Karan-a-go-go

 No DS
 No Wii
 No Nickelodeon
 No Disney Channel
 No Computer
 No iTunes
 No Sun
 No “We’re Bored”

As I was getting ready for work this morning, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror and, for an instant, wondered, “Who the hell is that?” Realizing it was me, I could hardly stop myself from running out of the house, screaming like a middle-aged Chicken Little, “My face is falling!  My face is falling!”

Don’t get me wrong- I’m not vain.  Or, maybe I’m vain in a terribly insecure way.  It’s not like I’d give up IQ points to be a year younger, or 10 pounds lighter.  (Except that, I actually probably would.)  And, I know that aging is better than the alternative.  (I hate it when people say that, though.  I mean- duh, right?  Yes- I’d rather be old than dead.  I think.)  But, in a society where youth and beauty reign supreme, it can be hard to age gracefully.   Someone is going to have to pry my 4” heels and age-inappropriate t-shirts from my cold, dead hands.

Probably the person to do that will be my friend, Doug.  He keeps talking to me about Helen Mirren and European women of a certain age.  Yesterday, I think he actually called me “seasoned” and, when I protested, tried to atone by comparing me to a “fine wine.”  WTF?  It just kept getting worse!  And besides, hasn’t he heard that 40 (a milestone I’ve yet to reach, by the by) is the new 30?

Except- shit- who am I kidding?  I’ll be 40 in 214 days- I might as well get used to it.  I’ve just recently started to own this little bit of biographical trivia.  In October of 2004, I decided to shave a year off my age and have been living a lie ever since.  At first it was tricky; I had to remember to say ’71 when asked my birth date, instead of ’70.  When recounting wild high school tales, I would talk about “being one of the youngest in my class” instead of one of the oldest.  Eventually, the more I lied about it, the more I believed it to be true.  A couple of times, I’ve had to actually sit down and do math (yuck: math) to figure out how-the-hell-old I am.  On a recent evening out, though, my best friend of 20 years refused to let me forget the truth. She teased me ruthlessly in front of a certain special someone and basically outed me as a 39 year-old. (Perhaps her own 4-0, coming months before mine, inspired her little jokes… who can say?)

At any rate, I’ve decided to come clean.  I’d like to think it was self-acceptance and pride in what I’ve accomplished that are spurring me onward toward honesty and candor.  The truth is more likely that, as I get older, I’m finding it hard to keep up with my myriad deceptions.  Easier, I think, to tell the truth at this stage of the game.  And, really, if you knew me at all, you’d know that I like a little bit of attention now and again.  And I really, really like presents.  And instant gratification.  So, how could I wait an extra year for the huge (and I mean HUGE) party that all of my friends are throwing me when I turn 40?  (You know who you are.)  Just know that I’ll be wearing my over-the-knee boots that one’s not supposed to wear as she becomes over-the-hill.

I wonder sometimes why some of my friends-in-Jesus are FOR things like preemptive war and cutting taxes for the wealthy, but AGAINST things like… oh, you know, healing the sick, for instance. 

Maybe it’s just coincidence that a lot of these friends-in-Jesus are also Republicans. Maybe they are thinking about how to follow Jesus sometimes and how to be a good Republican other times; separation of church and state, you know? I can get behind that. But sometimes they say they ALWAYS think about Jesus. They ask me, “Karan, WWJD?” And it’s when we’re talking about the government, so I think they must be talking about WWJD, you know, if he were running the show federally speaking. And I try REALLY hard to think, ‘ gosh, self, what WOULD Jesus do?’

I look in the book that talks alot about Jesus and try to come back with the right answer; I REALLY don’t want to let my friends-in-Jesus down!! I feel so PROUD to come back with something of substance.

I try, “well, gee. In Matthew 10:7 he says to ‘heal the sick’ and then he goes on to say, in Matthew 10:8 ‘you received without payment, give without payment.’

“Oh, and over here, in Luke, he says ‘but when you give a feast, invite the poor, the maimed, the lame, the blind and you will be blessed because they cannot repay you.’

“OOOHHHH – here’s a good one, again from Matthew, ‘love your neighbor as yourself’. I just LOVE that one!!

And (that awesome Matthew again) ‘truly, I say unto you, it will be hard for a rich man to enter the kingdom of heaven.’ WOW! Matthew sure does know a lot about WWJD!” (I am sooo excited, because I know my friends-in-Jesus are going to be SOOO proud of me!)

But, sometimes I find out, those are not the right answers at ALL! That’s right, SOME of my friends-in-Jesus look at me when I give them these answers like I’ve disappointed them. Sometimes, they look like they’d like to walk away from me RIGHT THEN! But, that’s okay. When they get annoyed with me, I just remember my own smart, cool, loving friend (Jesus) and then I turn the other cheek and decide to love them anyway!

Can I blame Facebook and Twitter for my complete lack of ability when it comes to writing anything longer than 140 characters? Have I been reduced to churning out glib remark after glib remark, forgegoing any kind of meaningful contemplation?

Can I just compose a post of my top 25 FB status updates of all time? I mean, does that count?

I love this song.  And until I can write something of value, I’ll just share this with you!

Here’s a little CrossFit vlog from last summer.  If you’ve never heard of CrossFit you might want to check it out at www.crossfit.com. It’s crazy fun and totally addictive (although my addiction wasn’t as strong as my wallet was weak, ultimately).  If you HAVE heard of CrossFit and think it’s just for elite athletes or Marines, here’s proof that feeble (yet hearty) middle-aged women can do it, too.

The fact that I’m willing to vlog myself in a squatted position, with no make-up on, shows how dedicated I am to becoming a documentarian.

I was momentarily blinded as I stepped out of the brightness of the late spring afternoon and into the blackness of the stairwell that led to the club.  For an instant, I regretted having spent most of the day in bed and wished that I’d been doing something wholesome and outdoorsy instead. Playing Frisbee on the Oval with other co-eds, maybe.  But, I wasn’t a student anymore and besides I’d been here the night before until 2 am and would be here as late (or later) tonight.

“Hey there, missy,” said Terry Mack, the leather-clad bouncer, as I walked up the stairs toward him. “You know the big man’s coming in tonight.”

“I know, Terry. Is he nice?  Is Ronnie excited to see him?  I want to meet him, but I’m kind of nervous about it.”

“Oh, he’s gonna like you, honey.  Don’t you worry about that,” he said, with a slightly lecherous tone.

I gave Terry a peck on the cheek as I passed and took my bag and my tray into the darkened DJ booth to change.  It was fun for me, this part of the gig- slipping out of my t-shirt and shorts and into another era.  I liked trading my flip-flops for a pair of stilettos, my cut-offs for a short, black skirt.  I loved how, underneath the skirt, the back-seamed stockings and silk garter belt made me feel like I had a little secret and how- if I bent over even a tiny bit- my secret was exposed by a flash of my bare thigh.  I was a high maintenance girl at heart: the more I primped in that DJ booth, the happier I became.  I topped the outfit off with a black pillbox hat and some vintage rhinestone earrings.  Cherry red lips and some smoky eye shadow and my transformation was complete: girl-next-door to Cigarette Girl in less than 30 minutes.

***

Just as I was stuffing my clothes into my bag, the door of the booth opened and in came Ronnie.  He didn’t say anything- just drew me close for a kiss.  Ronnie was the one of the owners of the club and my sort-of boyfriend.  I’d taken to spending the last hours of every night perched next to him at the back bar; drinking champagne and smoking pink-papered cigarettes, while he held court in what was kind of a VIP area. (Or, as VIP as one could get in Columbus, Ohio: a place I still referred to as Cowtown.) 

He was funny and attentive; and he always let me play Ring of Fire on the jukebox as many times as I wanted.  Last night, I’d gone home with him in his big, white Lincoln. We’d listened to music before going to bed together and this morning, when I woke up, he gave me a delicate gold bangle with the words Baby Love inscribed on the inside.  (Baby Love, by the Supremes, is my very favorite song.) The gift made me worry that I’d perhaps told him I loved him sometime during the night.  Specifically, during sex.  It was a little bit of a bad habit I had- saying that without necessarily meaning it. 

I glanced at the bracelet as he held me and felt a sudden flicker of irritation.

“Ronnie, stop,” I said as I pushed him away with a pout.  “You’ll mess up my lipstick.”

He smiled, too happy to be put off. “You’ll still be beautiful, baby.  Won’t you give me one kiss before we get too busy?  Andy will be here soon; I can’t wait to introduce you: my own little rock-n-roll queen.” And with that, Ronnie planted a kiss firmly on my crimson lips, swatted me gently on the rear, and pushed me out into the now-crowded nightclub.