Transparent Tuesdays

Issue 231

You guys,

I turned forty today, which means I’m wise, and also a little scared of falling down the stairs. 

My toddlers love to hang out on the stairs in our home even though we have a rule about that. Every time I see them lingering I say, “Up or down, no playing on the stairs,” to which they inevitably assure me they are going up or down, even though it looks very much like their butts are planted on the eighth step and toy trains are traveling from east to west. 

My parents were surprised when they came to visit at how much we didn’t pay attention to them when they’re in the stairwell, given our helicopter tendencies. We’re up and down the stairs forty times a day, so I don’t think much about the danger of them tumbling down hardwood. I only think of it when I’m on the stairs with them. We appear to be moving, though to an outsider it might seem as though we’re not. There are usually too many things being carried up or down—water bottles, books, bristle builders, cardboard boxes—so things are dropped and need to be collected again. 

It’s during these moments when I start to imagine which parts of my body would break and how it would feel and if I would survive it. I never used to think these thoughts when I was younger. It didn’t even cross my mind that I would fall, but if it did, I’m sure I wouldn’t have thought too hard on it because I would have just assumed that I’d bounce and roll and jump right up to my feet and laugh about what an idiot I was for falling down the stairs. 

Now, because I’m forty, when I’m close to the top and have these thoughts I squeeze the banister or push my hand into the wall. I lean my body slightly forward for balance. This was something my high school track coach taught me and to be honest, it ruined my running form and my posture for years. 

Coach Kit said—probably in an off-hand way that he didn’t know would have such an impact on me—to lean forward when we ran up hills. I started running like this all the time, thinking it would give me some kind of edge over competitors. I leaned slightly forward every time I came around the bend of the track for the last push—that last one hundred or two hundred meters of the 800 and 1600 meter race. 

I was a good runner. I would have been really good if I didn’t hate it so much. I peaked sophomore year, breaking a school record in the 4x1600 meter relay. After that I switched to hurdles because hurdles were fun and running was not. 

Sometimes I think of Coach Kit, how disappointing it must have been to have an athlete with so much potential who just laid on the high jump pit before practice each day and whined and moaned as soon as he approached and said something like, “Ugh what are we running today,” and then groaned accordingly based on his response. Sometimes he indulged me, laughed at me, tried to motivate me. He clapped and said, “C’mon, Bleeck, it’s a beautiful day for running.” But sometimes he was so fed up with my complaining he’d say, “I don’t wanna hear it, Bleeck. Let’s go,” and I’d skulk off the mat and follow orders. 

I’m going to tell you something really embarrassing now, because I’m forty, and sharing what embarrasses me is the greatest thrill of my life. 

Sometimes I lie awake in bed at night and imagine I’ve been inducted into my high school hall of fame. I don’t even care about being in the hall of fame, have no desire to be recognized for something I was good at but not great, but nevertheless, I’m standing in my high school cafeteria, where I imagine the ceremony must be held, and I’m giving a speech. So I lay there in bed and practice my speech. 

I went to college for field hockey and the only thing I loved more than field hockey was basketball, but the thing I wanted to talk about today, in my speech, was track, the sport I only participated in because I was a three-sport athlete and had to play a sport, and the only other sport in the spring was softball and I sucked at softball. I didn’t know how to throw the ball and got scared any time a ball came my way, perhaps because when I was in third grade and my brother was in sixth grade we were having a catch in the front yard and he kept throwing the baseball harder and harder, and with each throw I squinted my eyes more and more, until finally my eyes were closed when he pelted the ball and it hit me in the right eye. So I ran track because I was capable and I wanted to keep in shape and I wanted another Varsity letter. 

I lie awake in bed and wonder why I’m thinking about all this, and wonder why I can’t stop thinking about track and how much running taught me, and why the hell my acceptance speech into the hall of fame—which, they probably don’t even do acceptance speeches for that sort of thing—is keeping me awake. I realize I’m rambling now, but I’m forty and I just don’t really care, as long as it’s interesting. As long as it’s interesting it’s worth writing about.

When I was a kid, and for many years after that, I wanted to be a famous actress. I dreamed and fantasized about it for much of my life. It took until 35 years old to realize it wasn’t the acting that appealed to me; it was the fame. It was having all eyes on me and being known for something. 

I’m forty years old today, which means I have the gift of looking backwards and connecting the dots, and it’s only now that the picture is clear. It’s not the hall of fame that appeals to me. It’s the stage and the microphone and the opportunity to stand in front of a group of people and move and inspire them with my story. It’s what I’ve wanted my whole life. And I can finally move towards it. 

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Until next week,

Charlie

P.S. My friend wrote a piece about how we met and I couldn’t stop laughing. I once edited something she wrote and said, “When you talk about how cute your kids are, it’s annoying, and boring.”