Those People

What was I thinking!?  I thought to myself as I stood inside one of the stalls in the small bathroom.  Why was I so anxious?  This moment hadn’t been a surprise.  I had spent the last several weeks reading through all of the Facebook posts describing the details, the “what, where, when, who, and why” of this event.  Each post made me feel alternately excited and depressed.  I couldn’t make up my mind what I wanted to do.  I debated continually back and forth.  I couldn’t decide if I really wanted to participate.  Because I was so unclear, I sought advice from many different people to give me some direction.  Unfortunately, I continually received the very same response from everyone without any diversion or counterpoint.  “God, why would you ever want to do something like that?  I never will.  Why would I ever want to see Those People again.”  “I wouldn’t go.  I couldn’t stand Those People.”  “  Well, you know, all of Those People were rude and mean.  They treated me horribly.  I never want to be around Those People again?”  The answer was the same again and again though everyone was talking about a different group of people.  But it was absolutely clear.  Everyone seemed to hate Those People….no matter who they were or where they came from.

And for a while, honestly, that’s how I felt, too.  It had been 35 years now seen I had seen Those People of mine!  Why would I even think about going back?  Well…maybe it was just curiosity…morbid curiosity, at best.  Maybe I just felt a horrible need to belong somewhere.  Maybe I just needed to reconnect with the past in order to move on with my life.  Maybe I just needed some closure.  Maybe I just wanted to show off that I had survived my teenage years…High school hadn’t killed me as I imagined it would at the time.  Had it made me stronger?  I can only hope so, but I do know this:  for good or bad, I have certainly come a long way since my high school days.  So, whatever the reason may have been, I was now standing, (oh, alright, I’ll be honest!), hiding in the bathroom  of St. John’s Catholic Club in Kansas City, Kansas, as I psyched myself up to join my classmates for our 35^th high school reunion.

As with most people, high school had been a traumatic experience for me.  I always felt unattractive, stupid, and awkward.  Gym class certainly didn’t help me gain any confidence.  Instead, the class seemed to reinforce  my negative feelings.  Many times, I was chosen last when deciding teams but, honestly, I can’t blame my classmates for this.  I wouldn’t have wanted anyone as uncoordinated as I was on my team either!  I believe I was the main reason my team always had to run laps around the gym for losing volleyball matches.  I would cower away in terror from any ball that came rolling, spinning, or zooming my way.

I fared no better in the actual classroom environment.  I was extraordinarily shy and quiet.  I never wanted to speak up in class and would continually play dead if the teacher called out my name.  I just could never seem to find my voice in a room full of people.  Giving presentations was torture for me.  I usually pretended to be sick on presentation days.  If that didn’t keep me out of the classroom, I would beg my teachers for any additional assignments to replace the presentation.  Many of them refused; they explained that the experience would be a good confidence builder for me.  It actually didn’t work.  I would stand up in front of the class with my paper shaking and rattling wildly in front of my face as I  mumbled through random information for the allotted five minutes of time.  I didn’t care about the grade; I just wanted to get through the experience without being laughed at or teased by my fellow classmates.

My social experience of high school was routinely painful.  I was the kid who continually seemed to have the runny nose, the drooping socks, and the untied shoelaces no matter how I tried to present myself.  I was overweight and wore thick, heavy glasses.  Every weekday, I just put on my green plaid school uniform, my sagging socks, and my arch-correcting saddle shoes (for my flat feet), and went off to school where I walked around with my head down and my shoulders protectively wrapped around my upper body.

In my senior year, I begged my mother to let me quit high school.  I am relieved and grateful now that my mother rejected all of my arguments for dropping out.  She refused to allow me to leave school until I safely had my diploma in hand.  But for years immediately following graduation, I failed to see the benefit of this at all.  I swore I would never go back to school or see any of those people ever again.

But there is one problem with the word NEVER.  It has a friend named KARMA.  Because no matter how much we hate certain experiences in our lives, they all happen for a reason.  And no matter how often we say NEVER, life has a way of recycling lessons until we learn them.  For example, even though I swore I was finished with my education, after a few years of working minimum wage jobs, I suddenly found myself drifting back to school.  I began attending Johnson County Community College and loved the experience of learning so much,  I transferred to the University of Kansas and found, quite literally, that the whole world slowly began to open up for me.  Over the next several years, I found myself in all kinds of interesting jobs and positions.  I worked as a model, a reporter, and a photographer.  I traveled the world, even waking up one morning to find myself in Thailand and soon I was backpacking by myself across Malaysia.  I lived successfully in New Mexico, Tennessee, and California.  After high school, I went on a 35-year journey to find myself.  I finally stumbled my way back to my hometown in Kansas last year.

I proudly put the information of my return on Facebook and was amazed that a lot of my old high school classmates reached out to me.  That was fine.  I could handle Facebook relationships.  But four months after my return, posts began to appear about our upcoming 35-year reunion.  I was surprised because it seemed a little ironic.  How was it possible that I would return to Kansas the very year a reunion was scheduled?  Maybe…just maybe…it was KARMA challenging my never-ending use of the word NEVER and my reluctance to see Those People again.

I was NEVER going to attend a high school reunion.

For years, I had agreed with Jase Robertson of Duck Dynasty when he said, “Do I go to high school reunions?  No.  If I haven’t talked to you in over 25 years, there’s probably a reason.”  For the 10, 20, and 30 year reunions, thankfully, I continually had the excuse of being “out of town” to avoid the events.  But now, I no longer had any excuse.  So there I was on Saturday night, April 23, 2016, in Kansas City, Kansas, at my 35-year reunion, hiding in the bathroom at St. John’s Catholic Club.  Of course, this brought back even more unusual memories of my high school experience.

Once a month, my school sponsored a mixer for all of the students on a Friday night.  I never wanted to attend these dances with Those People.  My mother forced me to go.  She thought it would be good for me to get out and mingle with my classmates.  I hated it!  I wanted to stay home and watch Donny and Marie.  I had a huge crush on Donny at the time, which I think my mother considered somewhat unhealthy.  It would be a good thing for me to get away from my teen idol for a while.  Mom and I would argue about the mixers before and after the events, but every month, I was expected to attend.  Once I was at the dance party, I would spend the first few minutes standing around the refreshment table before retreating to the bathroom where I would hide in a stall until it was time to go home.  I never danced and I never talked to anyone.  I would just stay in the bathroom and wish that I was at home watching Donny.  Though I have seen him in Vegas, I no longer watch Donny now.  I have traveled all over the world.  I have published.  I have modeled.  I have had my own business.  I have taught struggling students.  I have had an amazing life.  But here I was, at the reunion still huddled in a bathroom stall instead of facing my former classmates.

I took a deep breath and willed myself to leave the bathroom and yet I continued to linger.  I may have stayed in the bathroom all night if I hadn’t thought of Janice and began to feel terribly guilt.  Janice had been a good friend to me during my awkward elementary and high school years.  I was fortunate to  reconnect with her several years ago on Facebook.  Janice had confessed to me that she too had debated about attending the reunion.  But then she said something that really got my attention.  “If I don’t go,” Janice had stated, “I’m afraid I’ll regret it later.”  Her statement made complete sense to me.  What if this was my last chance to make amends?  Janice was right.  We decided then to go together so we would each, at least, have someone to sit with during the event.

Since I was still relearning my way around Kansas City and, especially, Strawberry Hill where the event was taking place, Janice offered to drive us to the reunion.  Because sections of the I-70 were closed, we got a little lost on the way to St. John’s and ended up in downtown Kansas City, Missouri.  If I had been driving alone, I would have used “getting lost” as an excuse to just go back home.  Janice took it all in stride, though.   She stayed completely calm; methodically and strategically, she  found the way back into Kansas.  She did a great job navigating the one- way streets and the closed roads to find St. John’s Catholic Club.  She never gave up.  She never got upset.  I need to be more like Janice.  Because now I realized that while Janice had gotten us to the reunion, I had suddenly deserted her to go hide in the bathroom.  What a horrible friend I am!

With that thought in mind, I forced myself move out of the stall.  I walked over to the sink and washed my hands while I stared at myself in the mirror.  Oh, God, what have I done?  My make-up didn’t look too bad, but my hair was a stiff, unnatural, badly blended mess.  I usually don’t fuss with my hair.  I tend to just brush it and run, but tonight I wanted to look good for the reunion.  So before I met up with Janice, I had taken the time to carefully curl and style my hair, which is something I never really do.  Once I had my hair in the design I wanted, I had grabbed the hairspray and didn’t stop spraying until I was sure not a single strand of hair would dare to move out of place.  Though I began to choke on the fumes, the spray hadn’t been enough to ease my hair anxiety.  I also had a can of spray-on hair dye to touch up my roots.  (Yes, I dye my hair to cover the gray…what of it!)  I didn’t have time to dye my hair earlier and I didn’t want any of my (gray!) roots to show.  I thought I would just touch up my hair with the red spray.  I had tentatively tried the dye on a thick strand first, and when that looked okay, I went crazy spraying the dye in a solid line down the center of my head.  Oh, my gosh, it wasn’t until I was at the reunion that I realized that the spray-on dye didn’t match my hair color at all.  The color from the can was much darker than my normal (I said normal, not natural) lighter strawberry blond color.  The spray had turned the center of my scalp horribly bright red.  I looked like I had a badly oozing wound on the top of my head.  Seriously, it looked like I had split open the top of my skull and blood was seeping out.  But I couldn’t wash it out now.  I would just have to make sure that no one could stare down at the very top of my head.  Man, I need to stay away from hair products when I’m in the midst of a panic attack.  Hair products are the bane of an anxious woman…well, at least for me.  I always go overboard in order to hide my scars and imperfections.  I try to save myself from ridicule but just tend to make everything worse and much more noticeable.  So, now, I was already at the reunion and had no choice.  But what was I really worried about anyway?  I just needed to get through tonight and then possibly NEVER see those people  again.

I took a deep breath, turned away from the mirror and walked out of the bathroom.  I stepped into the main room of the Catholic Club.  The lights were down low and a soft golden glow filled the room.  Ten tables were lined up parallel on both sides of the room and covered with white tablecloths and black beads.  There were several people standing around in small groups up by the stage.  And suddenly to my surprise, I began to smile…and it felt natural…and it felt good.  My smile did not feel faked or forced or strained.  For some reason, there was an energy about the room that made me feel excited and happy.  I don’t really know what brought on this feeling.  I had expected to find myself standing on the outside of any gathered group and out of my own comfort zone, but that’s not what happened.

Instead, I felt relaxed and happy when Cindy walked up to greet me with a hug.  I felt comfortable in her presence, but in all honesty, Cindy wasn’t a challenge.  She looked radiant and her personality always sparkles and shines as much as her physical appearance does.  She has always been welcoming and charming.  She makes everyone feel like a friend.  Cindy was my very first Facebook friend from high school and continually communicated with me through that medium for the last six years.  We had already met for dinner twice before this reunion, so I already thought of her as a friend.  I was pleased that she was the one of the first people I saw at the reunion that night.  That situation helped set the mood for the rest of the evening.

After a moment, Cindy moved away and I found myself talking to Gregory.  His soft, gentle voice and easy-going manner put me right at ease.  After talking to Cindy and Gregory, the rest of the evening suddenly became easier and, to my shock, I found myself connecting, hugging, and talking to many people I hadn’t seen in over three decades!  The conversations came easily, the hugs were heartfelt, the emotions sincere.    I talked to more people that night than I did in my four years of high school!  It was a surreal and unusual situation to see everyone again.  Most of the people looked just like older versions of their high school selves.  I felt completely disoriented whenever someone’s seventeen-year-old face suddenly superimposed itself over his or her current, older facial features.  Remember, I had never seen the adult version of any of Those People.  I only knew them as teens.  I felt for a moment as if I was in a time-travel movie.  Maybe I was actually traveling forward in time.  I suspected that I would wake up the next day and it would be 1980 once more.  But for now, it was fun to see everyone again after so long.

There was Julie looking as young as she did in high school.  And Mary who always had a great sense of humor.  She was a little more serious now, but still putting out positive, good vibes.  Joan still retained her good heart and sweet smile.  Teri continually displayed enthusiasm and pride in the school and her classmates.  Karen definitely had to be the most honest of all of us.  She confessed that she didn’t remember Janice or me at all.  Her candor made me laugh.  While some of us ran around the room trying to remember everyone, and cheating by deviously reading name tags first (well…I did…),  Karen was refreshingly open and straightforward, which was greatly appreciated.  I couldn’t help but smile when Brian suddenly sat down next to me and talked about his family.  And I was comfortable when Jeff did the same later that evening.

Most of my former classmates gave me sweet compliments on the way I looked that night and congratulated me on publishing my first book.  The most consistent compliment I received from Those People, however, was for my Facebook page.  I was completely stunned to hear people mention this.  After a few months of posting comments and statements about my life, both positive and negative, I decided that I wanted my Facebook page to be encouraging and motivating.  I have posted only positive quotes and stunning artwork on my page for the last five years.  I am not trying to be pretentious.  My Facebook page is my creative attempt to keep myself inspired and focused on the optimistic aspects of life.  I was thrilled that so many of my classmates, especially Therese, Terri,and Melissa, expressed their appreciation for my posts and asked me to keep the positive thoughts coming.  I was pleased that so many people felt inspired by my Facebook page.

Everyone happily conversed and engaged with each other, but sitting in a small group of five women later in the evening was a surreal moment for me.  I never had children and so as my former classmates talked about their families, I had nothing to add to the conversation.  But that didn’t matter to me.  I didn’t care.  I was absolutely fascinated by their words.  Thirty-five years ago, the conversations had been about tests, classes, homework, and teachers.  It was an unusual experience to listen to my classmates talk about their grown children.  “They just don’t get it.”  “I have been encouraging them to move on.”  Every comment was made with a mixture of joy, love, concern, worry, and stress.  There was no doubt that these people absolutely loved their children and wanted the best for them.  It was incredible to hear these same sweet teenage voices discussing grown-up issues.  I just sat there mute and quiet as I usually was in high school.  Only this time, I was fully attentive and could have listened to them all evening.

I also enjoyed seeing Steve, Jeff, Duke, Aldo, Nick, Joe, Chuck, Keith, Michael, and Brian again.  I think I talked to the “boys” more that night than I did through the four years of attending Bishop Ward High School.  This was an extremely bizarre moment.  What happened to all of the boys from my class?  And why was every one of them so tall?  They were not scrawny, little kids any more.  Now, I was surrounded by fully grown, handsome, strong men.  If I had realized that was going to happen, I would never have left Kansas 35 years ago!  I smiled as I looked around at all of these incredibly tall, incredibly attractive, older men.  I just prayed that none of them would suddenly look down on me and notice my “oozing” painted-red scalp.  That became one of my challenges of the evening.  I strutted around and kept moving just to make sure that my wayward vanity would not be discovered.

It had been a real challenge trying to make sure no one could look down on my red scalp.  Maneuvering away from tall men became easier when I got out on the dance floor where I was now  too happy to worry about my “bloody” hair.  Now, I could shimmy and move and turn without looking like I had to go to the bathroom.  Yes, I danced!  I was actually out on the dance floor with several of my classmates as we threw our hands up in the air, spun around, and kicked our legs.  I was not hiding in the stall now as I did at the mixers 35 years ago.  I was wiggling around in the middle of the dance floor.  I was actually dancing!  Look at me, Momma!  Look at me!  And I didn’t care at all what anyone else thought of me.  I didn’t care if I made a fool of myself.

The evening was perfectly summed up by Natalie’s comment about me.  “When we were in school, Jamie, you were so shy and quiet, most people didn’t even know you existed.  But look at you now.  Look at all of the amazing things you’ve done!  It’s incredible!”  I couldn’t help smiling at her statement.  I felt completely different than I did in high school.  And as I looked at my former classmates, I realized that we had all grown into a successful, good-looking, kind-hearted group of people!

And that’s when I suddenly realized something.  I was not the only one who had changed.  All of my classmates had grown up, too.  None of us were the same people we had been in high school.  As much as I have grown and changed, so have they.  How could I ever hold anyone responsible for what they said or did as teenagers?  I wouldn’t want anyone judging me now based on my 16-year-old self and I wasn’t going to do that to anyone else.  Those awful high school years when I felt so battered…well, I suddenly realized now that most of my scars had been self-inflicted.  It was my own reserved heart and negative mindset that had kept me locked up and hidden away in bathroom stalls.  But now, we were all (a little?!) older and a whole lot wiser.  And we were beginning to connect on a whole different level.  We were no longer the jocks, or the brainiacs, or the geeks, or the cheerleaders, or the nerds, or the loners.  Those were just labels we gave each other as we all struggled to find the place where we belong, as we all strived to find our own identities.  Those titles are laughable now and certainly don’t reflect who we have become…

And the strange thing was…I really wanted to keep partying with my former classmates because, on this night of the reunion, I truly loved those people…

So, at the end of the evening, I proudly gathered with my classmates for a group picture.  I was a little concerned when my high school crush walked over to me.  Oh, my gosh, he could still make me shiver as if I was sixteen-years-old again.  I quickly maneuvered myself away from him, though, and moved to the other side of Janice.  Well…okay, maybe a few insecurities still remain.  I just didn’t want my old crush to think that I was still clumsy enough to injure myself.  “Help, someone!  Jamie’s bleeding from the top of her head!”  So, yes, I definitely needed to move away from him.  I may never see him again and didn’t want that to be his last impression he had of me.

Hopefully, that will not be the last impression anyone has of me.

So here is my advice.  Do NOT go to your 10^th or, even 20^th, reunion.  Wait for the 30^th or 35^th reunion.  Do not see anyone from high school for at least 30 years.  Wait until everyone has had the chance to experience life.  Give everyone the opportunity to grow up.  See everyone again when they are seasoned, when they are weathered.  Become friends with high school classmates after everyone has had the chance to experience life.  Give each other the chance to experience life as God intended.  My classmates are people…real people.  People who are raising their families, working their jobs, and suffering their losses.  People who have cried and laughed and loved and hurt and grieved.  We are all really not that different after all…

Even though we had originally debated about going, now Janice and I really didn’t want to say good-bye.  We finally left the reunion around 10:30 pm because, unfortunately, I had to work early the next morning.  As Janice and I walked out of St. John’s Catholic Club and into the dark night, we turned right to walk down the steep hill to her car.  Suddenly, I gasped and had to catch my breath.  I stared at the scene in front of me.  From the top of the hill, I saw the beautiful, white, round moon shining down on the bright Kansas City skyline.  It was an amazingly beautiful image.  The sight filled me with wonder!  I now suddenly realized I was home.  I knew where I belonged.  I was loved.  I was safe.  The past had been put to rest…well, it had been put into perspective.  And the future, for my classmates and me, seemed even brighter now than it did 35 years ago.  Beautiful days loom ahead of us.  And though I may not always now where I am headed , I certainly now know where I have been, and where I come from…

I feel united and am proud to say I am one of Those People.

 

 

 

 

 

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New Year’s Resolutions

I almost didn’t go to the gym on New Year’s Eve, December 31, 2015.  I expected it to be uncomfortably crowded.  I don’t worry about exercising in front of other people.  I don’t care if people are watching me even when I’ve done some really stupid things.  For instance, one day, I accidentally hit the emergency stop instead of the pause button on the treadmill and went flying off of the belt and landed on my bottom on the hard concrete floor.  Another time, I walked right into a large, white rack and cracked my head on a forty-pound weight.  I’ve fallen over while doing squats and dropped barbells on my feet.  Whenever I fall over, run into walls, and drop things, I always try to pretend that it was something I had meant to do and it didn’t hurt a bit.  I don’t think anyone believes me and I seriously doubt anyone has gained work out tips from watching me.  I have been laughed at, mocked, ridiculed, and teased all in an effort to keep myself in shape.

…And it is this effort, this drive, to stay in shape that got me up off my hopefully toned bottom and into the 24-Hour Fitness gym in Shawnee, Kansas, last Thursday.  I had been right; the gym was packed with people.  A crowd at the gym usually makes it difficult to exercise because I can’t always get the machines I need for my workout.  Thursday was “back day” and so I would need all of the machines that would exercise my trapezius, latissimus dorsi, and spinalis muscles.  Unfortunately, all of those machines were already in use.  The machines were occupied by very large men who didn’t look like they were into sharing, especially with a small, older woman dressed in trashy, loose, blue sweatpants and a gray, ragged hoodie sweatshirt.  I always wear my oldest, sloppiest clothes when I go to the gym.  I intend to work out really hard and build up a sweat.  Why would I want to dress up for that?  I am always amazed to see young women in full make-up with their hair and nails done out on the gym floor.  That’s way too much effort.  I’m proud of myself that I am at the gym at least five times a week.  To exercise in full make up seems a little desperate to me.

But who am I to judge as I looked at the people around me.  It takes all kinds of kinds, I thought as I started to make my way over to the one lone exercise bike not in use.  I pushed my steps a little bit faster hoping I could reach the bike before anyone else grabbed it.  I guess all my runs on the treadmill were paying off!  I did it!  I reached the bike first! It was all mine.  I quickly sat down on the seat, placed my diet coke in the water bottle rack (okay, okay, I know), and draped my towel over the handlebars.  I programmed the bike on a manual, medium speed and opened up my book.  I am one of those rare people who read while I exercise.  This practice works great for me.  As long as my mind is active, I can exercise for hours.

I had just started pedaling and focused on my book, when an elderly woman suddenly got my attention.  The woman had to be in her late 60s or early 70s.  She had short, pure white hair and thick, black glasses.  She was dressed in a yellow, long-sleeved t-shirt and Capri-length, black sweatpants.  I watched in amazement as the woman pushed her walker across the gym.  I have seen this woman many times before.  Using a walker doesn’t seem to slow her down.  She very carefully moves over to one of the machines and then grips the side handles of her walker as she carefully lowers herself onto the seat.  Once she is securely seated, she lets go of her walker, and then painstakingly, manually maneuvers her legs into place.  She leans forward and wraps her hands around her right leg and places it into position before she does the same thing to her left.  After she has finished her sets, the woman reverses the procedure with her legs, grabs a hold of her walker, and pulls herself up from the machine.  She stretches for a moment before moving to the next machine.  I always smile when I see her.  I hope I am just like this woman in the years to come.  Though I may have disabilities, I don’t want to be idle.  I don’t want to be sitting on the sidelines watching everyone else.  I want to be exercising; I want to be moving, even if I, too, have to adjust my legs and get around with a square, steel walker.

I watched as the woman walked over to the hamstring stretch machine.  I watched as she preformed her usual ritual.   She held onto the walker while she moved her body into place; she sat down slowly on the seat and let go of the walker; she manually moved her legs into place, first the right leg and then the left.  The woman had just gotten herself into position when a large, young man walked up to her.  The man smiled but still informed the woman, “I was using that machine.  I haven’t finished yet.”  I stared in absolute horrified shock as the woman smiled back at the man and then began her slow routine of getting off of the machine without having performed one single movement to stretch her hamstrings.  The young man just stood by as the elderly woman now maneuvered one leg and then the other off of the machine.  She grabbed hold of her walker and pulled herself up out of the seat.  She nodded her head at the man as she slowly began to shuffle away.  The young man did not say another word as he sat down on the machine, shifted his legs into place (without using any manipulation), and began to exercise.

I watched in surprise as the woman shuffled around the gym trying to find a machine that was not in use.  The gym was just too crowded that day for anyone to immediately do their workout unless they were rude enough to chase elderly woman and others off of the machines.  The woman tried to make her way to several exercise machines that suddenly became free only to have younger, more mobile people race ahead of her.  The woman just stood on the side of the room and waited for a moment before finally giving up and walking back to the locker rooms.

I wanted to chase after her and apologize for the rudeness that she had encountered.  I wanted to tell her, “Hey, you know, it’s New Year’s Eve.  Everybody has a resolution to lose 10 to 50 pounds.  I’ve been going to gyms long enough to know…just give it a month or two.  Most people will give up and then the gym will be ours again.”  But I didn’t do anything.  I just watched as the woman shuffled by and I was ashamed that I had said and did nothing.

I usually don’t make New Year’s resolutions because, like many people who promise to exercise, I don’t always follow through on them.  But maybe this year I should make a resolution to reach out to people who feel like they don’t belong.  Maybe the world would be better off if instead of making useless resolutions we never keep, this year, 2016, we just try to be a little kinder to each other.

World Series

Sunday, November 1, 2015, was one of the most exciting, nerve-wracking nights of my life.  That evening, my brother, Tony, my sister-in-law, Mary, and I sat in my brother’s living room and watched game 5 of the World Series.  Our hometown team, the Kansas City Royals, was up three games to one against the New York Mets.  As the courageous players on the field sweated, shouted, batted, and ran around the field, Tony, Mary, and I screamed, cried, laughed, cheered, bit our nails, passed around a bottle of Tums, and held our three dogs as if they were comforting, broken-in stuffed animals.

Though the dogs were part of our nervous ritual, they seemed oblivious to all of the excitement as they slept through the majority of the game.  The dogs finally roused themselves into a frenzy during the 12^th inning when the Royals finally broke the 2 runs to 2 runs stalemate and took charge of the game.  Tony, Mary, and I screamed, cheered, clapped, and jumped around the room as the dogs barked and yelped as they ran around our legs and nipped at our heels.  The whole surreal scene became even more erratic when a third strike was called on the batter at the plate, which created the third out for the New York Mets in the bottom of the 12^th inning.  The final score was 7 to 2.  The Royals had just triumphed in game 5 of the World Series and clinched the title of World Champions by winning four out of the seven scheduled games.  Tony, Mary, and I stood in the middle of the living room.  All three of us were welded together in a deep hug as we jumped up and down and continued to scream.  We laughed and cried simultaneously as we watched our favored team racing out of the dugout and onto the field as the players yelled, hugged, and danced in victory.  Then the first loud boom filled the air.

“The fireworks have started,” Tony shouted as he untangled himself from our embrace and ran across the living room to the front door.  Tony pulled the door open and all three of us stepped out onto the porch.  We listened for a moment as the fireworks boomed all around us.  Even our elderly neighbors across the street got into the spirit of the moment.  The senior couple opened their front door, tossed out two firecrackers, and then shut the door, turned off the lights, and went to bed.

But the celebration wasn’t over.  Tony, Mary, and I continued to listen to the booming until the night suddenly grew still.  Then, out of the darkness, we heard voices loudly screaming and shouting.  “WWWOOOOOO!”  The echo of the voices reverberated all around us.  I was surprised that the voices were coming in the direction of the next neighborhood to the north of us.   The sounds were so joyful and crystal clear I imagined a thousand angels were rejoicing.  Tony, however, was not going to be outdone on such a joyful night.  He took a deep breath, cupped his hands around his mouth, and hollered a loud “WOOOOO!” of his own into the starry night sky.  Within seconds, there was a response.  The disembodied voices shouted again.  “WOOOO-HOOOO!”  Tony, Mary, and I laughed uproariously before Tony once more sent out a cheer of his own.  “WOOOOO!”  Two seconds later, the answering “WOOOOO-HOOO!” came back to us from out of the darkness.  Tony, Mary, and I laughed again as I thought about Close Encounters of the Third Kind.  Our shouts into the night reminded me of the back and forth “do-do-do-do-do” music when contact was made with the aliens.  Some unseen, unknown living creatures had just made contact with us in the overwhelming joy of the Kansas City Royals wining the World Series.  The whole neighborhood and the brilliant night sky seemed to be joining us in celebration.  The whole effect was silly, funny, and incredibly thrilling.

“Let’s go back inside,” Tony finally suggested.  “Let’s watch the Royals celebrating their victory.”  Mary, Tony, and I went back into the house and once more gathered around the TV in the living room.  With tears and laughter, we watched the celebration from Queens, New York, for a few minutes before deciding that we really needed to get some sleep.  It was already after midnight and the exhilarating fatigue from the stress and excitement of watching the game was finally crashing down on us.  We all hugged each other one more time before retiring to our bedrooms.

I couldn’t sleep though.  I was still too excited.  I laid awake for a half hour more thinking about the game.  I was excited for my team, my family, and my hometown.  After just returning to Kansas from California two months ago, I felt connected once more to my community.  I lay in bed and thought about the games that I had watched over the last few months.  I suddenly realized that my attraction to the games was not about sport but about spirit.  All of the skillful players had proven themselves consistently on the field, but it is the team’s ability to rally back up to fighting mode even after a rough play that attracted the most attention.  The Royals have an amazing ability to come back fighting hard and putting in every effort even as they fall behind.  The team’s Never-Give-Up attitude kept them in the game long after many others may have already counted them out.  The players never lost focus of their goals or dreams even when the odds seemed stacked against them.  Their drive and determination never faltered even after losing the World Series to the New York Giants last year.  The Royals returned to the field stronger, faster, and better even after that downfall.  The loyalty and dedication the manager and players showed to each other created an steadfast foundation that could not be shaken.  The team was truly a “Band of Brothers” that stuck together during tough times.  The Kansas City Royals deserved the win!

Right before I fell asleep, I thought about how the spirit of the Royals and this World Series win, thirty years after their last World Championship in 1985, united the people of Kansas City and inspired a strong, determined, never-say-die community.  But again, I am beginning to realize that that is what sets Kansas City apart from any other place where I have lived.  I thought about my family, friends, and new contacts in Kansas.  I’m surrounded by hard-working, God-fearing, America-proud citizens.  Kansas, there really is no place like home!

Second Chances

Last October, I was living over a thousand miles away from my hometown of Kansas City, Kansas.  I had been living in Palm Springs, California, for the past ten years.  Of course, there were a lot of things I missed about Kansas: bar-b-cue, jazz clubs, season changes, and, of course, family.  But one special event last year made me particularly homesick.  My professional hometown baseball team, The Kansas City Royals, was playing in the World Series.

Though I have never been athletic myself, I enjoy watching sports.  I love going to live games and feeling the energy of the crowd as they cheer on their favorite players.  Though I hadn’t been to a game in years, I was still extremely proud of the Royals for their major field victories.

I also have to admit that I was extremely jealous.  Every day, new post would appear on Facebook from my Kansas friends about the Royals’ activities.  Every few days, I would receive emails with links to major articles that reported on the games.  Every time I spoke on the phone to my brother, Tony, he would talk endlessly about the excitement that was buzzing around the city.  My sweet cousin, Connie, sent me a t-shirt that showed the Royals in a victory pose when they won the pennant.  I loved the t-shirt, the articles, and the resonant thrill in Tony’s voice.  But I wanted to be there!  I wanted to share in all of the activities, games, and trash talk that happens during Series games, but no one in California really seemed to care.  I can’t blame them, though.  It would have been very different if the Dodgers had made it to the Series.  It’s amazing the amount of pride people can feel for a hometown team.

I was teaching most nights that the Series games took place in 2014.  On every break, however, I would grab my phone and check scores and stats.  When class resumed, I would exactly announce to my students, “The Royals are up by one point!”  My pronouncement was usually meet with blank stares.  “The World Series!  My team is in the World Series,” I would inform them.  “It’s so exciting!”  Several students would smile and nod their heads.  But after the second game, no one was showing any reaction at all.  But I didn’t care.  I still continued to enthusiastically support my team from a thousand miles away.

,,,.And then the Royals lost the Series.   They lost the seventh game to the San Francisco Giants, 3-2…

…Life went on…

My circumstances began to change in the spring of 2015.  With few alternatives, I moved back to Kansas City, Kansas, in August of that year.  The baseball season was in “full swing.”  (I hate clichés but thought this was a good metaphor for baseball!)  The Royals were winning a majority of their games…Oh, my gosh, the Royals were in the playoffs against the Toronto BlueJays!

For the next two weeks, the air was crisp with excitement and blue t-shirts, hats, and jackets were everywhere.  Bars and clubs were packed with people staring at large screen televisions, their eyes following every move, watching every play…And I was there!  I was in Kansas!  I was home!

And then, it happened!  Friday, October 23, 2015, following an hour-long rain delay during the 8^th inning, the Royals won the pennant, defeating the BlueJays and earning another trip to the World Series for the second year in a row…with home field advantage, I might add.

As I listened to game predictions and my friends’ plans for the first Series game this Tuesday, October 27, 2015, I can’t help but smile.  This year has been full of second chances.  I’m starting fresh, starting over again…I came back home after a long time away.  It had been 25 years since I lived in Kansas.  I have a second chance to renew old friendship, reconnect with family, plan new adventures, start new careers, and redefine my life.  I have another chance now to seriously concentrate on my writing career.  Who knows if I will succeed or not?  But what does it matter?  Second chances can be hard work and very scary, but it’s so much better than giving up.

The Royals did not give up on their “Road to Gold.”  It’s very rare for a team to make it to the Series two seasons in a row.  Who knows what’s going to happen?  Who can truly predict if the Royals will defeat the Mets this year and by how many games and runs?  Who cares actually?  The Royals have a second chance for success.  And it is scary and it is hard work and they may not succeed.  But the effort is so much better than giving up…

…And I’m proud to share this amazing experience with my family and friends.  I guess, even through all of my travels, I have always been a Kansas girl at heart…and I am so grateful for second chances!

Opinions

So one day I was at the gym and I had just gotten on the exercise bike.  I was pedaling away mindlessly as I read my paperback book.  Suddenly, a young boy sat down on the bike next to me.  He looked to be only 12 or 13-years-old.  The boy began to pedal and then I heard him say, “Hey, how do you program this thing?”  I smiled and put my book down.  As I leaned over to help him, though, I suddenly smelled this horrible, putrid, body odor.

Oh, my gosh, I thought, this poor boy.  The smell was horrendous.  I tried to compose my face into a smooth smile as I showed him how to set the controls.  As I bit my lower lip to stop my eyes from watering, my mind was reminding me, “He’s a little kid.  He’s just a kid.  Don’t say anything.  Don’t hurt his feelings.”  I set the controls for the boy and then moved away.  I sat up straight on my own bike and tried to focus on my book.

“Hey,” the boy said again, “how do I get it to go faster?”  I leaned over again and tried to stop my hands from immediately covering my nose. I sniffed helplessly a few times.  My mind started to chant, “He’s just a kid.  He’s just a kid.  Be kind.  Be kind.”  I forced a smile as I helped him set the speed level on the bike and then moved gratefully away.

Suddenly, the boy hopped off the bike.  As he was walking away, he looked back over his shoulder and stated, “Well, that smell couldn’t be me. I showered this morning.”  I stared at the boy as he walked out of the cardio area.

Wait a minute!  Did that boy just tell me I smell bad….Well, the little…

I sat on my bike pedaling in stunned silence as I thought about the boy’s words.  Even though the smell had faded away, I became a little paranoid.  That’s not me.  I’m sure it isn’t me…is it me?  I took several deep breaths but didn’t smell anything.  However, I was suddenly a little fearful.

I got off of the bike, ran back to the locker room, stripped out of my gym clothes, and immediately stood underneath the shower spray.  Of course, that smell wasn’t me…I had showered that morning, too.  And yet, I was amazed that the boy’s words could have such an effect on me.  As I squeezed soap out of the dispenser hanging on the wall and scrubbed away at my skin, my mind began to spin.  Why was I accepting the boy’s words as the truth, even though I knew that I was clean?  And yet I suddenly didn’t feel so fresh.

I sighed heavily as I reminded myself again.  “He’s just a kid.  He’s just a kid.”  His words meant nothing.  But they said everything.

Though there are times that I say awkward things, I always try hard to sidestep other people’s feelings.  Why do I feel sometimes, though, that my feelings get stomped on? But is that really true…or do I just allow other people’s opinions to affect me more than I should?  Why would I ever allow someone else’s words, especially the words of a young boy, make me feel that there was something wrong or unacceptable about me?  What does it matter if people make nasty comments at me or share cruel opinions?  Isn’t it more important how I see myself?  I knew I was clean and decent.  I know I try to be a good person.  Why would I ever let someone else’s words hurt me?  The boy had nothing to do with my response to his remarks.  That had been entirely my choice.

People are always going to say nasty things.  They will criticize my hair, so I get it cut.  Then they will criticize my weight, so I diet.  Then they will criticize my clothes….when does it stop?  It stops only when I choose not to listen or respond anymore.  That’s just how people are.  What people say to me isn’t about me; it’s about them.  It’s about their insecurities.  I realize that I really am just a reflection of how people see themselves.  People may praise me.  People may insult me.  Which words I accept, though, are completely up to me.

…And that’s when I suddenly realized something.  That poor kid.  Was he being laughed at, ridiculed for his situation?  Did he need someone to carry his shame for him for a while? I was suddenly pleased that I was there to share his burden with him for just a moment.

As I got out of the shower and wrapped myself in a towel, I started to laugh.  I was over the initial shock of the situation and found the whole incident hysterical.  Oh, my gosh, that funny little boy.  I finished drying myself off and slowly got dressed. I felt good.  I felt happy.

I smiled now about the boy who had taught me so much. The boy was just so insecure.  I prayed that someone was taking care of him and teaching him to take care of himself.  I hoped that he would soon learn to create his armor and protect himself from the unkind words of other people.

I finished getting dressed and then walked out of the gym.  I smiled deeply.  I was feeling happy, hopeful…and deeply cleansed.

Muscle Bound Dreams

One of the trainers threw me out of the gym one day.  “You can’t be here every day and work out as hard as you do,” she told me.  “Your muscles need time to rest.  Go home…go now..you can’t work out today.”

Well, it is true…I am an official gym rat.  I love going to the gym.  I am at the gym at least 2 hours a day five days a week.  Not only do I like to stay toned, strong, and healthy, but the gym is my stress reliever. When I finish my workout, I always feel emotionally better and completely at peace.  Well, most of the time I do.  I admit there are days when I am at the gym and feeling grumpy.  My crankiness is the result of encountering oversized, overbearing “he-men.”

“He-men” are the insanely-muscled, large men who have biceps the size of my waist.  Their calf muscles are twice the size of one of my thighs.   They are the athletes, the sportsmen, the professional players who live by the impulses of their bodies instead of their brains.

Though I am small and somewhat uncoordinated, I’m comfortable working out in the same gym with the “he-men.”  I’m not intimidated in that way.  However, I get angry when they don’t clean up after themselves.  It makes me mad when they don’t put away their weights when they finish with a machine.  I also hate it when they are circuit training and I accidentally stumble into their path, using machines they claim they were using even though they had been on the other side of the gym.  Several of the men have chased me right off the machines.  Though it is upsetting, I don’t let it bother me and I return to the gym the next day, prime and ready for the next workout.

This morning I was at the gym again.  Sundays are usually quiet and I can exercise without any interruptions.  But this Sunday was different.  I had just sat down and adjusted the weights at the shoulder press machine when a young, heavily-muscled man walked up beside me.  I started my exercises as I watched him draw closer.  Oh, no, is he going to tell me to get off the machine?  He probably was in the middle of some circuit training and, once again, I was on a machine that was supposedly already in use.

As I finished my first set, I watched the man out of the corner of my eye.  He suddenly stopped walking and stood about 3 feet to the side of my machine.  Was he trying to intimidate me to leave?  I glanced shyly over at the man.  Oh, gosh, I thought, he is so much bigger than I am!  The man was about six feet tall with short dark hair, extremely broad shoulders and well muscled arms and legs.  I couldn’t see his face…and suddenly I realized that the man wasn’t even looking at me.  Instead, he was staring up at the TV monitor that was hanging from the ceiling beams right in front of the shoulder press machine.

I glanced up at the TV.  The Sunday edition of Good Morning, America was silently playing on the monitor.  With the sound turned off, I couldn’t exactly figure out what this segment was about, but images of Spiderman leaping off of tall buildings and fighting “baddies” was playing across the screen.  I leaned forward in my seat and then looked back at the muscle man who was still standing beside me.  I swear the man was totally mesmerized by the images on the screen.  He stood beside me with his muscled arms crossed over his large chest and a huge silly grin on his suddenly boyish face.

I bit my tongue to keep from laughing.  Why do Superheroes and Star Wars turn every grown man into an 8-year-old boy?  I am not being sarcastic.  Instead, I ask the question with complete fascination.  This man’s obvious enjoyment of seeing Spiderman was honest, pure, and very touching.  I looked around the gym then at all the muscle men working out around me and suddenly smiled at the little boys they must have been.  All these grown men were once little boys who played war games and dreamed of being superheroes.  For the first time, I suddenly saw beyond the muscles and witnessed the hopes and dreams of the little boys within.  Suddenly, they weren’t “he-men,” but flesh and blood human beings with endless desires and aspirations.  As I watched them work out their muscles, I realized that some of their goals will be realized and others, like becoming Spiderman, will be locked somewhere in the imaginary “what if” section of their minds.

I was so grateful that this beautiful young man, and all the men at the gym today, reminded me how important it is to unlock that “what if” section and let the child within out to play.  I watched the men around me working out and realized how important it was to hold on to childhood dreams.   I thought about the reality of crushed dreams when things don’t always work out the way we planned.  These men are never going to be Spiderman, and I will never become Barbie.  But in the comprehension of childhood dreams, we find our humanity.  I watched these young men around me and witnessed their dreams with every grunt, breath, and lift of the weights.  They were setting goals and displaying enormous discipline….and who’s to say which dreams will come true.

I looked up at the man beside me as the segment ended.  He turned and shyly smiled at me before walking away.  I finished working out with the heavy weights.  My muscles felt tight and strong, but my heart had grown incredibly light.