In Jodie's Brain

Some questions…

How many people now have a “bucket list”? (Referencing the 2007 Movie: Bucket List)
How many things are on yours?
How many of them have you accomplished or actually have a solid plan to accomplish?

If you don’t have a plan in place – why not? Does that mean they are not important to you? Maybe… We humans like to get stuck in ExcuseLand. All of the usual suspects;

“But what if…”
“Someday I will…”
“If I lose… then”
“When this happens I’ll…”
“I can’t until…”
“If I get… then…”

Why do we do that? Laziness? Complacency? Fear?

For me…er… the girl in the story… it was Fear.

Almost two years ago, our heroine’s boyfriend (who is a very open and forward-thinking kind of guy – I mean, he’d *have* to be to contend with her, now, wouldn’t he?) during a wacky, off-the-wall conversation asked “Would you ever shave your head?” (and yes, I know that some of you have heard this tale before – bear with me…). “Absolutely not! But if I ever got cancer, I would so give myself a mohawk – it would all fall out anyway, so it wouldn’t matter.” He asked: “Why would you wait for such a traumatic event?”

Now, from what you know and understand of her up to now, that doesn’t really seem to be that far-fetched of an idea, does it? Believe me, it was. It was one thing to take theatre or to don a hardhat to drive a Bobcat; those were all experiences to add, things that would bolster her identity. No… her hair was integrated into her very being including the daily hour-and-a-half-long ritual to raise that crowning glory to the stature of Mane. It was integral in her way of communicating; a flip here, a twirl there – shyly pushed behind an ear, or wildly dyed. It was long hair; it was part of her “woman-ness”. If there wasn’t any hair to flip and twirl – how on earth could she be, well, her?

The fateful day came. One-week post-surgery, bandage still in place… the waiting room at the doctor’s office earned its name. Her name was called; only a few other times in her life has the sound of her own name been that adrenalin-inducing. The walk down the hall might as well have been up the down escalator. On a boat. In a storm. Thankfully, the boyfriend was there to hold her steady, despite his own fears.

The doctor seemed to be speaking in reverse, after having inhaled Sulphur Hexafluoride.

Then, finally… “You don’t have cancer.”

Breathe.

Don’t. Have. Cancer.

Breathe.

“But…?”

Breathe.

“But… what about my mohawk???”

OK, she didn’t actually say that out loud in the office, but it was in her head. All of a sudden her permission was taken away… and she didn’t even realize she was waiting for “permission.” This disturbed her greatly… For three days she struggled with the conflicting feelings of going for it, and being scared that she’d no longer be pretty, no longer have that “edge.” What if people didn’t take her seriously anymore? What if people became scared of her? What if… What if… What if… What if… ittotallylooksstupidandIregretitandpeoplelaughatme
andmendon’tlookanymoreandandandandand…

ENOUGH!

You just got a new lease on life, woman! Shut up and live already! On your deathbed, do you really want to have a bunch of “Oh, you know what I really should have done…” moments?? NO! Slide in sideways, dammit!

Remember your mantra: DO.

She took off to the mall… looked directly into the eyes of the first available hairdresser and said: “I sincerely hope that I am the craziest person you get to see today.”

–

Why have I told you this story? Because I hope that as you go about your daily routines you’ll ask yourself “What’s stopping me?” I hope that you’ll ask those around you “What’s stopping you?” Act *before* an event such as facing your own mortality; start that business. Turn down a different street. Try something new off the menu. Check things off your bucket list. Wear a different colour. Create your own mantra. Build a school in Africa… doesn’t matter.

Live.

And our heroine? I have a new mantra now:

Instigate.

Let me know when you’d like to come out and play ;)

Life for our heroine started to get into “that” routine.

There didn’t seem to be any point to university, so she went to vocational school to get an Executive Secretarial Diploma (graduated with Honours and was class Valedictorian, thankyouverymuch) because while she knew the university route wasn’t for her right now – neither was working as a waitress while she “found herself.”

She got a job at a very nice office starting off as the receptionist and worked her way up to Manager of the Business Information Centre. She was now married and looking to start a family. Routines started – worked  Monday to Friday, organizing everyone. Life at home had pretty much become a Meatloaf Wednesday existence.

Fast forward a couple of years – she had a wonderful young son, several successful internet-based businesses under her belt, but something just wasn’t right.

Then poof…

She was a (self-appointed) single mom in a new apartment, no furniture and $500 in her pocket.

No matter – you do what you need to in these situations; you suck it up, put your nose to the grindstone and get one of those… job… things. For a job, it was actually really, really good; satisfying, even. There was hope every day she’d get to drive the Bobcat (yes, our gal took a complete 180-degree turn; do you really think, from what you know of her by now, that she’d do something “normal”?) or demolish something. However, she went and opened her big mouth and showed her intelligence. Now she was doing paperwork again… being pushed into office work. Again.

In a way, it was a blessing when the project finished: she was done, through and needed a break and…

…doctors said: “We think you might have cancer.”

Have you ever had one of those moments in your life when you think “Oh, crap… why have I not lived more up to now? How could I have just let all this time I have been given just… slip away???”

That moment was hers.

For two months between tests and surgery, there were a lot of “Why??” questions. Not so much “Why me?” but more like “Why haven’t I been more active in…?” or “Why haven’t I tried more things?”

She made up her mind to do something wild and crazy for herself if the diagnosis came back positive…

So what are you supposed to do after high school? Why, go to university of course!

Thing is – why on earth was she there?

The first year she took all the usual suspects: Anthropology. Astronomy. Calculus. English. French. Sociology. What for? She had no idea. Don’t get me wrong, school wasn’t a chore and she actually loved her Calculus class.

But it just wasn’t her… she couldn’t see herself in any of those professions. What to do? The year was over, she was expected to go back…

Hey… why not take something she’s interested in? Something where you HAD to be creative and a little crazy sometimes? Immediately, she signed up for an interview to be accepted into the faculty of Fine Arts. She’d fit in! She’d get to be creative! She’d…

…fall in love.

All of a sudden her thoughts of a wild career, spotlights, premiers and hobnobbing were replaced with images of white dresses, picket fences and baking.

Oh dear – was she turning into… one of *them*? Was she losing the essence of herself?

Turns out she did, for a while…

As “we” all know, all those “Miss Whatever” pageants are supposed to be the height of all that is feminine, soft and beautiful. You are taught to walk like a model, give impromptu, flattering speeches on a wide variety of subjects and smile enthusiastically when parading around in a bathing suit.

While wearing heels.

While trying not to think of everyone looking at your butt.

There were tiaras to fit around (in? through? in spite of?) hairstyles (this WAS the end of the 80’s…) and evening gowns to alter so that you didn’t trip and expose more than you would in the swimsuit.

Problem was, our fierce heroine, bolstered by all the “You’re awesome! You can do it!” feel-good mantras that were woven through all the training, felt on top of the world. Yes, problem… she was wonderful! She was accepted! She could do anything! She was WOMAN! Not just a woman, a STRONG woman.

So… she took being a strong woman to heart.

There was the one particular “skit” all the girls were to do as an entertainment part of the competition. They were to all to go on stage, one by one, prance around showing off “moves” of a sport they chose, go to the microphone, give a trite, feel-good 20 seconds of… something to do with how they were all awesome with cute plays on words to tie it in to the sport she chose… then go to the back of the stage and pose while smiling.

Each girl came out in turn; we had tennis with it’s cute little skirt and headband, there was volleyball all sporty and bouncy and then golf with jaunty little crop pants and cute poses with the club.

The gasp from the audience was audible when our herione came out on stage…

…wearing a lumbar support belt while pumping iron.

Well, she couldn’t very well ride a horse out on stage and start a dressage routine, right?

So, shortly after, she got the good news that she didn’t need to worry about sticking around her hometown for the next year and represent the city at various events wearing a tiara and a sash – she could continue wearing a lumbar support belt at her leisure.

Off to university, because she’d find her calling there? Right?

Hmmmm….

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Ah, adolescence. As if emotional extremes aren’t bad enough to handle, then they throw in acne and boobs.

Our heroine started growing up – and out. All that baby chub was now migrating (for the moment…) and all of a sudden the boys who were taunting and beating her up before were nice. The attention she was getting was finally nice!

Or was it?

She was still different. Gaining confidence, she started asserting her individuality, the quirkiness… and soon found out, again, that no – this wasn’t what the masses wanted. We have all been teenagers – fitting in is what we try to do. The attention was suddenly not so nice, became unfriendly again. Who she was still wasn’t “good enough.” So, wearing baggy clothes to hide from (seemingly) negative attention, she tried to yet again melt into the background to please everyone around her: not stand out, not complain. Conform.

One day, in Grade 12, she got an opportunity to feel special – like a queen even. She entered to run for one of those “Miss Hometown City” pageants…

…even there, she had trouble following the rules. When it came to choose a sport to depict in the “Fitness Skit,” most people couldn’t believe what she chose…

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There once was a short, chubby girl. She did what she was told, worked hard and was being groomed for a life to follow in her family’s footsteps. All the adults knew she was going to be a brilliant scientist and did everything in their power to expose her to everything she needed to learn. She was going to have it better than her parents ever did.

Academics itself wasn’t the problem – school was easy, doing homework wasn’t a chore. It was *being* at school that was the issue; she was… different. Oh, she tried not to be, tried to smile and laugh off the cruel taunts and the weekly, if not daily, physical attacks. She’d hide the bruises on her legs by always wearing pants, and, really – she had lots of long hair so it wasn’t noticeable that some of it was pulled out.

She was a very good learner – learned quickly that if you don’t want that kind of attention, you simply didn’t do anything different from anyone else, especially if you looked different/not how you should. Be quiet, shut up and do your work.

Then along came the teenage years…

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