I knew what she was thinking. I paused. I watched my therapist’s reaction. I took note of her intentional eye contact and the warmhearted turn of her mouth.

“Your life is a lot!” she compassionately said.

Except for in safe spaces, like a therapist’s office, I was taught to hide. I went to therapy years ago. I hid there too. I did not cry, except for on my last visit (true story). My therapist at the time, taught me about forgiveness, boundaries, shutting doors and respecting spaces. I really liked her. I was sad it came to an end.

Now back in therapy, I cry all of the time. I do not know if it was the look on her face. I do not know if it was the certainty that Dave was sitting by my side. I do not know if it is the actuality that I am getting older. Nonetheless, as I sat looking back, I choked up. Then I responded,

“Yes. It is a lot.”

I paused again. Then I thought, “instead of always talking sideways, or not talking until I blow, why don’t I just honor the trauma?”

So, buckled my proverbial seat belt, shut my mouth and let myself feel that moment.

I do not know if it was because she could see me take a deep, calming breath. (Probably. Body language is a great indicator.) Whatever her reason, she followed with,

“Beth, you definitely have all of that trauma,” (perhaps implying that “all that trauma” informs most of my decisions).

She is not wrong. And yes, Dave and I are in therapy. I only wish we had started therapy years ago. I love him. I love working things out with him. He is easily distracted. He is often steadfast and he is stubborn. He is also open, supportive and kind. I love how our therapist assures us we are good:

“You two are good. No. I mean that. You will get through the hard moments, because you are really good to each other.”

Our hard moments, or better, our particular boil is where our emotional paths meet. Meaning, even though our paths are different, Dave and I have similar snap-to-anger responses. We are calm until we are flooded (therapy term). Then we lose our respective shit. I will not expose Dave’s personal history here, or rather, I will only expose a smidgen. The smidgen I will offer is that Dave did not experience the crazy trauma I did (obviously). Nevertheless, he does have his stuff. Really, we all have our stuff. (IMHO) Dave, for instance, experiences a lot of anxiety due to clutter, chaos and inconsistency. We are also our pasts, right?

That is why I remember my empathetic reaction the first time I stepped into his parent’s house. I beheld rooms with stacks of organized groupings, including, but not limited to mail, opened and unopened, credit card statements, newspapers & magazines dating back years, little plastic clips, leftover napkins from all the restaurants, pens, rubber bands and other run-of-the mill clutter. Seconds after stepping into their home, I also have vivid memories of his parents telling me in no uncertain terms that I should not disturb their piles. After that, anytime I visited, they led with,

“Do not touch anything on that table (which meant all the tables and all of the counters). They are important! If I do not see that paper sitting there, I will forget.”

When Dave or I moved any of the piles, even a few inches, his parents, who I imagine were immediately overwhelmed, would 0-60-flip out, (which seemed strange because his parents are pretty even).

On the other hand, I am sure I drive them nuts. I am more Scandinavian Aesthetic: clear, open spaces and cool, neutral tones. I am energized by the balance between positive and negative space. As a result, I am very clean. I am intentional. Ask my family, (or my mother-in-law). I am certain they assume I lean toward a brutalist style. Meaning, with my lack of art on the walls, or really anything ornate, implies that I am stark, cold, heartless and obscure (obviously). They may not be wrong. Yet, in my defense, my mom is really clean; so was her mom. I grew up in Minnesota, the US’s epicenter for all things Scandinavian: Uff-Da! Honestly, I love the peace an uncluttered house provides. One could even argue that a clean house offers me respite from all the things I have worked to hide: my trauma.

As a result, I think I have made it pretty clear that when I see cluttered rooms, I panic. I do not like piles of shit giving birth to other piles of shit, or watching hairballs, dust bunnies, or half of last week’s sandwich suffocating under even more piles of shit. I think my need to live in visual calm, and his personal aversion to clutter may be one of the things that attracted Dave to me.

But although Dave does not like clutter, he still has a tendency to create it. The way his brain works, if something has been put in a drawer, it may as well have been cast into the lava at Mount Doom. So let’s just say that he wants to keep things in piles, out in the open, until they are properly dealt with. When we come to blows over his native urge to create a pile, then another one, I remind him, “Well, at least I help you keep it under control.” He agrees. Then usually follows with, “At least the inside of my drawers don’t look like yours.” He is not wrong. Lately, my drawers are much better. (But please do not look at my desk. It is my safe place, and yes, it is cluttered.)

Alas, time is an excellent teacher. Instead of wanting to fix someone else, I think time has helped me appreciate and respect that someone’s stacks of bills are anything but accumulations of shit. On the contrary, these purposeful piles of newspapers, mountains of treasured trinkets, and comforting Christmas trees (complete with empty, wrapped presents) left up all year, are just fine.

Be you, not how I judge you. It really does not matter if clutter is a way of dealing with the chaos of your inner world, or just a personal space preference. Similarly, I do not think it matters if my lack of clutter or adornment is simply a style preference, helps me relax, or actually saves my life. We have the agency to figure it out. Even in marriage, even in life, I get to be me and you get to be you.

Here I sit, singing Coldplay’s song, “Daddy.” I really like it. It is from their new album, “Everyday Life.” Apparently there is a SubReddit, which discusses Chris Martin’s explanation of the troubled paternal relationship explored through “Daddy’s” lyrics. I confess. I did not read the thread. There are also websites that deconstruct the song’s meaning, and its accompanying video, suggesting “the song shows the disconnection between a kid and her father in the music video.” I agree. The song is magnificently mournful. 

It is intentionally slow and measured, like a modern Pachelbel’s Canon, “Daddy’s” tempo is similarly achy beautiful. The song’s introspective pace offers me time to digest its provocative words:

“…Daddy, are you out there?
Daddy, why’d you run away?
Daddy, are you OK?

Look dad we got the same hair…”

My thoughts beat like a metronome. My mind drifts and I think,

“It is funny, just this morning I took a picture of Eli. From behind, his hair looks like mine, thick, medium blond, and a little wavy. In fact, if I were just taking a picture of his head, one could mistake him for me. Weird. I often tell Eli, ‘the one good thing I got from my dad is this awesome hair. Your hair is also fabulous. You can thank my dad.’”

Before I finish analyzing how genetics play into hair quality, I hear the next lyric:

“And Daddy it’s my birthday…”

In step, my mind meanders:

“About birthdays. I have no idea if my dad ever remembered my birthday. I remember spending my weekends with him. Most of the time I was left alone in his basement. My parents divorced when I was baby. He never thought I was his. I am not sure that his feelings ever changed. I do not know my dad. I do not think I ever did. I know his refrigerator was always stocked with V8 and Perrier. All the bottles were facing forward.”

“Daddy,” the song continues,

“But all I want to say
Is you’re so far away
Oh, you’re so far away
That’s OK
That’s OK
That’s Ok…”

“That’s not ok!” I literally say out loud.

My mind continues serpentining its way between Coldplay’s lyrics and my own life story. As if we, the song and I, are now talking. I respond,

“I am not sure it is ok that my Dad is far away. We were never close.” I continue. “Yes, well, maybe it is ok that he is far away. Maybe it is ok that I have nothing to say. He had heart surgery once, a triple bypass. I thought he would die. I am surprised he didn’t. His own heart broke more than twenty years ago. For him, my heart stopped beating years before. In truth, except for the random bits my sister tells me, I do not know him. I am not sure I never will. He is almost eighty. I know that because my mom just turned seventy-nine. His third wife recently sent me a Christmas card with their picture. Kyle and Eli were like, ‘wow mom, you really look like your dad.’ My mom disagrees.”

“Daddy,”

Won’t you come and won’t you stay?
One day
Just one day.”

The song stops. I do not want it to end so I start it again:

“Daddy, are you out there?
Daddy, won’t you come and play…”

Here is where Coldplay’s lyrics and my own thoughts depart: I don’t want my dad to stay. My own kids are grown. They have a dad who is connected and who loves them. His name is Dave. I also know what it is like to suck it up and be the parent. I know what it is like to keep your kids upstairs and present, even in the uncomfortable breaths. I know what it is like to be there, even when ”there” is where you do not want to be. My dad dropped the ball. He kicked it in my face. Then he said it was all up to me. He is not a redemptive caricature in a Coldplay song. He is a man who married my mom long ago. I do not feel much, if anything. Should I?

Instead, I find my reliable rhythms in other spaces. Maybe that is why I have had a soft spot for Coldplay ever since I heard their song “Fix You.” At the time, I was trying to be a mom while stomping through my own infertility treatments and second trimester miscarriages, heartbreak after heartbreak. It never really goes. As a result, I  feel lonely, self-indulgent sobs every single time I hear those words:

“When the tears come streaming down your face
‘Cause you lose something you can’t replace
When you love someone but it goes to waste
Could it be worse?
Lights will guide you home
And ignite your bones
And I will try to fix you…”

I test my theory, search for the song in Spotify, and play it. Good grief. All these later, I am triggered. Thoughts of my Dad completely fade away, which is a  relief, by the way. Instead, “Fix You” lyrics transport me to SpongeBob, a nickname we called baby number three. I return to what I wrote when I was pregnant. At this moment, I want to feel that grief. I need to remember so as I read, I listen to the song. I am completely engulfed. I sob. I weep. Then, without any introduction, I text Dave the following from the post:

“I think this baby is ready for his code-name. Kyle and Eli had one. I think we should call him SpongeBob,” (after Kyle and Eli’s favorite show, cartoon character, etc).”

A few days later I miscarried.

“Goodbye SpongeBob. Even though we really didn’t have a lot of time to get to know you, we would have loved having you in our family. Hey, and every time we look at pictures from our trip to Capitol Reef, we will always remember that you were there with us. We are still so sad that you couldn’t continue to be a part of our family. Eli tearfully told me how sad he is that he isn’t going to be a big brother and then Kyle joined in and told me how sad he is that he isn’t going to be a double big brother. We will all miss you. We will always have the picture our friend took on the 4th of July. You can actually see my pregnant belly. When I look at that picture, I will always think of you. Goodbye little buddy. You will always be our SpongeBob.”

Here is Dave’s response:

Dave: [literally crying]

Grief comes in waves. I am done grieving a dad I never knew, a dad who chose to abandon me. I was done a long time ago. I will never stop grieving my unborn children. They had no choice. And now I grieve my sons who are leaving home. I grieve what would have been. I grieve all I have loved. I grieve what I do not know.

Life moves on. I am singing again. Eli has a snow day. He just walked into the office and told me about their sledding adventure. He quickly leaves,

“Bye mom. We are going out again.”

I catch my breath and think, “What was I writing about?” Coldplay’s song, “Daddy.”

Through my SpongeBob tears I remind myself that this is not going to be a Chris Martin, or Coldplay, love fest. I actually prefer the Avett Brothers. Nevertheless, Coldplay’s lyrics are evocative and the melody is really great. Well done, Chris Martin. I love where your music took me. Ultimately it is the tempo. It transports me every single time.

According to the Silicon Slopes Newsroom, “Silicon Slopes is the voice, hub, and heart of Utah’s startup and tech community.” Silicon Slopes Tech Summit began in 2017. I attended the summit on a free pass in 2018. I think that is the year Dave, my husband, and also a high tech product guy, and I saw the Neon Trees perform with our eldest son and his ex girlfriend. Then, in 2019, my husband and I attended a fancy industry party. While Dave networked close by my side, I spent my time revisiting the nice woman representing the Slack organization, where work happens, (even after her pitch was over), and when I somehow cornered Gavin Christensen, the founder of Kickstart Seed Fund, Utah’s most active tech investor. Gavin, (also my new BFF for the evening), and I spoke for nearly an hour. I blame the conversation on the literal corner we were standing in and the fact that I had nothing to pitch, which was probably quite a pleasant change of pace for a guy who’s constantly being pitched. That being said, he did promise to look out for me. My guess is he says that to everyone. In case he was actually serious, maybe he can fund my travel writing company. Wouldn’t it be weird if he did? I would call my company: CBTW, obviously for Cranky Bitch, I mean, Beth Travels the World.

Now it is 2020, Silicon Slopes’ fourth year. Later today, Mark Zuckerberg will be served up in a neutral-colored hoodie as the summit’s finale. Woot! At this moment, I am opting not to attend. I will let you know if that changes. Here is why: If I were to attend a Mark Zuckerberg tech summit, I would clearly be forced to pull out my sharpies and brush up on my Photoshop skills. “Why?” You ask. Well, I would surely have to make a bright neon orange poster stating the following:

“Mark Zuckerburg, YOU and your FACEBOOK, with your dissemination of bottom-feeding Fake News, is rotting our elderly relatives’ brains!”

Wait! I know. No one would actually read my long-worded poster. Three-quarters of the way to finishing said prolific poster, I would also realize that my sentiment is lost, get frustrated and be forced to spend the next few hours figuring out how to shorten my message, never an easy task for a rambler such as myself. Then I would undoubtedly imagine that maybe I would be chosen to ask Mark a question, which would definitely place me in an anxiety-spiral as I tried to compose the best question. I am sure my question would be something like,

“Mark Zuckerberg, why do you continually allow Facebook to be weaponized for dissemination of false information?”

In a heightened panic, I would rush to finish my new, neon green poster (I already ruined the orange one). I would cover said poster with the following words:

“Mark Zuckerberg, you sold your soul and ruined truth as we know it!”

Right. I am thinking the same thing. It is too much. I will stay home. 

Alas, yesterday, I actually did attend the Silicon Slopes Tech Summit. Dave procured me a pass and texted me to come on down. I did. Now in my car, I almost heeded the “Our Parking Lot is Full,” sign at the Salt Lake City, City Creek shopping center. Instead, I drove into the “full” parking lot, which is located across the street from the Salt Palace Convention Center, the site of Silicon Slopes. I grabbed a parking ticket. (“Grabbing” my parking ticket entails putting my car in Park, unbuckling my seat belt, opening my car door to actually reach the parking ticket.) As I did all of these things, I worried I was not fast enough and that the little parking lot arm thingy would fall down on my hood. It didn’t. With the parking ticket in my purse, I drove right to our usual City Creek Mall parking spot.

Somewhere between greeting me at the West Temple entrance, which is adjacent to Nordstrom, and eating a not very lemony lemon cookie, Dave mentioned he wanted to attend a 4:15pm panel. We had just enough time to walk the vendor booths. I remember the days of sitting in one of those booths, trying to convince the consumer that ShopSite was the way you could commerce-enable your company website. 

As we walked, Dave encouraged me to network. I wanted to say, “network this, Dave.” Then realized I had nothing for him to network. So instead, I refused to make eye contact with my husband. I smiled at the lady recruiting people for the food bank service project. My eyes also wandered to a booth that contained a very large bowl of lifesaver white peppermint candy. I already imagined myself projecting all of my anxieties as I chomped through the entire bowl. Consequently, I urged Dave to grab me and I quote, “a bunch.” He turned and walked toward the bowl. He came back with two. “What?” I am still upset.

Subsequently, Dave spent an unduly amount of time speaking with some sort of e-commerce company. She said something about how their company is special because not being B to B, but B to C. Dave seemed more interested in the cookies. I know this because as Dave listened to the woman’s pitch, someone tried to grab a cookie. Out of nowhere Dave blurted,

“They look really lemony. They are not very lemony.”

In a disconnected flash, I found myself only about six minutes late, listening to Mark, Harry, Matt and Sagi. Their panel: Digital Consumer Experience. As I listened to Harry Kraemer use Mark’s name over and over just like Dale Carnegie would recommend in his book “How To Win Friends and Influence People,” I thought to myself and then said to Dave, “Oh my God! Harry Kraemer, former CEO of Baxter Healthcare, well done on using Mark’s first name at least seventeen times in the last thirty seconds.” Wait. Who is Mark? I was confused. I look around. I look at the speaker’s faces. Mark must be here, but Mark is not listed on the speaker list. 

Then Harry, literally said, “If you are self reflective and self aware, you won’t be surprised,” but I am surprised. Harry, who is Mark?

Another panelist continues,

“I went to Davos. I got to speak with Bill Gates, Nelson Mandela and Jeff Bezos, (speaker pronounces his  name like, Bee-Zohs),” said by Mark. “Mark, you are real.” I thought to myself. 

Now that I know Mark is real, I listen more intently. I think Matt is discussing how he hates the word “partnership.” He has his own buzzword. Because I was immediately distracted by the three times he used the word “grit,” I cannot remember Matt’s personal buzzword. Again I think, “Oh grit, you are so 2015.” Next I hear the words: inertia, domain, expertise, flywheel, culture and Harvard. I think Matt mentioned Harvard, but I am not sure he attended Harvard. “Risk averse.” Hold up. Risk averse is an old school buzzword. “And yes, Matt, I am completely risk averse. Remember me refusing to network not even ten minutes ago?”

Then Harry pivots back. He introduces what he sees are the four principles to success. Here  they are:

• Self reflection
• Balanced perspective: flexible
• True self confidence (Meaning, you are not a con.)
• Genuine humility.

Before I push back, I have to admit that I have thought about these four principles since they left his lips. They are good. I agree that we are better humans, especially if we can behave with humility, truth, confidence and balance. Now the pushback. It is like Harry believes he has discovered some secret truth, that if we pause, consider the nuance, the perspective and our feelings, that we will have better success. Further, Harry states that he looks for these principles when he tries to hire. And that is when I literally say out loud,

“Here is a thought, how about hiring more women?”

Women already know how to tap into their feelings.”

Ah, women. That brings me to the panel Dave and I almost entered (twice). The panel is in the Women in Leadership track, and called, “Change your mind to change your life: 6 Happiness Tools.”

The first time we tried to enter, the ticket scanner lady was wearing a pink shirt. Yes. The bright pink shirt terrified me. I caught my judgey breath and looked into the room. The rooms was also adorned in pink. I wanted to be open and was even close to entering. Then I made the mistake of asking Dave about the speaker.

“She runs a yoga studio.”

(Insert my hand over my face human emoji here). I had a low scale GOOP flashback. You know, GOOP, Gwyneth Paltrow’s modern lifestyle and wellness brand. GOOP also has a new docu-series on Netflix, called the, “Goop Lab:”

“It’s goop HQ’s worst-kept secret: Gwyneth is both our CEO and our bravest guinea pig. That open-minded ethos is adopted by staffers, too—if you’ve watched The goop Lab on Netflix, then you get it. We love being vulnerable and asking difficult questions and trying new things. It’s our job.”

Shout out to Netflix. You were also at Silicon Slopes. Dave wears his Netflix swag (a baseball cap) well. The other day I watched about fifteen minutes of Netflix’s, “Goop Lab.” It was like a fresh, warm plate of perfectly salted french fries. I loved it. I was not sure it was good for me. I could not stop eating, I mean, watching. I felt like a voyeur in a world I would never be invited to join. It was like a Park City Yoga Class, where I was the only one wearing yoga pants from Walmart. I was an imposter. Looking in on that Women in Leadership panel made me feel the same. 

Ok. Truth. None of us are as perfectly blond, cool, pretty, thin or as cleansed as Gwyneth Paltrow. How could we expect to be the world’s bravest guinea pig? That’s Gwyneth’s job. We are, at best, low scale Goop. This was about the moment I realized that I was in a shitty mood. So instead of turning my frown upside down,  and sitting in the Women in Leadership panel with an open heart and a good attitude, I thought of my own six ways to be happy: 

1. Cake 
2. Make sure my second born son goes to college & does not get his girlfriend pregnant.
3. Give me, I mean, Dave some sort of gadget that translates my words so my husband understands them.
4. Guarantee that my eldest son will no longer get stuck with a middle seat.
5. Take me on a walk (and talk to me).
6. Send me on a trip, in Business Class.
Namaste

Instead, I went with my dude back to the dude panel. Sure, there were other women in attendance. That being said, four women, one by one, exited the room as I took notes. Hey and sure, it is also a little disingenuous listening to men describe the four keys to success when from my humble experience, women have had those keys all along. Further, it is hilarious to listen to a man describe how introspection and understanding your own feelings actually help in business. Duh!

While I was spinning out, I heard Dave laughing. Matt’s feelings talk is resonating with Dave. Wow. I hear things like,

“You can’t run and you are moments away from trashing your reputation…Instead, be straight. Be upfront so those moments will not happen.” Matt proclaims, and Matt is not wrong.

I continued to listen,

“If you know what you are good at, stay focused on that. Don’t overreach.” Harry states. Wait. I actually like their message. 

I was engaged exactly when they opened the panel to questions. Instead of saying something I shouldn’t, I decide to sit on my hands and use my scarf to tie my mouth shut. Here is what I wanted to say:

“Hey Harry. I really enjoy your 4 ways to a successful company. They really resonate with me. Yet it’s like you, Harry, you think you men have invented the nuance-wheel. Here is a thought: Maybe if men would have listened to women years ago, the corporate world would be a better, more successful, more confident, honest and nuanced place because women  would have taught the business world these intuitive and insightful feelings years ago. Just a thought.”

As I was struggling  for self control, people asked questions. I was quickly bored (again), others left. I still wanted to ask my question, yet I recognized that even though my question may shake things up, it would undermine the intent, and I think the intent was actually good. Instead, I decided to use some grit. I exercised some self reflection (Harry’s point number 2) and opened up my Pokémon app. I whispered to Dave, “Maybe there’s a gym nearby.” 

As the panel ended, the skies parted. I finally get it. See, it was actually a three person panel, a panel with a moderator. The moderator, well, that would be Mark. 

Earlier today I met my wonderful friend for our semi-regular walk. I love our walks. They remind me that I am sane. They fill my heart with validation. In this strange, strange world, they affirm that I am not alone. Thank the stars for these walks. 

Lately our walks are much less ambitious than the climbs we used to take to places such as the promontory where the local High School’s Initial is painted on a stone face. These days our walks typically lead us to our local Starbucks. The path we take is underwhelming at best. Considering the crazy, wide intersection we have to cross, it is also a little treacherous. I enjoy these walks as much as I enjoy walking in the woods, along a beautiful ocean path, or climbing to the highest point in a new city. 

Nearly to our destination, we crossed the crazy strip mall entrance, avoiding oncoming cars. (There is no crosswalk. I think it is because the strip mall entry is actually not meant to be crossed, at least not on foot.) We made our way down a little hill, then walked along the Starbucks drive through, trying to avoid the cars that did not see us. As I was balancing on the curb, my friend slid down the muddy hill next to me proclaiming, 

“I think I am going to walk behind you.”

She did. 

We passed the drive through window, hopped over another curb, entered the coffee shop, and approached the counter. My friend ordered, found a table and probably wondered what happened to me. Here is what happened to me: I am conditioned to get the best deal. I remembered that my Cash App might be offering 1$ off at Coffee Shops. I knew  Dave would be happy about my responsible attention to detail. So, before I ordered, I was determined to make sure there was enough cash in my Cash App. There was not. So I had to figure that out too. It took me a minute of me texting Dave back-and-forth. Totally worth a dollar, right? (I’m still on the fence.) 

Then I ordered my usual drink: Venti Green Iced Tea, Unsweetened, No Water, Light Ice. I just want straight green iced tea. I want to order iced tea and have the barista put a few ice cubes in a cup. Then fill the rest with green tea. Nope. To get the tea the way I want it, I have to deconstruct Starbucks’ standard way of making it: (1. Pour tea up to line in the cup. Pour ice enough to fill to the next line. Add water to the next line. Add sweetener. Then dump the mixture into a shaker and shake. Dump mixture back into cup. Then add ice to fill the cup. Yes! That is a lot of ice and a lot of water.)

You are probably wondering, 

“That was a lot of unnecessary detail.”

What you actually may be wondering is, 

“Well, if that is what you want, why don’t you just say I would like Green Ice Tea?” 

Believe me, I have tried to ask for straight green iced tea. Once a barista in a Starbucks that was located in a grocery store made me a matcha green tea latte instead. She charged me the latte price and would not take my drink back. Then she scolded me relentlessly for not knowing what iced tea is. 

“A Matcha Tea Latte is not green tea!” She shrieked. 

I tried to keep my cool. 

“Um, that is why I asked for regular green iced tea. I have been ordering iced tea for years.” I responded. 

All the other times I tried to order a simple green iced tea, the sweet baristas simply short circuited. Then like a broken robot chanting, “Does not compute. Does not compute,” they asked me to repeat my order. Bless their hearts.

Today I saw that my order was wrong. I grabbed my tea anyway. I looked at the approximately 78 – 101 ice cubes. I laughed out loud and said to another barista while pointing at all the ice cubes, 

“This is not light ice.”

At that, the sweet, pink-haired barista offered to make me a new one. Instead, I said, “the same thing happened the last time I was here. The girl insisted it was light ice.” I paused. I smiled. I made eye contact. Then I said, “I will drink this one and get a refill.”

Here is what I wanted to say: 

“I have been ordering this drink for fifteen years now. I know what light ice and no water looks like. Don’t get me started on how stupid it is to say, ‘no water in a drink that is 99.9% water.’ And unless you are my mother-in-law, who considers a block of ice with a teaspoon of water to be the perfect ice-to-water ratio, then this is not light ice.”

Alas, I did not unload. That would be rude. I took my tea and walked away. 

Before I sat down, I noticed a girl that one of my boys dated. This girl was sitting within ear shot. I cryptically pointed to my friend and whispered,

“Maybe we should move to another table. That girl dated my son. And I also know her friend.”

“We should totally move.” My friend assented. 

At that, we were now sitting at a round table about fifteen feet from the first. 

As my friend and I talked about my life falling apart, how I think I completely suck as a parent, that I cannot seem to connect cohesively with my husband, and that my inability to feel grounded in any sort of direction is making me really sad, I stared, fixed on my iced tea. 

“There is more ice than tea. I will be done with this in no time.” I laughed.

“That’s how they want it.” She said, and followed compassionately with something like, “It’s a total rip off.”

She is correct.

The ice filled 75% of the cup. The tea was almost the color of water. I began snapping photo after photo of my Venti Green Iced Tea, Unsweetened, No Water, Light Ice. For like three seconds focusing on my ice imbalance gave me purpose. For a fleeting three seconds, I had a pure, unadulterated cause: righting the ice in my green iced tea.

I laughed and said, “Last time I was here, they did the same thing. I think they auto-piloted my drink. I think most people auto-pilot life. It’s easier. We live in a world that does not listen. While the other person speaks, we are at best thinking about how we are going to respond. We are distracted. Understandably, there is also so much input: Facebook, Snapchat, Twitter, Reddit, Instagram, Tik Tok, Fox News… There is a lot to keep up with. We do not pause. It is hard to remain present. And when we are present, no one seems to care. And they fill your cup with like 700 ice cubes. It is not personal. It is what it is.” Noticing I was getting ahead of myself, and because I mentioned that fact that people do not pause, I actively made myself pause. Then I took a breath, and said, “I am so glad you listen. I am really grateful you care.”

“I am sure you are right about our world. It is nice to have a friend.” She kindly responded.

Life is not happy, nor is it completely dark. Life is hard. Life is breathless. Life is joy. From one second to the next life is connected and wonderful and the next it is soul crushing. I am often not sure what to do. I have lived far too many years living life so other people would like me. I have lived far too many years stepping back and stepping out of the way. When Dave says, “WHAT DO YOU WANT TO DO WITH YOUR LIFE? I usually get flustered and proclaim, “I DO NOT KNOW.” Now at least I often add, “I DO NOT KNOW BECAUSE I AM THINKING OF EVERYONE ELSE. GIVE ME A SECOND. I WILL GET THERE.”

I am not a martyr. Thinking of everyone else kind of protects me from risking being me, you know what I mean? I am sure that is why I have lived my life trying to use the right words, trying to advocate diplomatically, trying to use the damn Cash App to save a dollar in an attempt to make my husband happy. I also really love the positive feedback looking out for others brings me.

Alas, when I do catch my breath and when I do attempt to claim my space, I feel totally exposed and insecure. These days I wonder if it is too late. Ageism is definitely a thing, a thing that now gets into my head. But mostly I get in my own way. I always have. It has been a hard lesson to learn. I understand that performing and pleasing does not work, or better, is not sustainable. I see now that I will always let you down. In truth, I do not think it really matters. I hope I have not wasted my life stepping out of the way, or stepping aside. I should have remained in the car in Athens. I should trust my judgement, even when it completely goes against the flow. Ultimately, I hope it is not too late to ground myself and stand in my own space. I am not sure I even know what my own space looks like. 

And for today, I hope my boys do not hate me. I hope I have not failed them. I hope they soar. I also hope we remain close. I hope Dave and I can figure each other out and forgive each other more. I hope I do not give up on me. I hope I do not become a cup filled with too much ice because I am too disconnected to read the instructions. Seriously, I do not want to be an ice block. Cold ice hurts my teeth.

I set a high bar. Maybe that is why the hope for something more terrifies me. I want to get it right. I want to live without regret or anger. I want to get it with love.

Oh hey, and please take a listen to this song, “No Hard Feelings,” by the Avett Brothers. It says it all:

“…When my body won’t hold me anymore
And it finally lets me free
Where will I go?
Will the trade winds take me south
Through Georgia grain or tropical rain
Or snow from the heavens?
Will I join with the ocean blue
Or run into the savior true
And shake hands laughing
And walk through the night
Straight to the light
Holding the love I’ve known in my life
And no hard feelings
Lord knows they haven’t done
Much good for anyone
Kept me afraid and cold
With so much to have and hold
Under the curving sky
I’m finally learning why
It matters for me and you
To say it and mean it too
For life and its loveliness
And all of its ugliness
Good as it’s been to me
I have no enemies
I have no enemies
I have no enemies
I have no enemies.”

There I was, sitting in the windowsill. Everyone was laughing. I was laughing with them. I was home from my first semester of college, and by college, I mean Brigham Young University, a conservative, religious institution with strict rules of moral conduct. BYU students are routinely kicked out for having premarital sex, drinking alcohol, “exhibiting homosexual behavior,” and for various other moral transgressions. Combine my current educational experience with my years of swallowing doctrine and internalizing my own personal guilt quilt, and all my physical walls were up and my doors were triple locked. 

As a result, I was indoctrinated into the belief that all men are predators. And by predators, of course, I mean they are technologically-advanced extraterrestrial hunters that bleed luminescent green blood. If I interacted with said predator, I would obviously get pregnant. As such, even touching this man-beast, even say letting him comb my hair (because all men want to comb women’s hair, right?), I would arouse him and I’d ultimately be responsible for whatever happened. Seriously, folks, this is the cautionary story a BYU religion teacher told the class. Something about random students sitting on the grounds of the Provo, Utah Mormon temple. As they sat on their blankets, the boys were obviously combing the girls’ hair. And as the combed the beautiful locks, the boys became aroused (obviously). This totally weird story only served to reenforce my firmly held belief, which was that touching men or letting a man touch me, even in the most seemingly innocent way, would cause us both to sin.

Once I had aroused the predator, my actions clearly would cause both he (the predator) and me (the provocative prey) to be thrust straight into hell, or better, be called out by a BYU peer-informant, and then excommunicated from our church — which really seemed worse than actually going to hell. Then (and if you are still following), sprinkle in a little childhood sexual abuse, and me being the youngest child (meaning plenty of opportunities to witness my older sibings’ makeout sessions), so I promise you, no one was unlocking my kissing doors, or any other part of my body. 

For proof of my deadbolt status, just ask the boy from that one church dance. Finally, at the end of the night, he put his arm around me, held his face close to mine, leaning in like he was going to tell me a secret. Then he promptly stuck his tongue into my ear. He actually did whisper,

“Beth, you have been flirting with me for months. You told me you liked me and wanted to kiss me. What’s up?”

(Ok. In fairness to consent, I did tell him I wanted to kiss him — and I had been telling him this for months.) And he should have asked me before sticking his slimy tongue into my ear. YET, the bottom line is this: Go easy on him. He was respectful, and I did want him to kiss me. 

There were other boys I wanted to kiss. So in response to these cute boys and slimy-tongue guy, I say the words I could not say back then:

“Please know that the stakes were way too high. I really really wanted to kiss you. I thought about it. I even practiced kissing you on the side of my hand. In truth, I had no idea how to get past my firm belief that touching you would arouse you, arousing you would be my fault and that we would both go to hell — again because of my carnal desires. Forgive me.” 

That is why I knew that all men were sharks. Naturally, all logic told me that the water I was standing in was only two feet deep. You cannot trick me. I was also told about hell and sin and unwanted pregnancy. And when I learned about hell, I learned that you sharks would lead me there. It is true. Instead, you looked more like a cute koi fish, but I knew you were great whites, at least that is what I had been told. You sharks can kill me, (or at least make me lose my eternal salvation). Needless to say, here is what I was thinking way back when: right in the moment, you know that moment when your eyes lock with mine, as you move your face closer to mine, all the while holding me closer, thoughts consume and circle round me. In the tone of a very inexperienced Lady MacBeth, I think, “Out damn spot!” I feel evil and am now convinced you are too. My thoughts swim, “maybe tongue-in-my-ear dude and the rest of you cute koi boys, well maybe, you are sharks. Are you a shark? Yes. You are cute. I want your lips to touch mine. You cannot fool me. I know you are a shark. You will eat me and it will be my fault.” The moment is gone. I pull away — afraid. As you walk me to my car, or shout to me from your dorm window, I nervously giggle and tell you, “let’s kiss tomorrow,” and we never do.

I only wish my kissing fears had started with these cute boys (sharks). They did not. I told you it was a long road. I have three older sisters. All three of them, (at least from my [young] vantage point), knew how to hold hands and offer affection. They were kissing pros. Additionally, they had perfect hair, well placed teal blue eye liner and hickies they could cover with heart turtlenecks. In fact, I spent many years idolizing their smooth moves and cool ways. Often, because we had this rule that you could not date until you were sixteen, I was the third wheel on their dates. Yes, I was the instrument that enabled my parents to feel safe about my sisters being alone with boys. What this meant is that I spent many of those “dates” hanging out, and obscuring myself while said sister and her boyfriends made out. As I tried not to watch, I was always horrified when I caught a glimpse of the occasional tongue or passionate grasp. And honestly, I was not horrified by what they were doing. I was horrified about my ability to measure up: how would I be able to perfect these moves with such skill and finesse? “Daunting.” I thought. I was daunted! 

Let me roll the clock back a little further. There I was. I had just finished the sixth grade. There was a pool table set up in our garage. Somehow the neighbor boy and I were also alone in this very garage. I had been told (I am not positive if it is true), that he had “dated” my two older sisters. He was a year older than me. I knew he liked Elvis and hot rods. I was impressed that he “dated” older women (my sisters). At the end of our game he said,

“Beth, I want to be your boyfriend.”

I was like, “Um, yes. Totally.”

Then I said something totally smooth (NOT) about keeping our love in the family. I stood by the door that led into the house. As the words left his mouth, then mine, I quietly freaked out. I knew the phrase, “my boyfriend” meant we had to kiss. I wish you could feel my fear. Imagine a great white coming at you (those who have been bitten by sharks, please forgive my insensitive analogy). Ok. You are in the middle of the ocean. Your leg is bleeding. You know the shark will get you and bite your freaking leg off. That is how I felt as my new “boyfriend” edged closer. I really wanted to kiss him (even at age 12), but how? Instead I bolted for the door and ran into the house, I never kissed him, even when he tried. Eventually, I think we broke up, or better, we stopped speaking. He was actually very nice. I remember when I was like 6 or 7, he made me cinnamon toast and then we (age-appropriately) hung out in his tent. 

As all my included evidence suggests, I was terrified of men. In all seriousness, I was actually terrified about what I had been taught about men. Regardless of the input-pathway, I started to believe that men would get me pregnant, make me sin and lead me to hell (or the lowest kingdom of glory and I would never ever see my family again). As a result, it felt more comfortable hanging out and opening up to women. Women were never sexualized. I was never told a woman would get me pregnant or cause my eternal damnation. I also never had to worry about kissing them. Though my first college roommate, years later expressed, (well her partner, now wife, proclaimed), that my roommate once had a huge crush on me. I loved her. She was rad (still is). I thought we were friends. I did not want to kiss her. It never occurred to me. And because it was not sexual, she felt safe. I only wish I had also felt safer with men.

While many of my high school friends were having sex for the first time, I was eager to have my first kiss. Alas, as my title suggests, I finally did. There I was. Back home during the break after my first semester of college. My high school best friend had invited me to a party. She was attending the Minneapolis College of Art and Design, which I will declare is the antithesis of Brigham Young University. Instead of moral codes and fears of hell fire and damnation, there were coed dorms, cigarette butts in the hallways, liberal expressions and progressive ideas. At this party, there were drugs, alcohol and clove cigarettes. 1980’s alternative band, The Cure’s, “Boys Don’t Cry” was playing in the background. I caught someone’s eye. I did not know him. He had beautiful curly brown, shoulder-length hair. I think my friends called him “Chuckles,” either because he laughed a lot or maybe his name was Charles. I really do not remember. He was attractive, but not intimidatingly so. He had been drinking. I did not drink. As we talked he asked if I wanted to go to his house. He lived just down the street. He was also a student and seemed to know many of the same people my friends did. I was blinded by my commitment to have my first kiss before I turned nineteen. Thus, I dove in head first, took a deep breath and went with him. Honestly, his house was cool. It was an old victorian with beautiful wooden floors. Once inside the living room, he showed me his record collection. It was massive. Like he had over 2,000 albums on vinyl, or at least that is what I imagine. Like a line out of a cheesy RomCom, he said he wanted to play me his favorite song. I don’t expect you to know it. I will never forget it. It is from the band This Mortal Coil. The title of the song is “Song to the Siren.” I heard the needle scratch and the music began to play. The music was angsty, stunning and beautiful. He walked up to me. I felt panicked. We locked eyes. Then I looked away. Of course my mind was flooded with thoughts about sharks and hell and predators. I really wanted to run. Instead, I willed myself in place. He moved closer. He looked at me and told me I was pretty. He held my face and said he liked talking with me. I was terrified. Then he put his mouth to mine and inserted his tongue. I almost collapsed.

“What do I do? No. Really? What do I do? Am I doing it right?” I thought.

He gently and clumsily moved his tongue around. I did the same. He did not complain. Consequently, I imagined everything was ok. Eventually my panicked subsided and kissing began to feel nice. 

After about twenty minutes, I knew he wanted to go further. I wanted to go back to the party, so we did. He did not bite my leg off. He did not get me pregnant. He did not hassle me. He was kind. He was respectful. It was nice. No. It was actually lovely. It was perfect.

I never saw him again.

Perspective, happy and healthy perspective of self, is not always easy to maintain, especially in a world where we arguably present (via social media), a false, or only partial version of our self. I have totally bought into this digital narrative. In fact, instead of having to deal with real-life, day-to-day me, I often wish I could steal my online persona and staple it to my face.

To support this claim, I would like to share the following: Recently someone offered to take my picture. This woman stared and stared and stared some more. She cranked her neck and strained her head just so. Then, in a voice where you know she pretended to sound like she had really thought about it, first, and as she cleared her throat, I swear I heard a long grunt followed by a stilted, “Ewwwww.” Finally, she proclaimed,

“Ah Beth, you are just not pretty from every side. In fact, you really do not have many good angles. You are going to be a tough one to photograph.”

Ouch!

Needless to say, there were no photos taken that day. And really, where are those perfect selfie shots when I need them? On that day I could have fooled this woman, printed some cute selfies and then and glue-gunned them to my head. She would not have been-the-wiser, and I would not have had to think about all those hideous angles.

Anyway and moving on, last week in an effort to expose my cloaked-inner-self and not to expose my apparently partially-ugly face, I showed (via a text message) a trusted friend my writing. Here is how it happened: He suggested we start up a local writing group. He is a published writer, a great musician and someone I admire. Consequently, I was thrilled that he was interested in writing with me. It seemed a natural part of our conversation for me to share some writing samples.

After reading my essay, (apparently on his drive from Salt Lake City to Provo Canyon, but after the Smith’s grocery store in Heber), he sent me a text wherein he said and I quote,

“Kind of makes me think of Erma Bombeck on steroids.”

You may (or may not) recall that Erma Bombeck was a humorist, who had a popular newspaper column (remember those?). In fact, here is what Wikipedia states:

“From 1965 to 1996, Erma Bombeck wrote over 4,000 newspaper columns, using broad and sometimes eloquent humor, chronicling the ordinary life of a midwestern suburban housewife. By the 1970s, her columns were read twice-weekly by 30 million readers of the 900 newspapers in the U.S. and Canada.”

Holy crap! If I could have 30 weekly readers, I would be elated. Ok. About the “steroids” comment, my immediate impulse thought was, “huh, why steroids?” Thankfully, he may have anticipated said impulse thought and without skipping a word or making me wait minutes for another text all the while watching those damned three grey dots trapped in a text bubble, he clarified and said,

“Or maybe a better way to put it is a more genuine or more easy to relate to version of Erma Bombeck.” Wow! That was very cool. Thank you, friend.

Here is the thing: I feel more like the photographer’s comment and less like my friend’s kind text.

I wish I felt differently.

I wonder who else feels this way. Do any of you? Do you ever feel like you have to hide your authentic self, or part of that authentic self, to be loved, or better, to be accepted? In fact, I arguably save the best version of me for social media, or really, any public event. You do not see wrinkles, crooked nose (because I also know how to angle and tilt my head just right), arguments with my husband or kids. You do not see my loneliness as my son leaves for college, my dysfunctional family history (that still impacts my day-to-day choices as a middle-aged woman), my complicated relationship with my mother-in-law, and you definitely do not see me sleeping past 10:00 AM, because, really, what is the point? I have learned that when I do show myself I make my mom sad, my mother-in-law thinks that I have made her son a Liberal Atheist, my friends get annoyed or embarrassed, and others think I do not have any problems, so why steal someone else’s needed thunder? Instead, I should keep my [insert favorite expletive here] mouth shut. In defense of the “others,” I kind of portray my life (at least online) as it were charmed, happy, bliss. In fact, what I present to you are safe and pretty travel photos, non-offensive comments and boring neutrality. That is why I get that they want me to keep my little blond (because I color the grey) mouth closed.

Ultimately, as a way of reconnecting real-life-me with the mask-I-present-to-the-world me, I decided to start writing more regularly (I always say that), and then I get sidetracked or afraid (totally chicken). Alas, here I am. This time back I have decided to write more often (selfishly) in an attempt to find myself.

And by exposing myself I mean, like my real self, I will try to show my truth. I will try to live by what I encourage the boys to do. I often tell them:

“Be You!”

I will try to be more transparent and convey things for starters like I am not sure I believe in God, but I like to pray. Life is good. I love my husband fiercely. Dave is my best friend. I force him to go on walks with me daily and I long for our daily walks. Even though I love to be married and married to him, sometimes I get caught off guard with the occasional and totally odd crush (current crush: Jemaine Clement). Then I tell Dave about said crush. He entertains me and we move on. Then there are our sons. I also love them fiercely. I think they are amazing and totally rad. I am in awe of them and wonder how they are ours. I do not always get along with them. Sometimes Dave thinks I am driving them away and says so. Then I cry — a lot. I have even been known to tell the boys they were acting like assholes and/or babies. Before Kyle left for college last week, I said he was acting like both. He said I wanted him gone. I said I wanted him to stay. I told him sometimes it is hard, that I love him and that I like him (even in these dark moments). Then I apologized for calling him an asshole and a baby. Honestly, I try to be a parent while respecting who they are. Sometimes that balance is rough. I love a good apology and I am happy to give one. I love to forgive, even when things are really bad. Really. I really love to forgive. I definitely prefer justice over duplicity, hypocrisy, fraud, and status, fame, or popularity-seeking. I am attracted to integrity and try to live with integrity. I am definitely struggling. That is why I am trying to show my (real) face here. Yikes! I definitely screw up and often. I hate getting old. I hate my flabby upper arms I always have. I wax. I love sex and enjoy talking about sex. I know that makes others uncomfortable, so I don’t talk about sex, except to Dave (and sometimes my friend, Beth — yes, she is a real person). Innuendo is great! It was both hilarious and a little disturbing when the boys picked up on one of my “nudge, nudge, wink wink comments.” Then I stopped making those comments (at least in front of them). I worry way too much about what others think. I think today I even stressed about why my friend did not text me back. I pretend to be way more Mormon than I really am. I do this to fit in. I also hate to offend my LDS friends and family. Ironically (or not so), I totally miss my LDS community. I do not drink alcohol. I do drink green tea and lots of it. In fact, I am still annoyed with my friend who held a leadership position in the church. Years ago he was interviewing me for an LDS temple recommend. He asked if I felt good about how I was living. I responded, “yes,” (because I actually did feel good about how I was living). Then he said, “Well Beth, I know you drink green tea and that is against the Word of Wisdom (Google it).” I responded that I still feel good about how I am living. That was the very last Temple Recommend I ever received. True story. If I could, I would travel every single day. (You probably know that already.) I don’t get jealous, except for when it comes to travel. Then I get weirdly jealous. In fact, I get jealous of other people’s trips even when I’m currently on a trip myself. I am happy and I often get very sad. I have a short temper and can be insufferably patient. I have great friends and often feel lonely. I am an oxymoron. It is my truth. And yes, I still weep regularly about my infertility — even after all these years.

As far as writing (again), today is where I start. Let’s see how long this lasts and where it goes. I hope it sticks. (And let’s see if I can push through, even if I do not make everyone happy, even if I am not instantaneously liked, or liked at all — and at every angle .)