Shouldn't…but Do

It was the only day that particular song ever got stuck in my head. Repeating over and over despite attempts at banishment. 19 years ago.

It was the theme song to “Woody Woodpecker,” and it was my wedding day.

I got married in an arboretum, botanical garden sort of place. Smallish affair, 50 or so people. Two big tents, cake was chocolate decadence, topped with irises.

Forecast was perfect, robin’s egg blue sky. Guests assembled, ready to commit and the minister whispered “shall we move the ceremony?”

From nowhere, the western sky had produced an impressive squall, lightening sweeping across the valley headed for our location. It was perfect.

Torrential mountain downpour, I wondered if the aluminum tent poles would make good lightening rods. Guests huddled and hastily, but politely, retreated as soon as socially acceptable.

Champagne and rain, I pranced atop the soaked seating in a drizzle, laughing. People thought I was nuts, still do.

Woody never bothered me again. The wedding dress and hair piece were hermetically packaged to last forever, tulle, silk and freshwater pearls sealed to resist ravages of time and emotion.

At least until last week, in the closed, stuffy garage when I poked airholes in the dress box with a dandelion digger and put both the dress and the hair piece out for the garbage – separately, of course – to avoid further unholy alliance.

Was there a more eco-friendly means of disposing of these things? Sure, it wasn’t their fault. But sometimes you just have to get rid of stuff. Give it some breathing room and send it on its way.

Today I take my children to meet with X and a family therapist for the first time, their relationship is not so good. It’s the waiting room for me.

Scanning the skies today, hot and humid. A convective storm later if we’re lucky. There was no rainbow 19 years ago, maybe there will be today.

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I’m back. Crash landed last night in a bag of Lays Baked Ruffle Potato chips. Broke the fall.

Can’t wait to see what happens next.

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Driving down the highway this morning, I was startled by a scarlet light on the side of road. It glowed.

Tough to gawk at 55 mph. A glimpse proved the source to be sunlight bent at just the right angle through a discarded, unopened, bottle of red energy drink.

Unearthly beautiful – high fructose corn syrup. Unearthly beautiful for a moment, illuminated junk.

Bent light, bottled energy tossed aside. One moment of brilliance in a gutter. Life is like that.

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Identity is an interesting thing.

You have to have an identity before you can lose it, or have it stolen. But few people seem to develop an identity until, well, they recognize it is missing.

Identity loss is rampant. Be cheery when you aren’t, spread cynicism when you can’t hold your own, loss of containment at the core, an inability to remain authentic. Everyday life. You lose.

Identity is purely a reflection of its bearer. While society reduces identity to data – social security, drivers license numbers – and the like, identity is just as often found in religion, occupation, hobby or calling.

I muse these details as I fill out IRS Form 14039, Identity Theft Affidavit.  X stole my social security number to purloin the far better part of the annual tax refund.

With dark hilarity I recognize “identity theft” as a hallmark of a bad relationship, or at least of mine. The longterm, erstwhile drain of the person I knew once to be myself.

Was it theft? The social security number was. I guess I let the rest happen, participated even. But even now, recognizing what I am not anymore, I cannot stop the drain, the theft beyond my control. I am tired.

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“Good morning Cynthia, what can we do for you?”

Car repair horror stories are known to all drivers, but the place that services my car is manna from automobile heaven.

Friendly, expert and fair, big, brightly lit, clean. From routine oil changes to nervous calls when my children were small, far afield, when car noises rattled both me and the undercarriage.

Today, it was tires, where rubber hits the road. Those rugged hard wheels that can go flat, yet, like Atlas, hold a small world of car and occupants between heaven and earth.

Snow tires to all-season radials. Most, I am told, go the mid-route, all season, all year. Being a tire-for-every-season gal, I opt for the ritual switch, rotate and spin balance two times a year.

Tires, I find, can be a lot like people. Snow tires – rugged, but actually composed of softer compounds and sippling allowing for better grip in inclement or cold weather. Built for intensity, but serviceable in good weather too, their flexible hearts wear out a little faster if used constantly.

All-seasons, good for where you’re going, your average ride in average time. High performance tires – harder, faster, meant to go, not linger. Will roll on turns made too fast, useless if the weather’s poor.

Tires, so much rides on them.

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A day slung low by X.  Mechanically carrying through. The church sign reads:

Do not fear tomorrow, God is already there.

In other words:

Vocatus atque non vocatus Deus aderit

Latin for:

Bidden or not bidden, God is present.

or simply:

que sera sera

what will be, will be.

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