At times like these…late August, post-Parisian summer exodus, humidity pressing a slick of sweat across my shoulders, inflating the rogue alien foot and fluffing up the even roguer coiff perched atop my moistened brow, (who knew evaporating water could inflict such varied punishments), the mind wanders, the white noise of the year quietens and you have time, a lot of time, time to think, time to ponder, time to wander, time to wonder. It has been an interesting five years.
In the last five years two men have asked me to marry them and I’ve attended four weddings but never as the bride. In the last five years l became 50% orphan. In the last five years I’ve lived in three countries, travelled through fifteen on four continents, worked for four companies and become acquainted with two little blonde munchkins one of whom is now old enough to pronounce out loud, quite clearly, Auntie.
I left, I arrived, I started, I stopped, I cried and I laughed, I loved and I lost.
When I was a little girl, not that I was ever really that little either physically or intellectually, blessed with one of those enormous and invading personae, broader than can not be safely housed in just one normal-sized skin and louder than is socially appropriate, I never imagined that this would be my life. I envisaged my starlit career on stage as an actress or singer. Conversely cursed with a morbid fear of rejection and probably not talented enough to do either I sought out the only job that would ensure my own personal captive audience every single night; I became a waitress. What better way to inflict my humour, my sharp intellect and dazzling wit upon humanity than by flinging 15 dollar burgers and a joke or seven upon unsuspecting theme-restaurant diners? Even better, they paid me for it!
Waiting tables ages you prematurely, most notably leaving an indelible violet trace on the back of your legs, thus I headed off in search of another far broader audience that took less toll on my cardiovascular system and became a trainer. Part of the learning and development team despite being neither learned or developed there I was, standing up in front of large groups of people who were paid, nay professionally obliged to sit and listen to me wax lyrical about the tenets of beverage preparation or customer service at (insert large American company). Hey presto, I could earn a living performing.
Acting, performing, making-believe, improvising, miming, appearing to be; all are excellent ways to avoid the reality that is this life, on this earth, with a womb and two X’s (every pun intended). At the risk of unhinging the tempers of every woman that reads this, at risk of firing up your 21st century folate-ised and feminist-ised ovaries or not, I am going to say it anyway.
I am a woman, and the female of any of the mammal races of this earth are born to procreate, we are biologically intended to nurture and mother the young of the race, that is why we have boobs. Yes they are fun to play with and look damn fine in my turquoise Victoria’s Secret (if I do say so myself because no one else has seen them to say it for me) but they are biologically intended to feed little people not just decorate magazine covers. We have evolved with a purpose to nurture and innately, like swans, and even Natalie Portman, we are meant to do it with someone else. With a mate. With a partner.
When I was eighteen-ish, around the time the first boy (let’s call him the Air Jordan) I properly kissed, traumatised my last years of high school by screaming obscenities across the quad as I walked from one class to the next, I came to understand that my being different was not necessarily a good thing in the swanlike game of lifetime-mate-location. My difference is not one of those that Darwin’s animals would seek out as a way to strengthen the race but rather something to avoid. All swans are black or white and choose equally black or white swans. Slightly aging wrinkled scarlet red feathers are not a desirable trait in a swan and so I swim alone.
Loving men in my life has been synonymous with pain. The pain of learning he slept with your friend, the pain of learning he slept with a girl young enough to be your friend, the pain of learning that he would rather sleep with any-him than with female-you, the pain of never being enough and always too much. A pain that you push down deep inside before you put on your mask and head out into the world to act out scene 35 of ‘happy’ and try to find enough good reasons not to walk off stage like Judy or send in an Indian girl on your behalf like Brando once did…melodramatic..albeit to critical acclaim.
Then you remember that all actors are part of an ensemble, that while you have the starring role (even if only your own mind) there is the prompt reminding you of what to say, a lighting technician who points the sun at you and a rather talented make-up artist (M.A.C) and costumer (H&M) preparing you for your close up Mr de Mille.
On this late August summer afternoon I thank the God or whomever it is we are supposed to thank, Madonna maybe, for my saving grace…the women. The sisterhood around me ensuring I am held up above the quicksand of depression that threatens to pull me down. Motherbear, the Art-sist-olger, the Microchef, AG and AD, the Bride, the Body, the Fashionista, the Stylist, the Notthedogdogtilly and the Academic; a progesteronised network of Sapphic strength that reminds me each day that it will get better, that life goes on, that I can and will have my baby alone, that I will be loved, that I am loved.
And now it is time to see what will happen next.
Act XXXV.
Woman, wearing red, enters stage right. She smiles and looks into the crowd.
