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By Misti Date: 2001 Dec 15 Comment on this Work [[2001.12.15.16.58.2014]] |
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I am ruled by a planet that rotates on its side. Uranus, it's called. I don't like the association. I will never have anal sex. I'm not freaky like that. I've often said that I'm a gay man trapped in the body of a woman. I copied that from a Madonna interview. But to a certain extent, I feel that it applies to me as well. When I was coming of age in a state that glorifies football and cheerleaders and beauty pageants and mocks literacy and the arts as so much pretension, I was more than a bit of a misfit. Awkward. Ugly Duckling Syndrome. Braces, no breasts, no social skills to speak of. I had a lot of black hair. I was not Britney Spears or even Christina Aguilera. I was not Buffy the Vampire Slayer or Sabrina The Teenage Witch or even Brenda from "90210." I tried to have sex when I was seventeen with the first guy I ever kissed. Didn't work. I'll spare you the details. Most Americans, weaned on "The Brady Bunch" and "Full House," would wince. But if I wasn't me, I'd laugh my ass off. There. Full circle. Anal...ass. I am not a gay man trapped in the body of a woman. I'm too squeamish. But what I meant by the association was that I didn't fit in and I tried too hard to advertise myself to people who channel surfed during the commercials. They weren't buyin' whatever I was sellin'...which was myself, basically. I was always immature/shy/weird/not bubbly. I was trouble. Who I was at fourteen/seventeen/twenty-one wasn't radically different from who I am now at twenty-eight. I still feel that I don't fit in. I still feel like an exotic animal living in a trashy zoo. I'm the bearded lady in the circus. If I wasn't me I wouldn't pay admission. I'd go to Best Buy, instead, and invest in the newest eighties compilation cd. My husband is the only man who has ever loved me in return. He has staying power. He knows exactly who I am and he loves me. I applaud him for that. Like Elvis, I have my ways. When I could be dressed and shining for the outlet mall or Wal-Mart, I'm in my boxers and t-shirt sitting at the computer writing a pseudo manifesto on my favorite three-syllable word. I need to lose weight. I need to rise and shine. I need to talk to my co-workers and swap recipes and hang out in the break room. But I write. And color. And paint. And cut. And glue. And laminate. And hide. If I had Elvis's moola, I'd be eccentric. I'd be a recluse. As it is, I'm just a weirdo makin' it to Friday. So what is ebullience, as I know it, and why do I pretend to have the market cornered? Ebullience is joy with its teeth gritted and fists clenched. I Am Going to Enjoy the Hell Outta My Life, Goddammit. I May Not Make A Million Bucks Because of It, but I Will WRITE and create and seek an Audience No Matter Where I Live or How Many Hours I Count Til Friday Night. I will get excited over stupid crap. Candy bars. Stickers. Toys. I will give my inner brat free reign. I will create and not apologize for it. I won't have a kid and live vicariously through my kid. I will live vicariously through me. I won't ask God for any more favors. I don't know him. He doesn't owe me anything. I won't count on my husband to hand me a happy life. I will hand it all to myself and grin and bear it. Share it. Wear it. Smile for the camera or flip the camera off. That is my manifesto. I'm not political. Sorry. And I have never drank brandy but I love classic rock ("More Than a Feeling"! Yesssss!)and when I smoke a lot of cigarettes I have a scratchy voice and I like nothing better than sitting in a cafe drinking coffee looking at old men, wondering what life has been like for them and if they're satisfied. I love walking on crunchy snow but it doesn't snow in this part of Texas. Every Friday night is a new imbroglio but Olive Garden makes the best dessert in the world (White Chocolate Raspberry Cheesecake, I think they call it)and I can hammer nails into the wall and hang my own paintings up in Dollar General frames and look at my art and say...Hot Damn. I Did That All By Myself. And I know no one else would buy it but I love it 'cause it's colorful and it's mine. I'm in a strange situation, a poor situation, but there's always room for one more in a chocolate factory. I appreciate my candor. I am egocentric in the extreme and I'm feeling very festive, even though there's no decorated Douglas Fir in my walk-in closet size den. |