Roller Coasters & The Meaning Of Life

Men In Black Exhibit/Ride

Yesterday we went to Universal and Harry Potter in Orlando. It was a day of butter beer and heat, bangers and mash and whirly twirley rides. Photos and fruit cups, we ate and screamed our way through the park, and even after 9 hours we still had not seen it all. Miranda (by now you must know she is my adorable step daughter) knows her way through the parks so Mark and I did not have to use up our limited energies wandering around looking for things. Even with bad bones and joints and just plain aging, Mark and I rode all the rides and had fun doing it....well I got a bit queezy after the Harry Potter ride, but I pushed on and rode the dragon, which marked my stomach's end of those rides. It was getting dark and cool by then anyway.

Shopping! Oh sheesh! My ovaries are chastising me for forgetting all the shopping we did! Of course we didn't buy much since the price would make even The Donald blush, but looking is half the fun. (Okay, a third of the fun)

While in bed last night, and trying to stop the room from bucking and rolling like it does after an amusement park day,  I began to see parallels between my life and an amusement park. Hopefully some of this will hit home for you.

When I was younger and full of anxieties and baseless worries, I felt I had to be in total control of myself at all times or..well I didn't really know what would happen if I let go, but I was certain it would be terrible. I do not recall ever laughing with abandon as a child. I don't recall doing anything with abandon most of my life. I sabotaged my childhood by not allowing myself the freedom to just let go. I never spun just for the heck of it, or chased a butterfly to see where it would go. There was always a purpose to what I did and usually it did not include much glee. Not that I didn't play, but even my dolls were organized and went to work and had no fun that someone like Barbie should be having.

From childhood to about age 18 I rode a roller coaster the same way I rode life. I was very stiff and I did not scream or laugh, I held my breath and body still and silent and, though this made the ride unpleasant physically, at least I had control of myself. Yet even then, at all costs, control of self was the goal. It kept the world from falling apart. In retrospect, this easily equates with my anxiety and depression, but at the time I didn't see it.

When I got a little older and began to work I had the horrible realization I would have to socialize with coworkers and try to fit in. The was distressing to me. I had always been a loner so had developed some habits others might call odd, that I called simply social ignorance. So I joined the birthday celebrations in the break room, went for the occasion beer with the troops after work, listened with feigned interest to the other women's love lives or kids' antics. I fit in just fine, even though I always felt my face would crack from faking it all. This was also the time I was seeing a therapist about my anxiety and other issues that were making my life less than perfect. I was learning how to let go, trying desperately to live like others lived, to join the human race.

I went to an amusement park during this time and rode the only things I ever ride, the roller

My 1st coaster in 25 years

coasters. I remembered how disastrous the clenched teeth method was so this time I  forced myself to scream, to let it all out so it wasn't bottled up inside, eating away at me. I held on and screamed like the other riders did, I was no different than they were. Well, the screaming did help the muscles not to be clenched but it felt wrong. I am not a screaming kind of person and I did not have the fire or fear in the belly that it takes to really scream. I was an outcast in sheep's clothing.

A couple of decades have passed. I am now 50, waving hello to 51, who I will meet up with soon. The trip yesterday was the first amusement park I had been to in a few decades. This time I didn't think much about how I appeared or how to control my thoughts and bodily reactions to those thoughts.  My husband loves me, as does my  Miranda, but they still roll their eyes at me at times because of the weird things I do. I have learned to cherish those times, the times when people are shocked or slightly disapproving of me because I then know I am really ME. I no longer fight inner demons who make me feel control is the answer to it all. I now know that being the Mighty Oak and standing firm will get you blown over in a hurricane, but to be a willow means the wind bends you and contorts you, but in the end you are still standing and by god I AM still standing. It took me a lifetime to love myself enough to allow others to love me. I now accept myself, quirks and all, as everyone around me does... and if they don't? There are a few billion others out there they can befriend.  I could lose some weight but I no longer lose sleep over it. There are things in my past I could have done better but unless someone has a time machine I can borrow I don't worry so about that, plus its brought me here, to this amazing life, so thanks Hard Knocks, you did me a service.

Yesterday, in line to ride the first roller coaster in years, I tried not to worry about my bad neck, tried not to worry the heights would freak me out. I looked around and saw people just like me, with inner demons, inner flaws, inner beauty, and I didn't feel alone.

The roller coaster went clickety clack, up up up...I could see the city! I heard someone say they saw their house. Then the coaster crested the apex and I could see down the other side.

Oh.

 My.

God.

But I kept my eyes open. I did not want something as stupid as irrational fear (we were safe after all) get in the way of me having a really good time on one of the most fun things to do on earth, ride the coasters. We flew down that hill (I was in the front car) and were slammed to the right as the coaster curved sharply and twisted sideways at the same time. It was fabulous! Yet right in the middle of it this little voice popped into my head, the one that looks at you from outside yourself and usually judges you harshly...but it didn't. It said "look at you. You are screaming and laughing at the same time. you are afraid yet enjoying the heights and curves, even enjoying the fear itself. You are so lost in the experience that, if it were not for me popping into your head, you would be totally engrossed in the ride and not even thinking about yourself. I guess control is not all it's cracked up to be, huh?"

The ride was still going when that little voice left and I then actually heard myself laughing. For the very first time in my life I was laughing and howling with abandon, and it was a sound I had never heard before.

Very cool in person. Fire shoots about 25 feet.

I believe it was then that I knew I would be ok. Not on the ride or in the park, in life. I knew the rest of my life, no matter how good or bad, I could face it with abandon and know that, even if it didn't work out as I wished, I could handle it, all rides end eventually, and control has nothing to do with outcome.

It is 24 hours since I first stepped into the park and my body feels like I was in a series of small car accidents yesterday. The neck hurts, as I expected, but that ride will end. I think I pulled a back muscle and know I banged my head pretty hard but these things have a time limit as well. Funny thing is, I have been living life this way for a couple of years now but until that roller coaster ride I did not realize it.

Whether is a trip to Universal or a pick -up basketball game with your kids, laugh and yell with abandon, for that is the child in us that never grows up.

Wizarding World of Harry Potter, main street at night.

What Your Hair Color Says About Everyone Else:Blonde vs. Brunette

As  Father Time marched on, he march right over top of me and left his snowy boot print in my hair. Consequently, by age 30 I began the fight against grey. By age 40 the troops were retreating and now at age 50 the troops have gone AWOL and I am now at least 75% grey.

I take after my father's side of the family which is Spanish, Italian and Irish/British. Every grandchild looks like my grandmother's side of the family...fair skin and eyes and very dark brown hair (with the exception of one cousin who is an exotic beauty but could never embrace it when she was younger). My grandmother was certainly the matriarch of the family and she prized blonde hair.  Where she got the idea that everyone looks better blonde I have no clue, but we all, with varying amounts of success, tried to go blonde. I started in my teen and could never get lighter than a brassy, strawberry blonde. The kind you see on hookers.

Then Father Time paid me that visit and as my brown hair turned white I was able to go blonder and blonder until I achieved what the hair color industry calls "banana peel blonde" (I kid you not, it's a real term). I was ecstatic! The battle with my hair was finally over, I was going to defy age by being blonde! (whoever fed that little pearl of wisdom to us  should be shot, its not true).

I remember the first day I was truly, finally blonde, with no hint of red. I bought new makeup (because I was fighting my cool complexion by having warm toned hair) and could have sworn I lost 15 years off my face.

It's been about 3 years now that I have been blonde and I still look in the mirror and wonder who that is staring back at me. I don't look younger, I look colorless and tired. My hair has no shine or life to it. I keep it piled up in a clip on top of my head most of the time. But the worst part is that I never felt like myself. I thought the feeling would go away after a while but even after 3 years, when I blow dry my hair, it is not me staring back out of the mirror. I am the quiet bookworm with the brown hair and occasional glasses. Not this bleached blonde who is trying to look younger than she is. I felt I belonged at the mall more than the library and that really messed with my sense of self.

While I was getting used to the new color I decided to make mental notes about how people treated me, to see if blondes really do have more fun.

I discount the first couple of months because I was so happy I think my upbeat personality changed how people treated me more than my hair color. So once I got used to it I began

my study. This is what I found:

Young Men: They may as well say "MILF" and put their eyes back into their heads

Older Men: A thought bubble appears over their heads that says "trophy wife"

Younger Girls: They have no time for anything but their own reflection so they are discounted.

Older Women: The ones with fully grey hair try to convince me mine will be lovely and it will not age me. Funny but no one my age has ever said that, the ones that say it have all been 65-80 years old and yes, when I am that age I will let nature take its course but stop trying to initiate me into the Grey Hair We Don't Care club too early.

Women My Age: Either tell me to stop fussing and let nature handle it or tell me the blonde is terrible on me. The opinion had nothing to do with what they did with their hair as far as I could see.

Children: Interestingly, children were much more open to coming to me when I was a blonde. If I approached a lost child as a brunette they shied away but as a blonde they held on to me like I was Mommy. I cannot explain this unless their mothers also dyed their hair blonde.

As a brunette, my little verbal mistakes, my inability to do math, my forgetfulness and lack of directional skills was always looked at as sort of the absent minded professor syndrome. People knew I was smart and allowed for idiosyncratic behavior. As a blonde? I got NO slack. Anything I did that was not perfect or at a genius level I got called "blonde" or "Are you having a blonde moment?" Not fair, and I am sure very frustrating to all the smart, naturally blonde women out there. I felt like I was constantly trying to prove I had a brain, that I was not some dumb bimbo. Stiletto heels on a brunette are sexy, on a blonde they are trashy. (Sorry natural blondes, I am calling them as i am seeing them).

I found the stereotypes are true. I was more apt to be flirted with, ogled, and looked upon as an object when blonde. Men would convey the same interest in me as a brunette, but with more class and more respect. As a blonde it was cat calls, as a brunette is was "pretty eyes". Even clerks, regardless of gender, were more friendly to me, as were waiters/waitresses. It's almost as if blondes are seen as stupid but warm hearted and brunettes are seen as smart and cold hearted. Neither of which is acceptable! Men have a habit, no matter how "liberated" they re, of talking over women but as a blonde, you cant get word in anywhere...and they ask why I am shouting. Oh and all these observations hold true

whether I had on makeup and nice clothes or was in my grubbies without makeup.

Today I went back to being a brunette. I feel like myself. I am comfortable in my own skin again. I can only explain it as I am me and I am sure if I was born blonde and went brunette for 3 years I would feel the same.

But let me speak for the unheard minority out there. The downtrodden who do not even realize it. We are women who are smart, creative, powerful and nurturing and, like our breast size, our hair color is no indication of what goes on on the inside.