Low Rider

Low  Rider seemed to be the theme for the last few days.   It was one of the songs that Goatshank,  the band, played on the July 3rd picnic. Fellow band groupie and friend,  Debbie and I were amused how the meaning of the lyrics was probably escaping the largely upper white middle class crowd at the picnic.   Honestly, they escape me too and I'm not upper middle class.  Feeling low class is often a source of shame for me even after all these years and after all my life experience.   I've been feeling very low class.   Low also describes my mood.  The two lows seemed to be connected.

Going down to Mom's to celebrate the 4th and her birthday left me with an all too familiar empty feeling on the ride home.  My biological family and I are not close.  For the most part, we have a distant and usually polite acquaintance and little more.   There are rare moments when one or more of us might really connect as siblings but that is often followed my years of avoidance and awkwardness.  My mom will be 83 tomorrow and we still don't really feel comfortable with each other.

Over the years, I've tried to bridge the gap in a variety of ways.  Mom hasn't known how to build the bridge to meet me and so I've had to resign myself to what is.  It's no surprise that I don't do intimacy well which is why Just 10 has become so important in my own life and in the lives of my own family.  I want something different for my own children.

Which is exactly why I made time for Just 10 with my daughter several days ago.  She has changed so much in the last few months.  I've been hard on her.  When I remembered what it felt like for me to be 12, how much I wanted understanding and approval from my mother, I knew that I had to reach out to my daughter and be open and honest with her.  I needed her to know that I really like and value the person she is.  I needed her to know that it's hard for me to let go of the little girl that I knew, the one inside me and the one that's inside her.

Most importantly, I needed her to know that I do love and care for her but that sometimes I will fail to be the supportive and understanding parent that I want to be.  My daughter was obviously touched by my candor.  It also made her uncomfortable.  That is a feeling I know well, so I spared her further deep sharing and we chatted about songs on the radio.

Today, I began my walk with a heavy heart, threatening my neurotransmitters, telling them to kick the endorphins in high gear,  "I have a day to power through and I want to spare my children a grumpy mom. Get busy."  I took off for my Just 10 walk like a bolt out of  H-E-Double-Hockey-Sticks.

I couldn't run from how I felt so I had to run through it and review the events of the last few days.  I remember how on the ride home, I'd suddenly asked my husband, "Do you remember the last time you felt care free?"  His response, "Wow.  It's been so long ago.  I must have been a very young kid."  His answer was identical to my own.  I thought of how difficult the job of being a grown up is.  Part of me has been in serious rebellion against accepting the job.

Then I remember, the car talk with my husband, from the day before.  I shared a sudden insight.  As we passed under the 130th Ave. overpass, I blurted out the following,   "As long as I fight against the simple truth that life really is a series of problems, one after another, the more miserable I make myself.  If I just go with the problem scenario, every thing gets easier."   I didn't know where that came from but apparently, I needed to hear it under the130th overpass.   It was something my head has long known but something my heart has struggled to accept.   I was still dealing with  the vestiges of that struggle on my walk this morning.
 
I kept up a vigorous pace.  I quickly arrived at my turning point.  The endorphins were beginning to lighten my mental burden.  I was sweating out some of the anger and frustration.  Simple resignation was slowly seeping through my veins.  And, then the final low rider analogy came to light.

As I passed the high school baseball fields, I became aware of an unusual sensation.  An article of clothing was no longer where it should be.   The article of clothing I wear closest to my body on my lower half was slowly, but surely heading south.  My first thoughts were "Oh Oh, now what?  Do I dare attempt to return it to its former position in public, in plain view of the other walkers, bikers and the traffic?  If I ignore it, will it soon hobble my walking?  Can I stop thinking about it?  Should I stop thinking about it?

Just as quickly, I came to the conclusion that such a wardrobe malfunction was evidence of my white trash nature.  This hurt.  To soothe the hurt, my better self came to the rescue.  I reminded myself that I was the product of centuries of simple, hardworking, salt-of-the-earth-type people.  They were not nobility but many had found nobility by embracing the simple realities of their lives.  I need not feel any shame at being peasant born.  I could feel proud.  So I did, low riding underwear, and all.  I returned home with a smile.