friends who like and accept me for who I am and a large extended family who love me no matter what.  However what really swung it for me, was the realisation that I live life how I want to.  I'm true to myself and what I believe in.  Yes I still do things that I'm not proud of (eating the kids chocolate then telling them that they must have eaten it), but I also do lots of things that I am very proud of.  As I look at my children and marvel at how they are turning out, and the incredibly, bright, witty, beautiful people I'm lucky to call my friends, I figure that what one person says about me doesn't matter.  Anyone who knows me, will know it's fabricated and if they don't, then they aren't really a friend anyway.  I only hope I can pass this on to my children as it'll save them a lot of worry and heartache.  Sadly I think this is a lesson they'll have to learn on their own, but I hope to be able to give them the tools.

So "I don't mean to be bitchy, but...." I win.  You can't get to me and I see it in your eyes.  So thank you for making me see what an amazing person I am!

Maybe I am all grown-up, because, if this feeling of self-worth is what it means to be grown-up, I like it!

Morse Code I Presume

The lights flicker and I smile.  Oh the irony, watching the news about budget cuts and the lights dim slightly.  Then the whole house plunges into darkness. "Don't panic," I say to the kids, panicking.  Heading to the front door I fling it open and stare out into the darkness.  The children have come to the unanimous decision that I've lost the plot.  "It's a power cut" I declare, arm sweeping to emphasis my point. Think magician's assistant.  "See all the lights are out, even the street lights."  The children grudgingly agree that maybe I do know something about this, however they are reserving judgement for the moment. I think they are also secretly impressed by my graceful arm sweeping.  I know I am.

Back inside the house, I'm rummaging in the dark for a torch.  I'm surprised at how many things feel like a torch when you are groping blind and mildly panicking.  Torch?  No, mini fire extinguisher.  Torch?  No, washing liquid.  Torch?  No, the cat.  OK I made that last one up, but you get my point.

Then the lights come on.  We settle back down after all that excitement, laughing at our reactions to the blackout.  The lights go off again.  Why didn't I find the torch when power was restored? 

Because you don't need a torch in the light. 

Annoyed now, I'm happy to sit in the dark and wait it out, but kids aren't.  They need to know when the electricity is coming back.  One of them is worried that the sun won't come up tomorrow because of this.  I'm trying to explain that the sun isn't attached to the national grid, but if it was, boy I wouldn't want to get that electricity bill.

Then the lights come on again.

It's the worlds slowest morse code and I just hope they are not spelling out llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwllllantysiliogogogoch.

Answer came there none...

"Hello?"  Silence.  "Hello?" said at a slightly higher pitch. Click and background office noise floods in as a woman with a strong Indian accent says "Good morning is this *******?"  "Yes" I reply nervously thinking fast, which cr*py form have I filled in with my phone number.  I'm meticulous about ticking boxes saying 'Don't contact me unless the world is ending or I'll rip your head off and shove it down your neck.' I know they are just doing their job, so I try and not start screaming, just yet.  It might not be a sales call...

The woman launches into her spiel asking if we have Sky via cable or satellite.   "Wait, sorry, what?" I splutter.  She repeats her script.  Balls, do I have to confess to this mystery woman that I have no idea.  I just turn the darn TV on and off and hope that there is something there.  Stall.  "Are you selling me something" I ask accusingly.  Slightly ruffled she says "No, this is a (something mumbled) survey."
 "Do. You. Have. A. Satellite. Dish?"  The woman is breaking it down slowly for me, she's obviously thinking that I'm an idiot who doesn't know if there is a large dish on the side of her house.  She'll be laughing about this later with her work colleagues, eyes rolling - "yes she didn't have a clue!  I know!  I was really tempted to say, stick your head out the window love and have a look!"  Or words to that effect.

"Thank you very much for calling, but I'm really not interested" I blab hanging up fast, ignoring the protests on the other end of the line.

The next day I answer the phone.  Long pause of nothing before the background noise of a busy call centre kicks in.  "Hello, is that *********?" a man asks.  "YES!  Why are you phoning me, I told someone from your office yesterday that I'm not interested!"

"This is just a survey for (mumbles some name I don't catch) to see if you get Sky through a satellite dish or cable"  he replies, sounding confused as to why wouldn't I want to answer his harmless little questions.  It's not like he's asking what colour my underwear is.  Yet.

Oh he's smooth, I wonder if he gets given the difficult customers or our names go round in rotation.  Do they have different levels of trained staff?  First level, the people who will answer the questions; second level, the polite but not having any of it (possibly you can talk them round) and thirdly the really abusive people that you quickly remove from your lists after you've made a recording of their rant and put it onto YouTube.

I hang up.

I also hang up every time I answer the phone and someone doesn't answer straight away.  How long until they get the message?  Answer came there none...

From the Bottom of a Whisky Bottle

This is the start of one of the stories I'm working on.....

There was a loud crash in the room below my feet and an angry bellow.  With my back against the door, clutching the bottle of whisky to my chest, I reviewed my escape options.  This had been my brothers room, the only hint of him was in the blue duvet set and old wardrobe we played Narnia in.  The only exits were the small window to my left or the skylight above my head. Luckily the window, although narrow, was unlocked.  I quickly opened it and straddled the window ledge, my body half in, half out, so I could work out my escape route.  To my right, the sloping extension roof was just too far away.  "Not a chance" I cursed. The only alternative would be to drop the one storey down, but the kitchen window was directly below. Would he be able to see me dangling?  Would he rush outside?

like I just stepped out of a salon....

The woman trots across the asphalt, black, long hair swishing as she moves.  Her four inch, steel covered stiletto heels throw her weight forward, causing her back to arch and her bum to stick out.  The whole impression is of an excited pony.  Skidding to a halt she joins her friends.  Although her body is now still, movement continues with her head, as every so often it jerks to one side, in an exaggerated flick of hair. Or she'll laugh, throwing her head back with a little shake, causing her hair to shimmy across her back.  Just as a horse does to flick off the flies.

As I pass, I glance back to see her from the front.  The woman's hair is dyed blond in an inch thick section either side of her face and along her fringe.  It's in stark contrast to the black and I'm strangely reminded of a football goal post.

hair, hair, flow it, show it

At the swimming pool, while I was waiting to set off on a length,  a man stood up in the lane next to me.  It was the sudden and surprising movement that caused me to look round.  Then all I could see was the hair. 

If I'd been in a cartoon, my eyes would have popped out on stalks and my jaw hit the ground with the sound effect they use for falling anvils.  As it was, hooters started sounding off in my head and I sank further down into the water to try and make myself less visible as I stared.  From the tops of his shoulders to (what I could see through distorting water) the top of his trunks was hair.  Not unusual I know, but what was so spectacular was that the hair grew in perfect curls.  If it was longer, they would have been perfect ringlets.  His back was a carpet of little "O"s, swirling and whirling over his back.  It reminded me of those 60's carpets that some pubs still favour.

I doff my hat to the man who doesn't care what society sees as the norm.  Just so long as I don't have to touch it....

baby steps

If you saw two people sitting in a car, every day, what would you think?  It's not always the same car, and it's not always the same people but it is always the same place and time.  They obviously have to sit there for a long time as they read books, work on their computer, sew and have been known to do hobby craft things.  It was the box of bits and glue that first caught my attention as I walked past and glanced in the car window.  I mean, who sits in their car, gluing?

The man sits in the drivers seat and the woman sits in the back, diagonally opposite.  This has been going on for about six months now and yesterday was the first day that I saw the woman in full view walking down the road to the car.  She was wearing an office pass round her neck, ID section turned inwards so I couldn't see her name or the company logo and on the belt loop of her trousers,  dangled a bottle of anti-bacterial hand wash.

So if you saw two people sitting in a car, every day, what would you think?

I'm sure there is a fun short story in there, but I think in this case the truth is stranger then fiction.