Life is a Highway

February 19th, 2006

We found ourselves at the Harley Davidson dealership today, completely confused, befuddled and perplexed as to how we got there. Sure, we live in Florida and one of the few, non-snooty, funny and even slightly down-to-earth things about this godforsaken land is that there are a LOT of Harleys and Harley-riders down here.

A lot. And they’re all in this weird clan where they wear excessive amounts of leather (chaps! there are CHAPS!) and talk about their bikes like many do of their children, and go to hang out at the dealership in droves to eat badly grilled high school cafeteria hamburgers and relish served by an overgrown Hooters waitress with frosted hair and a Harley tanktop.

It’s fabulous. Well, it was fabulous as Steve, “Call me Bud!” walked us around the lot, explaining in excruciating, yet fascinating detail, all of the differences between the various models, from the Sportster to the touring bikes that are large enough to carry you, me and all other people in the entire universe, plus their pets and luggage. And then, somewhere around the two and a half hour mark, when we couldn’t get “Call me Bud” to shut up, and we’d seen the entire Harley dealership, including the employee break room and gymnasium, and learned that all of the managers have an open door policy and gee, Bud REALLY loves his job at the Harley dealership, which is why we should love Bud AND buy a V-Rod or maybe a Softail bike or preferably his n’ hers bikes, it moved from fabulous to utterly excruciating. Especially considering we simply wandered over there from our pancake breakfasts at Perkins to enjoy the sunshine and idly gaze at some bikes.

It was around hour three that the mosquito crawled up my pants – jeans, for chrissake – and began devouring my flesh. While this is inherently annoying, it was when it hit somewhere near my bikini line that I thought I would die from the explosive explosions of bitey misery of giant bug bites all over my crotch. And worse? I was desperately trying not to dance around and act like there wasn’t a mosquito biting my vagina so as not to get “Call me Bud” to talk about ONE MORE THING, or worse, leave Adam to go to the restroom and come out to find that we’re now the proud owners of a giant touring Harley with custom rims. BUT THERE WAS, and it hurt, and you know, for the rest of the day – DAYS, I should say – I was and will be scratching my vagina in a desperate, futile attempt to quell the itching. Not to mention my legs. My poor legs. I’m sure it pleases you to know that I’ve got one hand down my pants scratching my crotchal area right now, save for occasional forays to the upper thigh. The mosquito, he wanted revenge for something.

But this really isn’t about a Harley, and it’s not about my pathetically itchy crotch. And it’ s not about “Call me Bud’s” irritatingly successful hours-long sales pitch that has resulted in a full-fledged campaign from Adam for a Harley. Because I promised long ago not to write about him, I won’t go into the hilarity of this simple concept that, despite it’s oddity, seems to make sense, even to me, who’s afraid of him leaving the house without falling down and cracking his head open while walking. Because it might just be the ticket that we both need to feel normal in this odd, odd state.

It’s about how anxious I am, despite my ear humor and all of the irrationality, at the simple concept and thought that I’ll never be able to have kids, and that by the time I choose to start, it will be too late. It’s about how all of my crowing about normal periods returning was for nothing, as the irregular misery has returned with only a slightly milder vengeance. It’s about how scared I am for what this means, despite rational information to the contrary. It’s about how sometimes, despite all of this angst, anxiety and misery, I experience a moment like that at the Harley dealership that I think that maybe having kids isn’t everything – that there can be a rich, full life of Harleys and puppies and joy that doesn’t involve babies. But when I think of that, I think that somehow, some way, I’m jinxing myself against having kids and I feel guilty and somehow responsible for my malfunctioning reproductive system. That if I dare THINK such things, that somehow I will be sealing my fate. Which isn’t a bad fate, just not a fate I thought I would have. You know. And if I think that I might be forced to have that fate, I want to throw up. I want to choose my fate, even if it’s the one I’m afraid I’ll be forced into.

I’ve become obsessive about finding a dog. I search more than any human being should, and when one doesn’t pan out, I struggle to keep it together. Because somehow this, this dog, has become a stand-in for a baby. A substitute and a procrastination tool to stop the inevitable. Or at least what feels like the inevitable. To stave off the trying for fear that I might find out the truth that I can’t, even though I have nothing other than a few astonishingly annoying and scary symptoms to that effect. The longer the process goes on, the more anxious I get, because I don’t have six months to a year to search for a dog. I could be in the throes of infertility by then, wishing that I simply had a dog at home to stand in for the baby I’m not even sure I want. And if you follow this AT ALL, then you deserve a cookie. Go get one. Or a dozen. Because I’m fucking confused as all hell, and it’s my head I’m writing about.

It always happens this way. The PMS, it’s painful as it is. The PMS with other, not so fun symptoms that involve pantiiliners (I cannot believe I just said PANTILINERS with a straight face, but there it is: PANTILINERS. I dare you to say it out loud), plus a trip that Adam is taking to Seattle? BRUTAL. The anxiety and pain that Buspar or sleep or anything can’t seem to fix. And worse, when I get the MS, minus the P, I’ll feel euphoric, and I won’t even remember this, this awful, horrible feeling where I want to crawl right out of my skin and go live someone else’s life for a few minutes to slap mine right back into perspective. Because this…this is nothing. People are dying, people are having babies and losing their parents and people are living giant, real-life dramas that actually mean something. Me? I’m just battling it out with myself and making a mockery of all of those people who have real things to worry about. Things they can’t control, no matter how hard they try.

But I have to remember so that I know what I’m trying for and how bad things can get when I forget what anxiety feels like. I have to write it down. I’m trying. I’m trying hard, and I’m going to get better and someday, I will see this time in my life for everything that it is and everything that it should be: a remarkable, mostly-fun time to learn what’s important, get my shit together and get fucking medicated and de-tonsiled or WHATEVER so that I can battle real-world demons instead of the ones that live in my head that I’m afraid to talk about to anyone except my therapist and the Internet. Maybe I can figure out which ones are real, and which ones are imaginary. Because I know they don’t make sense, and I know they are small.

Until then, I will get up tomorrow, take my pill(zzzzz) and start another day. Because it’s going to get better. And you know, I write this is because if I knew someone, anyone, who felt as fucked up as I do sometimes, then I’d feel a helluva lot better. I do it hoping that it makes someone feel better, even if it’s so that they can say, “Christ, she’s a mess! At least I’m NORMAL!” and get all complacent and puffy with pride. But sometimes, you just have to talk about this shit to make it more normal. And tomorrow? I will so regret this post. But I’ll leave it up anyway.

But you know, it’s going to get better. It always does.

*Tom Cochrane. I dare you. DARE YOU to not sing it for the rest of the day. I apologize in advance. But, um, you know you like it. We all did.

Entry Filed under: Nuttin'