Twist and Turns

I could start with how nice the strangers were and how shocking it is everytime I visit. How every person at every check-out was polite and at times what seemed to be overly friendly. They obviously read their employee manuals. It was the same in BEST BUY and K-MART. The same at THE PIZZA RANCH and KUM and GO GAS! I could include all the people who said thank-you when I held the door for them, or the ladies who smiled at me when passing by, and the conversation starters at the airport. People are just friendly everywhere else but here. These people haven't lost their basic skills of communication and politeness, no matter how ignorant they are.

Or...I could begin with how fat everyone was and how frustrated I get watching some of these people carry on. These people are large and in charge. I don't mean over-weight people like, say Doris Roberts from Everybody Loves Raymond or Queen Latifah. I mean fat people like Dan and Roseanne Conner from Roseanne. People requesting the seat next to them remain empty for their comfort. People who stand on the moving sidewalk but there is no room to pass them. People who wear sweatshirts that hang to their knees like a night shirt with stretch pants underneath that. The girl behind the counter at KUM and GO GAS was super sweet, but she was super sized as well. She actually told me that on Friday and Saturday nights, they go through all their cheese balls. The cheese balls are the biggest sellers. She said she guesses they sell $150 worth of cheese balls every weekend. At the pizza ranch, the four seater booths were only seating two people. The salad bar consisted of shredded cheese, ice berg lettuce, hard boiled egg, bacon bits, croutons, cucumbers and black olives. My mother and father's fridge was stocked full with cases of Diet Dr. Pepper, Regular Dr. Pepper, Root Beer, Diet Cherry Vanilla Dr. Pepper. Where was the juice, water, wine, beer, soy milk?

Or I could talk about how popular my mother is. Her birthday party consisted of nearly 115 people. People who love her very much. People who accept her for all that she is. They don't mind that she repeats herself or complains a lot. They also know she laughs a lot, dances a lot, cries a lot, and talks a lot. (Like mother like son) The people at her party were eldery women from church who've been widowed, other divorcees, friends from high school and even grade school, co-workers, relatives, ages 2-86, I believe. There was food. If it can be made in a crockpot, it was probably brought to my mother's party. There was music; country, rock and roll, 80's, slow dances, line dances, and songs sung solo. Most of all, there was fellowship. People of various walks of life brought together for one single purpose.

Or...what about the comments made by so many people, including family.

Just a few of the weekends overheards....
"I had to tell Larissa to be careful with that boy. For some reason she likes the color-eds and the Mexicans. I asked her Dad what that was all about."
"When is Chad and Cody gonna git married?"
"Do you have to wear the pair with holes in the knees? You're gonna be meetin' some older folks. They probably won't like it."
"No gay jokes guys while were are up at the party. Especially you, Claire!"
"I didn't invite her because she's dating that guy who everyone thinks is a child molester."
"I wished the neighbors would just move. They're such cruddy people."
"She's so weird. I think she does drugs. Look at her teeth! They're all rottin' away!"

But, there is also the time spent with Mother, Father, Brother. The jokes, the memories. The same stories we tell everytime we are together are told again with the same joy and laughter. My father had dinner with me twice. He slipped me $25 toward gas for the rental car. My mom always has her newspaper clippings for me to catch up on. This person married, this one had their third child, this one moved back to Creston. The late night talks with my mom over a bag of Hershey Kisses. The gifts I brought home. A T-shirt for my brother, a thermal for my Dad, some earrings for my mother.

Or, better yet, how about the fact that I called my boyfriend my roommate. Couldn't confide in anyone the love I feel or the personal struggles our relationship faces. I never explained what kind of a bar I manage. I took off my rings. I didn't wear the belt with the silver studs on it. I didn't curl my eyelashes. I barely did my hair. I hid my IN TOUCH and US WEEKLY magazines. I drank cheap beer out of a can. I let my speech and grammar match those around me. I pretended to remember everyone and their daughters. I commented on the beauty of the new female newscaster. I dodged eye contact with any remotely attractive male. I acted happy when people talked of pregnancy...again. I laughed at jokes that made no sense to me. I bit my tongue when I heard something derogatory or prejudiced. I didn't dance they way I usually dance. I tried not to cross my legs. I kept a watchful eye on my pinky finger. I didn't talk about yoga. I didn't talk about work. I didn't talk about my blog. I didn't talk about my friends. I didn't talk about me.

Now, after twisting and turning around all the bends of my weekend in Iowa, I unravel back in NYC. I lie on my back on the floor of my apartment looking up at the ceiling. I take my arms out from behind my back where they felt tied. I roll my ankles around to crack the metaphorical shackles that restricted my walk, my talk, myself. I untie the knot in my stomach. It takes awhile. It's one of those crafty, boy scout, double knots. Or better yet it feels like a noose. I take the gag out of my mouth. I breathe in through my nose. I breathe out through my mouth letting out a whimper. I think about the Nurse. This whimper turns into a cry. I think about wine and laughter at a bar down the street. The cry turns into a muffled moan. I think about the ease with which I carry on my life in this city, far away and kept a secret from everyone back there. The moan becomes a sob. I sob. I sob. Still sobbing.

I dart up. Brush myself off. Slap myself "Annette Benning-American Beauty" style. Stand straight. With composure I put myself to bed.

The twisting and bending has to stop. I can't handle the unraveling. I am good at the twists. I have been doing it for years. Decades. But, after being tied up like that, when you untie yourself, all the fresh new blood, sweat, tears, and experiences go flushing through your body. It's overwhelming.