Tag Archives: writing

Running from Reality: A Midlife Meander Through the Absurd

Let’s talk about expectations. When you’re knee-high to a grasshopper, do you envision yourself, decades later, as a 42-year-old survivor of both a stroke and the relentless existential dread that comes with being a modern human? Do you foresee a domestic landscape populated by a nine-year-old space expert (who knows more about black holes than I do about, well, anything), a six-year-old bottomless pit of a child (whose digestive system operates with the efficiency of a garbage disposal), a three-year-old dictator (who probably runs a tighter ship than most Fortune 500 CEOs), and a husband whose devotion to wrestling occasionally surpasses even his fondness for his long-suffering wife?

No? Me neither.

Life, as they say, has a way of rearranging the furniture. It presents you with a neatly packed suitcase of dreams and aspirations, then promptly throws it off a speeding train. You’re left standing on the platform, blinking in confusion, surrounded by scattered socks and a crumpled map of the world as you thought it would be.

And so, one finds oneself at an… interesting juncture. Not ungrateful, mind you. Gratitude is a very important thing and I practice it daily. But also not… entirely thrilled. Frankly, some days, the sheer weight of it all—the demands, the responsibilities, the unrelenting cacophony of tiny voices—can feel like trying to swallow a particularly dense and thorny cactus.

This, dear reader, is where the running comes in.

Because when life serves up a generous helping of the unexpected, you have two choices: you either roll over and play dead, or you lace up your sneakers and attempt to outrun the encroaching sense of… something. What that something is, I’m still trying to figure out. Midlife crisis? Existential angst? The lingering effects of neurological trauma? Probably a delightful cocktail of all three, shaken, not stirred.

Now, about that cactus. You could try to stomach it whole and learn to appreciate its unique flavor profile (a flavor that, I suspect, closely resembles despair). Or, you could opt for a slightly more palatable solution. Which is, in my case, a small, round, Lexapro-shaped lifesaver. Remember that thorny cactus? Well, this little pill helps to smooth down the spikes. Not a cure, mind you. More of a… temporary truce.

The reality, as I’m slowly coming to accept, is that some days the chatter in my head resembles a flock of startled parrots engaged in a heated debate about the merits of various brands of birdseed. Other days, it’s more like a swarm of angry bees, buzzing furiously around a nest of anxieties. Saturdays, in particular, can be perilous. With the structure of the workweek stripped away, and the schedule blissfully (or terrifyingly) sparse, there’s simply too much time to think. Too much time to ruminate. Too much time to engage in the delightful pastime of self-loathing.

The medication has quieted the noise, and the relief is palpable. But it’s also… unsettling. I’m calmer. Less anxious. Something I haven’t felt in years. It feels a little like wearing someone else’s skin.

Here’s the kicker: I’m still trying to figure out who “I” am now. The stroke, the medication, the relentless march of time—they’ve all conspired to create a somewhat… unfamiliar version of myself. I don’t quite recognize myself. I haven’t been myself in about three years now, and I’m still trying to figure out where the trail leads. Am I back to myself? Am I a new version? Am I just out here, aimlessly running?

But this, surprisingly, is a happy post. Because in the midst of all this uncertainty, there’s a glimmer of something resembling hope. A sense of relief. The freedom to breathe, even if the air feels a little… different.

And, dear reader, you’re getting to witness it all unfold. As I stumble and fumble my way through this new normal, as I tentatively piece together the fragments of my former self, I’m sharing it all with you. You’re getting the real-time, uncensored, occasionally-slightly-medicated revelation of me. Aren’t you just thrilled? I know I am. Mostly. Well, sometimes. Okay, maybe only on Tuesdays. But still… progress!

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a three-year-old dictator to appease. And a five-mile run to “escape” into. Wish me luck. I have a feeling I’m going to need it.

Running from my Birthday

Ah, birthdays. Those peculiar annual rituals where we’re expected to celebrate the inexorable march towards our own mortality with cake and forced merriment. For most, it’s a day of joyous reflection and an excuse to indulge in socially acceptable gluttony. For me, it’s become a rather more complicated affair, thanks to a mischievous little cerebrovascular event that decided to gatecrash my party just as I was about to hit the big 3-9.

Picture, if you will, a scene of impending festivity. Balloons at the ready, candles poised for their fiery demise, and a cake so laden with sugar it could send a hummingbird into diabetic shock. But instead of blowing out candles, I found myself blowing bubbles in a hospital bed, my brain having decided to take an impromptu vacation without so much as a postcard.

The next few days passed in a haze of confusion and medical jargon, as if I’d suddenly been dropped into an episode of ER, but with significantly less George Clooney and a lot more bewildered mumbling. By the time I resurfaced, I felt compelled to inform my long-suffering husband that “something was definitely wrong.” I imagine his response was along the lines of, “You don’t say, dear. I thought lying comatose in a hospital was your new hobby.”

Now, birthdays and I have a relationship that’s about as warm and fuzzy as a cactus in a snowstorm. The stroke merely added an extra layer of complexity to our already strained association. It’s as if my birthday has become a sort of morbid anniversary, a day when I’m supposed to simultaneously celebrate my continued existence and mourn the person I used to be. It’s like trying to have a party in a funhouse mirror maze – disorienting, slightly nauseating, and with an unsettling sense that you’re not quite who you thought you were.

I’m well aware that my attitude towards this annual milestone is about as cheerful as a wet weekend in Miami. But when you’ve spent over a year cataloging your deficits like some sort of neurological accountant, it’s hard to muster enthusiasm for party hats and noisemakers.

And let’s not forget the baby – my third little bundle of joy, who had the misfortune of being born just 6 weeks before his mother decided to audition for a medical drama. I missed out on all those precious newborn moments – the sleepless nights, the endless diaper changes, the spit-up on every clean shirt. It’s enough to make a person weep, or at least wish for a time machine and a neurologist on speed dial.

So here I am, forever 39, stuck in a perpetual loop of birthday ambivalence. It’s a day that serves as a stark reminder of what was lost, what was gained, and the peculiar journey of rediscovering oneself post-stroke. But who knows? Perhaps one day I’ll embrace the occasion with the enthusiasm of a labrador at a tennis ball factory. Until then, I’ll be here, blowing out candles and silently thanking my stubborn brain for sticking around for another year of this bizarre adventure we call life.

Running from my Superpowers

In the curious realm of parental entertainment, my 6-year-old has developed a penchant for a game called “This or That,” a sort of pint-sized Sophie’s Choice, if you will. The rules are simple: choose between two options, each more absurd than the last. Would you rather consume earthworms for superhuman abilities or possess ocular laser beams? The latter, naturally, unless one harbors a particular fondness for soil-dwelling invertebrates.

During a recent expedition to the Ohio State Fair – a veritable cornucopia of deep-fried delights and livestock beauty pageants – we found ourselves embroiled in this peculiar pastime for what felt like several geological epochs. As we navigated the labyrinth of exhibits, dodging the occasional overzealous turkey leg enthusiast, the topic of superpowers inevitably arose. Flight versus strength, the age-old conundrum that has puzzled philosophers and comic book aficionados alike.

By some cosmic coincidence, we soon stumbled upon a children’s exhibit where young visitors could declare their superpower of choice. My offspring, clearly well-versed in the art of snap decisions, were ready to stake their claims in the pantheon of imaginary abilities.

Oz, ever the speed demon, declared himself the Usain Bolt of the prepubescent set. Wynn, apparently fancying himself a pint-sized Hercules, opted for strength. But it was Cub, our resident boy wonder, who threw us a curveball worthy of a major league pitcher. With the solemnity of a Supreme Court Justice, he proclaimed his superpower to be “brains.”

Now, Cub’s intellectual prowess is no secret. The lad’s cranium practically hums with cognitive activity. But in the cruel world of childhood social dynamics, being the smartest kid in the room is about as popular as a ferret in a sack race. It’s a predicament I know all too well, having spent my formative years as the class brainiac, a role that’s about as comfortable as a corset made of cacti.

Since my unfortunate tango with a stroke, my own cerebral circuitry has been performing a rather unorthodox cha-cha. The thoughts in my head and the words from my mouth seem to be engaged in an endless game of telephone, with predictably garbled results. However, this neurological rewiring has bestowed upon me an unexpected gift: a finely-tuned hogwash detector that would make even the most seasoned carnival barker quake in his boots.

It’s taken some time to adjust to this new superpower, but I must say, it’s far more useful than any gadget you might find in the pages of a Sharper Image catalog. Though I do sometimes miss the days when I could string together a sentence without feeling like I was solving a particularly vexing crossword puzzle, there’s something to be said for being able to spot nonsense at fifty paces. In the grand game of “This or That,” I’ll take my newfound bullshit radar over laser eyes any day of the week.

As I pondered the peculiar phenomenon of superpowers, it occurred to me that we’re all walking around with our own unique brand of extraordinary ability, like a vast collection of human Swiss Army knives, each with a different set of improbable gadgets. The real trick, of course, is figuring out what your particular superpower might be. Is it the ability to fall asleep instantly on long-haul flights? Perhaps you’re blessed with the uncanny knack of always choosing the fastest-moving queue at the supermarket. Or maybe you possess the otherworldly talent of being able to predict rain by the throbbing of your left knee.

Whatever it may be, there’s something truly magical about witnessing someone else’s superpower in action. It’s like stumbling upon a secret garden or finding a trap door in your living room that leads to Narnia. These hidden talents are rarely on display for the general public, tucked away like family heirlooms or embarrassing childhood photographs. But when you do get a glimpse, it’s as though you’ve been granted access to a sliver of that person’s very essence, a fleeting peek behind the curtain of their soul. These moments of witnessing raw talent in action are to be cherished, like finding a four-leaf clover or spotting a double rainbow.

As for my own brood of pint-sized superheroes, I count myself fortunate that they’ve already identified their unique talents at such a tender age. While I’m still grappling with the intricacies of my newfound bullshit detector, they’re out there embracing their powers with the enthusiasm of a labrador at a tennis ball factory. It’s a reminder that sometimes the most extraordinary abilities are found in the most ordinary of places – even in a household where the primary superpower seems to be the ability to generate laundry at an alarming rate.

In the end, perhaps the real superpower is recognizing and appreciating the extraordinary in others. And if that’s the case, well, I might just be ready to don a cape and tights myself. Though on second thought, perhaps I’ll stick to admiring from afar. Lycra, after all, is not particularly forgiving on a middle-aged frame.