Jamie Lee

Lady Marlin

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Something really grown up is happening.  In fact, I’ve been heard gasping, “life is happening!” on numerous occasions to several wonderful people who make my world go round.  And on the contrary, it’s also been brought to my attention that some things haven’t happened at all.  Here’s the mature yet static line-up:

My oldest and longest best friend, the one I used to play motorcycle mamas with, is getting married to an older, successful man.  When that day comes, I know she’ll be the most beautiful bride I’ve ever seen and her walk down the aisle will be perfection – I mean we’ve only been practicing “the walk” since we were three.

My most fun friend, my crazy counterpart, the one I’ve danced with in tutus on tops of furniture in after hours nightclubs and other louder-than-life establishments is considering starting a non-profit, and might even leave Sin City in her Jordan hightops’ dust once and for all.

The number of friends with babies is really starting to rival the number of those without.  And as far as I’m concerned, you really shouldn’t have a baby in a bar.

Men look at me like I’m supposed to be someone’s wonderful wife, and are completely baffled to learn that no one has locked me down yet. They also vocalize that all my boyfriends should have known better.  I accept the compliment and ponder the reality.

And my guy’s little guy, we’ll call him Kyle, wishes I’d turn 30 because he feels like that’s a “nice age” for me to “become a wife and mom.”  It is currently 8 days before my 29th birthday.

Yes, I’m pretty wide-eyed and in awe of all of this life happening before me.  I also keep myself quite busy reassuring everyone else that I really am OK with my unwed relationship status and unused childbearing hips, which is actually a great relief – this contentment just might be the single thing I’m not bat shit crazy about.   I’m calm and going with the flow, I just don’t see what the big rush is.  So after the fourth, “when are you going to marry my dad?” inquiry of the summer, I took a stab at real talk.  I explained to Kyle that I like being a girlfriend and dating, because once we get married, I’ll never date again, and I really enjoy dating.  His mind was blown to bits; and as he skipped off, the way all small 6-year olds do, he looked at me like, “You pick up my confused bits, Smilfy.”  And so I did.  I know he’ll need them for the next time he tries to will a marriage on me.

People, children especially, crave structure and tradition and stability.  I get that.  I also feel it – on occasion, about some things.  Thinking back, I know that I shared Kyle’s enthusiasm for marriage when I was young and wore an unbroken heart on all my sleeves, but like I said, life happens – things like divorce, infidelity, career ambition, and newly single moms who don’t know who they are at age 42 because they’ve been married since they were 18 tend to tarnish the shine that matrimony used to gleam when my best friend and I took turns playing the dashing groom and white pillow case veiled bride. I’d like to say that all of this romantic experience and observation has made me vigilant, because it sounds more eloquent, but the truth of it is, I’m just scared.

My boyfriend, the one I’m enjoying dating and calling my bf, recently compared me to a marlin.  He says it took him well over a year to reel me in; I just wouldn’t come aboard.  And that even now, it occasionally looks like I might just jump ship with no notice, for no clear reason at all.  I looked into his soft, lash-lined blue eyes and gripping, expressive eyebrows and felt equal parts guilty and glad.  Guilty, because, in hindsight, I probably didn’t need to put up such a long fight; especially when I could feel his adoration for me from the moment we met.  My gladness though, that was a proud feeling.  I could picture it – I was a majestic marlin thrashing in a sea of house music, resisting his affection for fear of losing my sense of self, my independence, my balance, my single status.  Aren’t all fish afraid of getting hooked?  I was actively fighting for me – the only person who I could ever really rely on.  I fought and I fought.  And then I let myself get caught.

I watched Kyle walk ahead of me – kicking rocks in his path, still shaking off bits of his mind – and made a Smilfy promise to fortify his big heart in the same way I have learned to protect mine.  He will grow to know that love is as grand and real as it feels; more important than even the best storybook could detail; more special than a box of candy; feels more magical than a bear hug; more fun than riding with no handlebars; and worth waiting for, because when you’re beautiful and independent – even if you are a little scared – only the strongest fisherman will do, and in the mean time, it’s best to enjoy the waves, they’re the journey that majesty is made of.

Saint She

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When a young woman flies an airline with zero status a few unfamiliar things happen: she boards nearly last and undergoes/ignores curious and bored stares from sardined passengers who have already fastened themselves into their seat belt as if claiming uncharted land; she gets to sit in the window seat instead of the coveted aisle – which has always felt like such a trap; and she, quite surprisingly, re-discovers herself.

Today she wears sunglasses, as all cool yet aloof girls do, and she actually looks beyond her smoky lenses and through the window her new seat has afforded her.  Alas, this real estate may be more “excuse mes” away from the lavoratory than a hydrated young lady would prefer, but it also offers something unexpected, and splendid – the great wide world in the shape of an oblong rectangle for as far as little brown eyes can see, which is plenty far for her.  And today, she just so happens to need to see her world.  As her anomalous aircraft takes-off she numbingly looks down at the routes she cruises, the places she frequents, the mountain she hikes, the life she lives and the memories she makes.   Today she is leaving most of what she knows behind for a new world she knows nothing of.  A world of splendor, religion, and tradition – a far away world that she knows nothing about and this makes her heart skip a beat.

There’s always been love, to some capacity at least.  To her, love is all there is.  It can take her places, and then bring her home again.  It is as right as the rain couples embrace under, as true as the beat in her fighting heart and as extraordinary as an Arizona sunset.  Love is what makes her world at peace.  She isn’t a hippy.  Not really, anyway.  She is, however, an absolute romantic, sort of a heartbreaker and, even though she wouldn’t know what to do with a beautiful ending, an inconsistent ever-after seeker.

She has always brought love, evoked love, made love.  She’s even made a few men pine for and fall in love with her in just a single night’s time – quite frankly, this is most of all she’s ever known.  And this inspires her.  You see, to her there is no “happy ending,” because that concept is yet to exist, assuming that it really does, of course.  She revels in the now so hold on tight.  She is the woman who reveres her past even if it’s sticky for the simple truth that it’s made her who she is today; impulsively and passionately makes the most of her present; and bashfully throws out a rope to wrangle her future half accepting that it might not catch anything proud or pretty.   Despite all this, she is an opportunist; she is heartfelt and kind, playful and fun; and she loves.

She is the type of lover who smiles at her suitor; finds the good in him, and commends him so; she laughs with him; encourages his story-telling; cheerleads his dreams, caresses his arm; leans on his shoulder; and looks longingly into his eyes as if she’s been searching for him all along.  No, she isn’t methodically misleading him into serving her the full moon on a silver plated platter; she’s simply exercising all the female finesse she’s ever known and expecting nothing but the very best from “the one.”

If you’re in search of her, find her.  If you’ve just met her, don’t stop getting to know her.   If you have her, keep her. If she’s left you for another world, ask her to come home.   If you’ve already lost her, hope that the next man realizes her worth.  May there always be red roses and blue violets in her Valentine’s Day.  And may you find your Saint She.

Tick-Tock SMILFy Not

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Thoughtfully, and quite obviously in a pursuit to persuade, last Christmas my mama gave me another charm for my Pandora bracelet.  I laughed aloud when I laid eyes on a silver clock that comically resembles the clock character from the Disney masterpiece Beauty and the Beast, which is, coincidently, her favorite flick and my 2nd grade stocking stuffer.  It sat shiny and ominously in my jewelry box.  I knew without cue that this lovely gift was a small sterling reminder that I should be a more punctual young woman.  Today, nearly one year later and despite that cute clock on my right wrist bone, I still underestimate 15 minutes and am genuinely apologetic when I am tardy to your event – god bless that mama for trying though. 

 

Time and I have rarely played nice.  There’s either been too much of it or not enough; it’s the $1.99 app that underwhelms or the free advice you should deny even if you’re paid.  Either way, we’re never in the same zone.  As of late, my creativity has been challenged by time – my inescapable fault – and fear.  Talk about a conquering humdinger.  It’s been one year since I emotionally and vocally committed to launching my SMILFy blog – and beyond buying the domain and some unfinished, unpublished blogs, I am yet to show anything for it.  Truthfully, I believe in this blog.  I consider it a creative outlet for myself and a resource for other women like me; I even have faith in its brand power and fully intend on cultivating this concept (consider this a warning to those who may try to highjack this business opportunity).  All I have to do is take the first step, post the first blog.  But this step has transformed from visions of rainbow arches to thorny detours – there’s just always been an outside force that’s stronger than time to slow me down. 

 

I fear that launching this expressive blog/potential business may further anger my unpleasant counterpart, thereby flooding my life, as well as my new family’s life, with even more chaos and compromise.  Or worse yet, I fear I will proclaim this endeavor, but never be able to deliver because I wasn’t meant to be a SMILFy after all.  All the while, through all the contemplation, worrywart tendencies, and a collection of content inspiration, the SMILFy blog remains blank and the time on my wrist rests unchanged.   

Funhouse

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A Scottsdale inspired piece written from the perspective of girls I party with, but don’t know much else about.  Scottsdale Fact: the girls who play here are always beautiful, and usually bitchy. 

My mind is racing, but my body is gliding.  It’s important to me to look thin.  I just need to stand up straight, take my time, cross the floor, and then I can breathe just as soon as I round the corner into the ladies room.  I look good in this top.  No, I look great!  I have to.  I mean I haven’t eaten in four days.  The handful of peanuts and the bag of donuts definitely don’t count because I puked them up.  I should chew another piece of gum; this stuff is so delicious.  I think I’m hungry.  I know for certain that I’m drunk.  Please don’t trip.  Although I am sick of these damn tasteless vodka sodas, I’d hate to be wearing it.  Eeeek!  Those guys are looking at me!  They have girls with them, yet they’re checking me out.  I knew that medium was a wise choice.  It’s snug, but it shows me off.  Guys like that.  Right?

“Ahhh,” I exhale aloud as I enter the dimly lit ladies room.  I cannot believe how exhausting it is to suck in all night.  On a more positive note, I can’t believe how well I’m doing it considering how much I’ve been drinking.  I laugh with my reflection for a moment.  We look thin and happy.  This makes us smile.

The bathroom door swings open interrupting my retreat.  In walks an amazingly thin blonde, and out goes my ever-wavering confidence.  We survey one another and share half-hearted smiles.  I pretend to rifle through my clutch, when really, all my focus has shifted to her.  I peek at her as she studies her reflection with familiar scrutiny.  Her floral romper lays flat on her skin, yet she doesn’t look satisfied.  I could never pull off that pattern.  I turn my drunken haze to my own reflection.  It appears tired, disappointed, and enormous.  To me, she looks like Christmas in June, sunny and amazing.  Even I wouldn’t pick me.   Why must I always be the fattest woman in the room?

“Excuse me, my soap is all out.  Ugh don’t you just hate that?” she glances at me, careful not to drip water on my clutch as her frail arm nears the dispenser, and smiles.

Her bones are beckoning me to push them like buttons, “Oh, no problem.  Yah, that’s always so gross.   I mean what if someone needed to wash up to eat or something,” I say relaxing more with each syllable.

“Eeew yah, or what if someone was sick or something,” she says with a curled up nose as she sticks her index finger down her throat and makes a gagging noise followed by a giggle.  “I mean, it just happens sometimes, ya know?” she says with a matter of fact type of tone as she checks her smile in the mirror.

“Absolutely!” I say with newfound esteem, suddenly feeling proud of my bare belly and plunging neckline.  Searching for my lip-gloss I imagine our reflections high-fiving and smile.  I suddenly feel so at ease.  “I am so wasted right now.   If I don’t get out of here soon, one of these toilets will for sure be my new friend.  I mean I haven’t eaten in days, so I’m just getting so smashed!  Well, I’m sure you understand,” I say with a greater emphasis on you than I had intended.

I am expecting her laughter to chime in, or for her to agree in some way, but she is silent.  All I can hear is the bars music pounding on the door, as if it were pleading for her return.  I lift my face to meet her heavy stare.  Her eyes narrow as she looks me up and down.  She grins, turning her attention to herself as she applies lip plumper.

“I hear they have a bacon avocado cheeseburger that’s just ridiculous!”  She tilts her head and poses in the mirror, “Mmm but I think I’m craving the nacho platter.  I’m not really that hungry, but my boyfriend enjoys treating me to dinner, so…maybe I’ll just get both, and kind of nibble.  Although, I definitely want to save room for their brownie dessert!  Have you had it?” she asks without making eye contact and proceeds without waiting for a response.  “And I think I’m done drinking beer for the night, I look like I’m pregnant!” she laughs and pats her remarkably flat stomach, her eyes never leaving her own reflection.

I feel like I’m under a spell.  I can’t stop staring at her reflection.  Every part of her body is taunting me.  She unexpectedly turns for the door, yet my eyes remain fixated where her reflection had been effectively torturing me.  With one swift pull of the handle, the music swallows me.   I turn to watch her go, when she suddenly stops and gracefully twirls to face me.

“Cute top,” she spoke the way your superficially sweet Barbie doll would and looked me square in the eyes.  “I almost bought it myself, but it was too loose around my ribs.  Oh and in my arms.  I was kind of down about it, but now I see that it must have been made for a bigger body type.”

She smirked like she was waiting for me to thank her, adjusted her romper and looked through me as if I were her personal mirror, and then sashayed away to eat a cheeseburger.