In second grade, they decided that they wanted to follow in my Great Grandmother's footsteps and without my consent, they allowed my vision to become blurry. No amount of carrots could change their minds. It was an ocular mutiny.
I chose the brown frames that my mother liked. Well, they were more of a tan-ish color, but I remember putting them on in Opti-World in Melbourne, Florida and realizing that there were glasses on racks where before it was just fuzzy beams of light. My mother's eyes wept.
My next pair of glasses that owned me were of blue plastic frames and they swallowed my entire face. They allowed me to see how cute the boys were, but in turn, they were a shield to them. Boys didn't like girls with four eyes, no matter how pretty the color.
When I discovered contacts, I felt that surely the boys would see my blue eyes. Sometimes they were bright blue. And at others they were a slate grey. Occasionally I received compliments on them and they grew a little more blue. Around this time, my eyes became bigger than my stomach. And I hid behind food to mask their inquisitiveness. They practiced their flits and flutters--their doe eyed gazes to imitate Oliver when he pleaded with the beadle, "Please Sir, I want some more." As my body swelled, no one bothered to look at my eyes anymore. They're always getting me into trouble.
My eyes vigorously trained themselves in the art of Irish Smiling, the Dramatic Roll, and Irish Ice. But once they challenged my stomach to see who could be the better box office smash, they cowered away to learn new tricks. They practiced the best judgmental looks, the Bette Davis, and despite the loneliness, the bedroom eyes. They even cooperated with my underachieving lips; they smirked at the chance to work with the Blues.
To help them out, I learned make-up tips to make them seem bigger, brighter, and more glamorous. Black eyeliner, liquid or pencil; color popping shades, thirteen dollars a shade...but they'll pay me back, once they got the love and respect they thought they deserved.
And then one day, when my eyes weren't paying attention, they caught the interest of a pair of brown orbs. But because my eyes were so in love with each other, no other pair stood a chance. They still don't understand why they're so lonely. They blame my stomach. They blame my lips. They grow tired at the endless reasons why--never looking at the real culprits in the mirror.
My eyes are always getting me into trouble. So much that sometimes, I think I'll go blind.
Three days ago I hit a milestone--I turned thirty, and thirty is a funny number. When you're not thirty, it is almost as if you are a little kid looking up at the jungle gym, wondering how you're going to conquer such a thing. And year by year, you strategize, draw up plans, and reach your arms up to touch the cold, scary metal. By the time you can touch the bars, you don't really want it. You long for the days that you were content playing on the swings and going down the slide--why, why did you choose the jungle gym. You've just heard that life on top of it is just amazing--the view, incredible. Suddenly this jungle gym has become the Eiffel Tower.
And then, you climb. You take time to enjoy the sights and smells along the way, ingesting everything your senses can latch onto. Some days are better than others--but you weather the storm and conquer the metal of ages--and you sit on top of the world thinking, "I am thirty. Look at all I've done!" Actually--that's not you at all, that is more or less your parents, friends, lover, what-have-you. You will never see your progress because you're fixated on others in their climb. There isn't a mirror that you can view your amazing and daring feat to make it to thirty--perhaps if there were one, you wouldn't have made it. But the air and view up here is incredible and you're glad you've made it thus far, while taking a pause to remember everyone who didn't.
Okay, so maybe I've romanticized it a bit--turning thirty is scary---I'm not married. I don't have children. I will be getting a Bachelors in English in the Spring but I'm graduating with students who are twenty-two or twenty-three. I live alone. I am unemployed. I don't even have a cat. But I'm really not bitter. And I don't regret anything. Everything I have been through has shaped me into the person that I am...and I like myself. Yes, I wish I could have made better decisions about school and being more active in my community as well as my health, but if I had to go back and do it again, even though I know it's a bullshit scenario (who wouldn't benefit from a second go), I don't think I would. If I hadn't gone to Roosevelt University, I would not have met the amazing people I have met. My writing has definitely improved and I've been opened up to new experiences.
Looking back at my life, I'm glad that I'm thirty. I'm old enough to know better--but young enough to laugh it off. And I'm looking forward to the next thirty--however, I plan to prolong it as long as I possibly can.
So my advice to you young whippersnappers...because you knew it was coming--it's rather trite--but enjoy it. Sometimes it's better to just sit one night out of "fun" with your friends in order to discover who you really are as a person. Because if you get to your thirties and you haven't the slightest idea...you'll be in a much worse situation than you ever thought possible.
Here you are, minding your own business, when all of a sudden you are attacked by a fleet of soundless butterflies in your stomach, bubbling up to your heart like a poison, or perhaps some fourth grade science project involving a homemade volcano. It's messy, unpredictable, and nerve racking. And by the time the poison has reached your mouth, you smile ever-so-slightly.
It's not love. Because what's love? Love cannot possible prolong this feeling; if anything, it only kills the crush. The crush causes day dreams; love, only nightmares of losing that person or thing. A crush is like having too much coffee one morning and around eleven o'clock you feel like you're going to bounce out of your skin. It brings this feeling that you know you are made for bigger and better things. It feels like a crisp November morning, filled with new and inviting smells, sounds, tastes, and eye candy. Everything's candy. And if nothing happens? It's no big deal. It's just a crush. They aren't meant to be taken seriously--if you disagree, you aren't using the crush responsibly. Crushes are harmless by design but can be a vehicle to obsession if driven by the wrong reasons and ill intentions...so for now, put it on cruise control. Trust in the good time. And let it ride.
I have a little crush. And He'll never know. Because it's my secret. Mine to tell my girlfriends and giggle. An almost-30-year-old. Giggling. Basking in the glory of all that is feminine. All that is human. All that is me. Me and my crush.
It seems that it's been quite the Slasher Summer, and I'm not talking about the new releases of Halloween II or the newest installment of the Final Destination franchise. A lot of celebrities have passed on and while I understand that many people of lesser means die everyday--there is not always a personal connection with the departed. I've been fortunate in my life that I have not had to deal with a lot of death. I remember the first wake I went to--it was for a neighbor who had died from cancer. I don't remember going to the wake, but I'm sure that I did, in fact, go. What I do recall is the thought of how Mrs. Phelps was going to look when I saw her in the casket--would she be a skeleton? Would her eyes be open? Would she look the same in death as she did in life? Perhaps it was more or less just the skeleton bit. Our perceptions as children are quite different; so much that sometimes I wish I could revert back to my childlike understanding of complicated subjects: Boys, Life, Death, Boys, Algebra, Boys, Specific Bed times and Boys. My next brush with death happened when I was in my teenage years when our cat, Snickers died. I cried a good deal and we buried her in the backyard. Shortly after I was back on the couch, eating ramen noodles and watching Zack and Kelly with their make up/break up bullshit. Even then I didn't understand those complicated subjects. In my early twenties, I suffered the biggest death yet...yes, another cat, but this time it was MY cat. His name was Zorro and I had him for eleven years--not too shabby for an outdoor cat. Zorro had contracted Feline AIDS as well as Feline Leukemia. I felt it was my fault that he got sick because I always "meant" to get him vaccinated, but other things came up. And when I did take him to the vet, it was usually because he got into a fight and needed to be put on anti-biotics, which is no time for a vaccination. I had him cremated and he is with me to this day. I know it sounds stupid and morbid, but he was my friend when I had none. And perhaps I'm still not ready to let go of that. In August of 2007, my Stepfather's father passed away. This was an extremely hard death to handle as "Pops" lived with us here in Illinois. He was so quick witted, so gracious, humble, and just an all around great man for the short time that I knew him. I still cry when I think of him and his last days. His eyes, glazed over from the morphine, which was slowly poisoning him. He refused to eat, then drink. He died August 13, 2007. On the way to his wake/funeral in Pittsburgh, my stepfather, mom, and I listened to a soundtrack to a movie called Rempetiko. The movie tells the story of this young Greek woman who becomes a famous singer, performing the "Greek Blues." When the song "To Dihti" (The Net) came on, we all cried--it was simply too powerful for us to contain our tears. Translated into English, these are the lyrics to the song:
Every time you open a road in life Don't wait for the dark of night to find you Keep your eyes open wide night and day because in front of you there is always a net spread
If ever you get caught in its mesh nobody will be able to get you out find the edge of the web by yourself and if you are lucky begin again
That net has heavy names that are written in a sealed book Some call it the treachery of the nether world and some call it the love of the first springtime.
There is not one time after that day that I don't cry when I hear this song. But I have a memory, one that I hope that I will have forever.
Before Pops died in August of 2007, my Dad's dad, My Papa Shea, had passed away May 6, 2006. Papa had dementia and was staying in a rehabilitation home because he was becoming too much of a burden on my Gram. At first the stories were funny--she waking up in the middle of the night to find his bed empty, to rush downstairs and find him in the basement; and when he asked her if she was his wife, to which she replied, "Yes Jack, I'm your wife," he'd say, "Good, because I don't want to get caught messing around." Then there was when he would hide his wallet because the "strangers" that were his grandchildren were around...or when he asked Gram, "So when I die, you get my money?" "Yes Jack" she'd reply in her Boston accent. "Why?" Papa would ask. "Because I'm your wife, Jack." I was driving to work when I got the call from my Dad. I missed the call at first because I could not get to my phone in time and I called him back immediately. After my chipper "Hey Pop! What's up?" he said it..."My Dad died." In shock, I said, "What?" His statement was more unbelievable rather than inaudible. "My Dad died," he said once more. The next thing I knew I was on a plane out to Boston's Logan airport, meeting my family at the Hertz Rental Car lot. We drove out to the Cape, met up with my Aunts, Uncles, Cousins and Gram and then went to the Wake. I don't know who that man was in the open casket, but it didn't look anything like my Papa. Even Gram said so. When my sister Melissa, who is twenty months older than I am, was first learning how to walk, we were up visiting Gram and Papa at their house in Harwich, Mass. Dad and Papa, I am told, were out on the deck with Melissa when she took a few steps and fell flat on her face. My Dad, being the first time father, leapt up to save his little girl. My Papa put his hand on his son, and said, "Larry, Larry. Sit down." He turned to my sister and said, "Get up Kid, I got money on ya." Sure it's not "Rage, rage against the dying of the light," but that was Papa. My Papa. When I said my goodbyes to this incredible man, I whispered "Get up Kid, I got money on ya." That night we laughed, drank, and celebrated his life and it wasn't until June of 2008 that I found out something else about that night. My stepsister, Becky, got married June 14th of '08 and my Uncle Brian and Aunt Linda came down from Boston to take part in the celebration. After the wedding, my Dad, Uncle Bri and I were talking over many beers and I heard a different yarn to that night we were at Papa's wake. My Papa, John William Shea, had been in the Army during WWII and served in the South Pacific. One Christmas, my Dad and I found letters he had written to his family during his tour and it amazed my Dad because he saw a side of his father that he never knew. When he died, he was set to be buried in Bourne National Cemetery on Cape Cod. But the paperwork, and it's all paperwork, showing that he served his country was lost somewhere in Des Moines, Iowa and the Cemetery offered to bury an "empty casket." My Uncle Brian was at a loss--what do you do when you're supposed to bury your father and a little thing like paperwork is the only hindrance? The wise soul at the Nursing home, where Papa was living out those last few months, mentioned that maybe Uncle Brian could call his Senator. My Uncle Brian looked up the number to Senator Edward "Ted" Kennedy's office and gave it a ring. Teddy was out of the office but Uncle Bri left a message with his secretary and she said she would make sure Mr. Kennedy got the message. The next day was the funeral and when we drove to Bourne National Cemetery, the color guard was there, in the rain, waiting for us. The two service men played "Taps" and gave the folded flag to my Gram. My Uncle said that after the funeral, he emailed a letter of thanks to Senator Kennedy and his secretary for all they had done. We wanted the right to bury him with other soldiers and it was much more than what we had asked for. Mr. Kennedy's secretary told my Uncle, "Well, Teddy said,'He served his country, he is one of my constituents. GET IT DONE'."
I will never forget what Ted Kennedy did for my family. And at his passing, I knew in my heart that My Papa would be in a very long line in heaven to shake Teddy's hand. And when it's my turn, I will be there too--waiting among the masses to say "Thank you" and "How 'bout a beer?"
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