Is Your Life A Song?

Is your life a song? Is it a scintillating, soul grabbing, emotion retching, gut crying story? Would I dance it, wallow in it, and slurp it up like a smoothie? I just realized my own life is pathetic. How do I know? Here's what happened Saturday morning.

My Granddaughter and I were having our usual little week end chat on the phone with me learning more than I need to know about the loves and flirtations of the young single life.

Especially when she started out with, "Do you know where I spent last night?"

Big alert for the Nana. "No and I don't think I want to."

"It was with Sam."

Sam was the guy the whole family approved of. (Do you think that could trigger a rebellious break-up?) We covered the details but it wasn't at all the shocking scandal you might expect.

We finished our conversation, hung up and I started my morning green drink. I gulped down the drink (shouldn't do that, bad for digestion) and quickly washed the parts of the juicer. I had just finished cleaning the kitchen when my Granddaughter's phone-ring sounded again. I picked up the phone, thinking she had forgotten to tell me more of the Sam story.

She was breathless. "I just wrote a song about you."

"Aaaaaah." I didn't know what to say. It had been fifteen minutes (at the very most) since we talked and no song. Fifteen minutes later, how could she have a song? But, I swear she did. She put the speaker phone down and sang (with guitar) three verses, plus chorus, a song about her Grandmaw. Holy Moly, I was shocked. Songs come to her as a vision, in a flash. The song had a foot-stomp'n, old-tymey waltzey melody with words that would tweak your heart strings into a quivering mass of emotional tears.

OMG..... that's me. That's my pathetic life. I'm a loser. I blew it. I wasted what little talent I had. The chorus was a real dancey beat, repeating"Twirl on, twirl on." The verses told of my Grandpaw who played the fiddle as I danced and my yearning to be a dancer, go to NY and be a star but instead, the babies came and by this time, I'm sobbing for the girl in the song and what a dumb jerk she was.

But I liked it. I more than liked it. It had that hit tune quality that stuck in my head long after we got off the phone. She said her song inspiration had been looking at the old fiddle of my Grandfather's that I had recently passed onto her. I told her I remembered going out in the barn with him and grabbing some hair from the horses tail for his fiddle bow. Oh, that was in the song too. My life in three verses!

But would I change it? Nawww. Not a teeny bit of it, pathetic as it sounds in song. I still danced, though never a star. The picture above was Flamenco in my early 20's. I'm in the middle.

Imagine your life in song. It's actually fun.

My Sister Eileen and Reflections

Tuesday Morning. I awoke to a rather dull, gray day. It promised more gray than just the early morning mist. Bozeman was on my agenda for today so I flipped on the TV weather channel. Instead I got Turner Classic Movies and "My Sister Eileen" popped on the screen. Oh no..... 1955 with Janet Leigh. That movie was my longing, my dream, my lost hope.

I didn't remember Janet Leigh being the original barbie doll. But there she was, on the screen, the exact image of barbie ....... long blond pony tail..... perky, flirty boobs that would put an eye out........ a waist so tiny it would fit a charm bracelet........a stomach with the slight suggestion of a woman ..... and a firm rounded rump (not the Kim Kardashian rump but rounded in a 50's style.) It was like the first time I was seeing her and I'd seen the movie perhaps 7 times. I know why. I was nubile at the time and we never look at what we are, but what we aren't. Janet Leigh's daughter, Jamie Lee Curtis is attractive but it must have been annoying to grow up in the shadow of a goddess for a mother.

All my young life I had wanted to get a one way ticket to New York and dance in Broadway musicals. Be a rockette. Maybe become a star. Live my own life and make my own decsions. But.... (now play doom music) I met this gorgeous hunk of a man who wanted to marry me. OMG I was so young and soooo insecure. If I didn't grab this, no more opportunities would ever come my way, or so I thought. I was smitten with love which was actually lust. In those days, a so called "nice girl" was a virgin until marriage.

Girls, then, were like little lambie pies, that could be herded by a sheep-dog of a male. There was no Oprah, no Dr. Phil, or TV shows that pointed out the pitfalls of a hasty marriage or what values to look for in a healthy relationship. I folded. I put my dream in a box, got married and raised babies. Although I put my dance shoes in "kind of a box," it didn't get put on the very top shelf. I danced, I competed, I had 2 studios, I taught. But it was more like hobby dancing. That was OK, but 10 years ago I had a Vedic astrology reading. He took one look at my chart and screamed, "You were supposed to be a dancer, what happened?"

The above is like part I. When there's a one, there's a two. Here's the two.

That beautiful hunk was my "first mistaken impulse of an undisciplined heart." (Shades of David Copperfield.) I didn't know it until these past 10 years, but Mr. Hunk was a full-blown Narcissist, a Tiger Woods and I don't mean he was a good golfer.

We stayed together 25 years and all that time I didn't have a clue about these personality disorders. Of course, I blamed myself. I'm sure everyone knows exactly what I'm talking about. There's reams of information out there now. When I finally figured out that it was my husband's problem (and not mine) I read every book ever published on the subject. There's one book that summed up my life. I guess we all follow a pattern like little cookie cutters but the book, My Secret Life With a Sex Addict" by Emma Dawson tells it, as if she's quoting my life.

We stayed married 25 years but it was off and on, together and apart. It was a sick relationship, exactly like Emma says in her book. I know no one can understand how a woman can become a victim to a Narcissist. If I were to watch my life on a movie, I would loath the woman and say, "Why doesn't she just walk away. Leave. Take the kids and run?" I can't explain in this little space but we just don't for so many reasons. I'm also a Pisces and at times, we can be the doormats of the Universe.

After 25 years I got away. Not with therapy but I did it on my own and with the help of my best friend, Marilyn. We all have scars, especially my four kids. Mr. Hunk died this past February on Valentine's Day. Marilyn laughed and said what appropriate justice for a sex addict. I hadn't seen him in years and I just breathed a heavy sigh when I heard he was dead.

That's the end of part II but there's a little sequel. I spent some time alone, getting to know me and trying to heal with my kids and I met the Mr. Wonderful. It was different. He had a rotund belly, was kinda short, had a rather buck-toothed grin but he made me laugh every single day. He never lusted after other women and he adored me. We celebrated 25 joy-filled years together before he died. He was like dessert, saving the sweetest thing for last.

WOW ...... What a Turner Classic Movie will do for the old memory cells!!!!!!!!!!!