FreckledK

I was diagnosed with skin Cancer last year.

I was not surprised when my fantastic dermatologist identified the Basal Cell Carcinoma (BCC) by sight, before confirming his diagnosis with a biopsy.

The procedure to treat this, call Mohs surgery, was no big deal but, as with most invasive medical procedures, it’s not something one would be keen to experience on their own. You want your people around, even if you don’t need them. I went in for my appointment armed with a short list of post-op phone calls to make.

I called. I left voicemails. I received no response, save for breezy next day text messages, asking how things had gone.

It was a lightbulb moment. It was the departure of who I once had been and the end of an old life. It was the birth of who I was to become.

It was a very hard night, the first of what would become a particularly difficult year.

Several weeks ago, my doc took a look at the area he’d previously treated and the span of skin which surrounded it. He was not pleased with his findings and he prescribed a cream for me to apply on a nightly basis, a topical form of chemotherapy.

He warned me that the treatment would be unpleasant and that it would require significant downtime. We did not go into the specifics, the long list of potential side effects, but I of course scurried right home and educated myself via an extensive Google search.

Google is not your friend. It attaches itself to your paranoia and drags you to site after site of horror stories, to tummy churning images of oozing, crusty sores, the likes of which convince you that you are soon to become a monster, a being from whose path protective parents will forcefully remove their children. Google is a fear-monger of grand proportions.

Google is also pretty dead on.

I’ve been treated to several of the scarier side effects: chronic fatigue, nausea, mild fever and headache.

And then there are the superficial benefits:

It’s a great big ball of fun, this chemo cream.

This time around the Cancer block, I’ve made no outgoing calls, I’ve left no voicemails, I’ve asked for no support.

I’ve not been disappointed.

I’ve learned that it is better this way. I’ve nursed my own wounds, held my own hand, eased my own moments of suffering.

I’ve gone it alone.

I’ve learned that, for me, this is the best course of action. I am my own best friend, my own strongest shoulder, my own greatest supporter.

I am my nurse, my sympathizer, my greatest love, my emergency contact. I will get through this, I will survive. I will have no one but myself to thank for it.

I’m completely good with that.

25 years ago today, this happened.

Twenty.  Five.  Years. 

He has been gone longer than he was here, and still the loss of him is as fresh as it was on that very first day. 

I’m still 15.  I’m still heartbroken. 

I still want my Daddy.

Fuck.

The day after my 40th Birthday, I went over to Mr. Sunday’s for a visit.  We sat on his balcony on what was one of the most glorious nights I can recall, drinking Miller Lites, smoking cigarettes, enjoying a killer playlist of songs, and talking, talking, talking.  It was perfection.

I adore Mr. Sunday.  He’s my very most favorite. 

Which reminds me, I’d forgotten to tell you all about the time that Mr. Sunday took me to see a show at Wolftrap, an outdoor ampitheatre in Virginia. 

Upon picking him up, I was delighted to see that he’d packed us a basket of goodies, with everything from champagne and sangria to cheese, fruit and crackers. 

Did I mention that he is my very most favorite? 

Sigh.  Adore.

We’re cruising out of the city, making our way to the show, when we happen upon a tollbooth.  Feeling happy and all toasty-hearted, when we pulled up at the booth, I handed the operator double the amount, asking that she take care of the toll of the vehicle behind us.  Pay it forward, you know?

The show itself at Wolftrap was lovely, but I was far more enjoying the people watching.  And the champagne.  Always the champagne.  Oh, and the company, of course.  Everything was as perfect as perfect could be.

It was a beautiful night, and I felt oh-so lucky to have been treated to that sort of experience.  I floated back to the car in a state of mellow bliss.

Until I spotted the piece of paper, pinned beneath my windshield wiper.

“What the heck?!?  Did I get a friggin ticket?!?  How the f—-” 

No.  That can’t be right.  How does one get a ticket whilst parked in a venue parking lot? 

One doesn’t.

I removed the small piece of white paper and brought it close to my face, squinting in the dimming light as I attempted to read the tiny print.

As perfect as perfect could be.

Today is the last day of my 30s.  As of tomorrow, I will be 40 years old.

Running into one another in the office restroom, my mother asked, “How old will you be?”  When I told her, she responded with, “Did you ever think you’d live to be 40?”

Yes.  I always did.  But, to a younger FreckledK, 40 represented three children, a husband, an old house with a huge front porch, a golden retriever running in the big backyard.  40 meant minivans and soccer practice, evenings spent in a comfortable chair with a softly lit lamp and pages and pages of classic literature.  40 signified a firm foothold on adulthood and a cocoon of stability.

This 40?  My 40?  Quite different, indeed.

I have a convertible.  I’m the parent to two pugs.  I live on my own in a large apartment in the city.  I spend my time stoopsitting on a concrete landing, accompanied by dogs and neighbors.  My evenings out are infrequent, but always eventful.  I do most of my reading on my Kindle, while seated in the back of the Metrobus.  I’m single.  I’m childless.

I’m surprisingly okay with that.

My 40 is not at all the 40 that I had imagined when I was 10 years old, or even 20 or 30 years old but, still, it’s not an entirely bad place to be.  While I don’t feel very much like a sage old soul, I do have some experience under my belt, and the baggage I now carry with me is quite easily managed.  I’m far more comfortable in my own company, in my own skin and I have learned to embrace the person that I am, flaws and all.  I have a pretty swell little life going, actually, and I’m excited to see what the next decade brings.

So Happy Birthday to this old broad.  Here’s hoping that time will be kind and that 50 will prove to be as equally surprising.

“I hope I photograph okay, because when I look in a mirror there’s just a white haze.”  

– Kenneth Parcell

Jack/Kenneth enjoys Shrimp and Grits and a Diet Coke with no ice.  He very cutely checks his teeth before posing for photographs with service staff, and was gracious enough to pre-inspect my smile as well, bless his cotton socks.  Super nice guy.  Best celeb encounter thus far.

Who said waitressing wasn’t glamorous?

“You will always be an important person in my life, even if we don’t speak again.  I honestly and sincerely hope that you have what you want, are living the way you wish to and are happy and content.  If you think this is weird or rude and don’t respond, I’ll understand, but I hope that you do.”

This is the closing paragraph of the email that was sent.

The paragraph above that provided updates on the friends I had lost in the split, along with news that its writer had left the city limits a year ago, for an apartment in the suburbs. 

The paragraph above that offered polite conversational questions for me: was I still working at the same job, were the animals happy and healthy, etc.

And, in the paragraph above that, was this:

“I’m not sure what you think of me, but I would like us to catch up if you are interested. Maybe we can grab a cup of coffee or something, completely up to you.”

I emailed a reply some time later, giving an update on the animals – living, deceased, adopted.  I confirmed my unchanged employment status.  I ignored the invitation for coffee altogether.

In the paragraph below that, the final paragraph, I commented on the news of this relocation, asking: 

“What prompted the move out of the city?”

I was met with a six paragraph reply.  Idle chatter.  Blah blah blah.  Yadda yadda yadda.  Bloop bloop bloop – liberally seasoned with emoticons and an abundance of exclamation points.

But one sentence, a nine word response hidden among the banal chitchat in this email of contrition, told me everything I needed to know.

“I moved out here for one of my exes.”

I am a bit of a nighmare around the holidays.  I lead a good life, a charmed existence, but tend to forget that fortune around the same time that my friends and neighbors begin daydreaming of fir trees and hot apple cider. 

I know I’m not alone in this, that a good portion of the population suffers from the holiday blues but, ironically, “alone” seems the perfect word to sum up how I feel.  If you don’t have a supportive, loving family with whom to spend the holidays, it doesn’t matter how many friends invite you to pop by for a cocktail, it doesn’t matter if your phone is blowing up with text message after text message wishing you a happy day.  It doesn’t matter how loved you feel for the other 364 days of the year.  On Christmas, you are either enveloped in the love of your family, or you are made more painfully aware of your disconnect.

As a familial holiday, when December 25th rolls around, you’ve really no choice but to make an appearance, to see those people who knew you when you were young and ugly, but who now have no claim to the stunning goddess that you are in the now.  Being single, childless and a forty-five minute drive away doesn’t provide you with much of an “out,” so you’ll begrudgingly make the drive out to the suburbs of Virginia, where you will pick up the check your mother scratched out as an afterthought (but she’ll hopefully spell your name correctly this time), and make lame excuses as to why you won’t be joining the rest of your blood relatives for a supper of Chinese takeout.

Last year, one of my sisters had thoughtfully converted some old Christmas videos to DVD.  When I arrived, she’d popped a disc in the player and went off in search of refreshments.

The recording was from 1985.  A fourteen-year old clad in an unfortunate ensemble of blush and bashful, sitting to the side of an ornately decorated tree, opening a brightly wrapped package and gingerly pulling the tissue paper aside to reveal its contents.  She looks up and into the camera, flashing a gap-toothed grin as a voice emerges from the television speakers, addresses her warmly and asks, “Do you like it?” 

My father’s voice.  

Moments later, I am clinging to the washroom wallpaper, hoping that my family hasn’t witnessed the shade of eggplant that my complexion has adopted.  After a thousand deep breaths and a wipe of the eyes, I slink back into the room.  Within a minute, I am back in the washroom, where I decide to feign stomach upset and wait out the 45 minute recording. 

As much of a toughie as you’ve had to become, all it takes is the sound of a voice not heard in 20+ years to transform you back into a helpless, blubbering fourteen year-old.  It’s a vulnerable thing, the realization that you didn’t quite survive it, that the heartache is just as fresh as it was before, back in the day when your freckles were the size of thumbtacks and you could fit a candy corn between your two front teeth.

It’s just one day.  One day out of the year.  A drop in the bucket.  A small blemish on an otherwise glowing expanse.

But it’s also hard.  And I don’t want to do it.

But you will.  Because you must.  Because it’s what he would want for you to do.

And, with him, I’m still that fifteen year-old.  I always will be.

And you want for him to be proud.

It’s the only gift you can give.

An hour into our first date, when he had excused himself to go to the men’s room, I texted Lemon Gloria:

“I’m going to marry him…if he ever calls me again.”

Shortly thereafter, it became apparent that wedded bliss was not in the cards for he and I – not unless I could swiftly transform myself into a petite brunette with an immediate family that is more – uh, functional.

And so I beat on, dining in French restaurants with men who would later not-so-subtly attempt to grab my bosom after having bought me dinner and an aperitif –men who would inquire, rather innocently, when their advances were rebuffed:

“What’s wrong? Are my hands cold?”

And so I beat on, giving the men with the shirtless torso pics the benefit of the doubt – men who made constant reference, in emoticon-filled emails, to their sculpted physiques and training regimen, men who would claim to have received an anonymous e-card from a secret admirer, men who would think me the type to even consider sending a message with the following declaration:

“I adore you, and your body.”

?!?!?

Ew.  Um, no.

And so?

I’m beat. 

And I FINALLY get what you single lot have been moaning about all this time; dating is not as much fun, nor as easy, as I had initially thought.  It kind of sucks balls, in fact.

The profile is down – for the moment.  Dating prospects are being temporarily shelved for dinners with friends, quality time with the puppies and, wonderfully, extra napping time for me.  I’m content to go with the flow for a spell, allow myself to drift wherever that current may take me.

Fingers crossed, we’ll cruise along to a good, brand new place from which to begin (again).

Have lovely holidays, All!   Much love to you, and your bodies.

xo

I was talking with Jemma this morning about one of the men I’ve been seeing, trying to figure out why I’m just not feeling it.

Well, I know exactly why I’m not feeling it, but I was hoping I could rationalize my way into making one of my few “must-haves” a “would-be-nice-to-have.”

He and I had our third date this past weekend.  He’s a very,very, very nice man – very smart, intelligent, sincere, gracious, stable, attractive, etc.  He has been making an effort to keep in contact with me, to see me.  He insists upon driving into town to pick me up at mine.  He opens doors, he hands out compliments – the whole lot.  I’m lucky to have his interest.  I’m lucky.

I should feel lucky to have his interest.

Why do I not feel lucky to have his interest?

What in the name of Christina Aguilera is wrong with me?!  This guy is a good guy, a GREAT guy!  He’s a peach, and he’s doing all the right things to make me feel special.  The man is a catch.

But there’s a catch.  A catch within a catch, a catch within my catch.

The man is not funny.  Not in the slightest.

The servers on our dates have made me laugh, but my date has not.  Not once.  Not in person, not over the phone, via email, text or smoke signal.  I’ve smiled in appreciation for the sweet gestures and sweet nothings that have filled our dates, but I’ve not cracked a pre-giggle smile once.  Not. A. Once.

He has a sense of humor when it comes to appreciation for when something or someone else is funny, but funny he is not.

And I kind of need funny.  I don’t think I can move it from my list of must-haves, even if it means that I’m going to die alone in my mother’s spare bedroom.  I think I would rather die alone in my mother’s spare bedroom than to be deprived of someone who can make me laugh.

I could easily fall head over heels in love with a toothless Hunchback, in as long as he gives good banter.  Seriously.  The David Crosses, the Patton Oswalts and the Zach Galifinakises of the world are far more desirable to me than the Brad Pitts or the George Clooneys.  And, as pretty as that Gyllenhaal fella is (rawr!), I would toss him aside in an instant for a slightly less pretty Paul Rudd.

So, I’ve been stalling on a fourth date.  I have been legitimately busy, but I’m sure I could have made some time for Kenny Powers or Ricky Gervais, had they come a callin’.

I keep hoping that I can knock some sense into myself, knock that need for cheese out of my aging, delusional head – take the nice guy, save the banter for your girls and for your Gays.

I just can’t.  I can’t do it.  I won’t.

I want funny.

My mom’s spare bedroom is becoming more and more of a reality.

I can almost smell her cat’s litterbox; it’s mingling well with the stench of impending spinsterhood.

Balls.  I’m so going to go to there.

 

After wasting several precious Friday night hours with the very, very worst one, I went out dancing.  I arrived home at an unreasonable hour, sat down at my computer, and sent the following email:

 

Matt,

I think that your initial urge was correct, and that you should remove your profile from the OKC site. I’m doubtful that you’ll feel any residual shame for your behavior tonight, and will somehow rationalize it so that you emerge the good guy who was up front and honest, rather than the supreme dick who made it clear that pussy was far more important than treating the person next to you with a modicum of respect. But trust me when I tell you that you fall firmly into that supreme dick category, and I feel sorry for the next woman who declines to be a masturbatory receptacle after being wooed with a few free lagers and thinly veiled threats that keeping her knees locked will render her someone not worthy of bothering with.

That’s about all I have to say about that. While I hope to never cross paths with you again, I wish you the best, and hope that you’ll find a prostitute who will happily meet your needs. I’m sure that the Dollar Menu will net you a blowjob, at the very least.

Take care,

Frecks

 

So much for being the bigger person.  Still, it felt spectacular and, after hitting that send key, I slept like a baby.

I should tell people off more often.

Surprisingly, I haven’t heard back from him.