Welcome to Nevada

It’s amazing what kind of impact a 45 second change in direction can make. My choice of words is what some might deem ironic (although technically ‘non-impact’ and ‘on-course’ would be the ironic words) given their literal intent. The opening scene: 10am; pure, desert sunshine; crisp, dry, morning air; fresh squeezed orange/carrot juice; convertible top down; CD player set to a crooning Aussie rock band; open highway. A sip of juice and five minutes later another driver forgets to check his blind spot. The closing scene: squealing, fishtailing wheels; burnt rubber; blackened concrete wall; a skid mark spanning four highway lanes and a mangled, leaking, smoking car coming to rest on a bed of jagged rocks.

Aside: Does it seem strange to anyone that there are no airbags deployed in this picture? I will be having a long conversation with Ford on Monday.

That mental video clip has played over and over in my head at least 200 times today and I’m doing my best to avoid contemplating what ‘could’ have happened. I walked away unscathed as did each of my passengers. After the dust settled on my slightly bruised forehead, the tears commenced. I was unharmed and I could not have cared less about my mutilated vehicle. I was crying to drain the emotional panic that had erupted within me because I couldn’t see my husband for the entire 45 second duration of our accident. He had opted to spread out, unprotected across the back seat (giving his best buddy shot gun for our road trip). Until I heard my sweetheart’s voice from behind my headrest, after slamming head-on into a wall of concrete and spinning in a 360 across four lanes of oncoming highway traffic, I had no knowledge of his outcome. The idea of losing my universe of happiness was too much for my psyche to hold inside for long. Traumatic events are a frightening reminder to prioritize.

Hooah

I am in the midst of boxing up my belongings (and thus, procrastinating) and I came across some items in our closet that inspired me to write a brief post: my husband’s old army ranger uniforms in crisp mint and olive. I couldn’t help but run my fingers across the finely pressed collars, yarn-sewn name tags and metallic decor. He served in his youth, long before we met; crawling through swampy murk, defusing land mines, diving through clouds, starvation, push-ups, chin-ups, blisters, frost bite. The words to describe my pride escape me. I married a hero.

On the Road Again

My husband and I are ‘do-it-yourself’ kind of people. Scour your own tiles, spice your own beef, move your own house 2,500 miles across the country… My parents call daily to inquire optimistically about the changing of my mind. But what better way to keep the marital adventure sparks flying than to tow my sweet scarlet muscle car behind a 17’ truck filled sparsely with the trinket-like beginning of our life together? [Rhetorical – I can think of many]. Regardless, this was a long drawn out decision that we made together and I’m looking forward to the endless hours of alone time on the back-country highways.

Alma Mater

Tonight I stood at the front of a room full of ravenously inquiring brilliant minds; young, hopeful, yearning. I began [paraphrase], “Interesting that our firm is presenting to you this evening in this location; I have quite the fond memory of this room because it was within the very same chairs almost 10 years ago that I sat where you are today…” RRRRRiiiiii!!?? [That, if not plainly evident, is my alphabetical representation of a record scratching violently to a halt]. 10 years? Has it really been that long?

What I recall from that fateful 1998 fall evening in the warm confines of the student union building, where I drank hungrily the words of my future colleagues, was pure, intimidation-brimmed excitement. The hymen-tearing “I want to do that” experience; raw, unjaded desire. These consultants represented the brass ring; the fruit of my academic labours. Their delivery was effortless, their passion unparalleled, their culture so obviously unprecedented.

And now I am the embodiment of everything for which I vocationally ached. At least, that’s what I’d like to imagine I exude as I speak with as much confident energy as I can muster to an audience full of Me Juniors; the only thing separating me from them being the words “10 years”. Their drive, their naiveté, it’s so sweetly enviable. The soul of my younger self perches playfully on my right shoulder and mocks, “Oh, for these students to be flies on the wall of your subconscious right about now...”

Control

There are so many tidbits of information orbiting the hemispheres of my cerebral cortex at the moment that I doubt my present ability to write with any clarity. My mind is peppered with the uncertainty of momentous change and the pong-ball mayhem of my endless to dos. Most days I surface only seconds long enough to gasp hungrily for air before sinking again below the weight of my tiring schedule.

Interestingly enough, in the midst of my deep, sparkling chaos my husband and I have begun to consider our family plan. Unbeknownst to him, many a solitary tear has strolled across my cheeks in the last few weeks as a result. If you’ve read my blog for any short period of time, you know how vividly I dream of children. At the same time, a child means absolute upheaval. What I desire most frightens this control freak in much the same way that a dog trembles under the refuge of a dining table in a thunderstorm. The boom of black clouds rioting is enough to send rational consideration out the window. I married my soul mate who promised me partnership for better or worse; regardless, I cannot seem to squelch this innate fear I have of surrendering dictatorial governance over my own well-being. I rule me. I take care of me. I prosper, because of me. This regime, this formula, this methodology - it has worked for decades. Jessica is because Jessica does all and [please pre-excuse my French] I am scared absolutely shitless to let someone else take over. How can a caregiver accept the role of care given? The answer: with a vehement amount of resistance, procrastination and relative anxiety that materializes in the form of needless overexertion. Hence, the periodic tear or two. How else is a wound up girl like me to release those built up bubbles of hesitation?

Today's Carat Word = Patronymic

It’s a curious feeling this “in limbo” thing. I’ve been making slow but sure progress on the legal documentation of my new surname, but I still flinch every time somebody refers to me politely as “Mrs. Clark”. It’s been more than four months (not including the few months prior to my wedding where I whispered my future name to my atmospheric audience and practiced my future signature on newspaper scraps) and the adjustment has not sunk in. What's odd is, the sound of my maiden name in conversation is equally as bizarre. My name no longer rolls off my tongue without conscious deliberation; when somebody asks who I am, I hesitate.

In my honest opinion (because what other opinion would I offer?), the only deplorable thing about marriage is the name update process. Though by law I can call myself whatever I please, by convention I’m a traditionalist who loves the idea of sharing my sweetheart’s patronymic; in symbolic gesture of my gratitude and respect. The administrative hours spent in line at the county clerk, DMV, immigration, Social Security, bank and HR (not to mention countless internet upgrades)…have, although fleetingly, made me consider the sanity of my choice.

Now that I’m nearing the end of the paperwork, I wonder how long it will take for the change to feel natural. New clothes – a few days; new address – a few weeks; new car - a month; new name – to be determined…

Fragrance

“Ooh, but I still smell her. [Inhales deeply through nose] Women! What can you say? Who made 'em? God must have been a fuckin' genius. The hair... They say the hair is everything, you know. Have you ever buried your nose in a mountain of curls... just wanted to go to sleep forever?” - Scent of a Woman

I know each aroma that emanates from my husband and believe it or not, I love every one of them – particularly the scent of his shoulders as my eyes flutter and I curl up against him in those waking moments before the dawn. I love the softness of his breath; the mild sour of his sweat; the apple of his pomade; the sand of his soles; the subtle, entrancing spice of his neck. Whether freshly groomed or leisurely shaggy, he always radiates a hypnotic wonder that paralyzes me. We make for interesting cavies in the study of romantic chemistry.

As I lie next to my husband ingesting his sweetness, or inhale what lingers on his pillow when he is gone, I sometimes find myself considering the importance of aromatic compounds to the success of a relationship. We have been known to writhe in laughter at each other’s unpleasant stories of the fetid clam hatchery and the dime-store musk of former flames. What exactly is it about one person’s hygienic habits that are so repulsive to the first lover, but so palatable to the next? After all that contemplation, all I am left to comprehend is that, whatever olfactory god blessed my husband's glands, he has ruined me for other men.