Racing

"I've stopped racing to get to the red light."--Kyle Chandler in June 2011 Men's Journal

Let's just stop here and get one thing straight:  I normally wouldn't pick up a Men's Journal, even if it was the last magazine on planet Earth.  I'm more of an All You, Ladies Home Journal, Good Housekeeping kind of gal.

But, I found myself staring at a cover picture of Mr. Chandler with a title that read "A Serious Hang with the Last Solid Dude" and I was mesmerized.  After all, he was the bomb in the short lived, but highly acclaimed, Homefront, a post-WWII look at several families and their return (or lack thereof) to normality.  I hear Friday Night Lights was a joy ride, too;  never watched a single episode.

If he is what the article cracks him up to be, Kyle totally earns the title "dude".  He's a guy's guy who still manages to be kind to the core.  He's the kind of person you wish you'd known before he became an "it" man because, even with all his success, he'd call you down if you didn't tow the line.

But, this quote was what really got me.  It was one of several I could have been drawn to from the article, but it was the only one I felt the need to write down.   It spoke to me on a really down-deep level.

I think I've lived most of my life racing to the red light.  Sometimes, it was a literal red light and I was using my VW Fox to try and outpace a souped-up Corvette.*

Oftentimes, it was the red light of some imagined accomplishment:  the next promotion at work, the next committee to chair, the next date to schedule.

But, something in me snapped about the time I hit 40.  Somewhere in there, I began looking at the red lights differently.  I realized the rat race wasn't all it was cracked up to be.  I didn't feel the need to chair the PTA, teach Sunday School, create picture-perfect meals, and be perfectly coiffed and showered, ready for s.e.x. every night of the week.  There was just no dang way I could do all those things without something falling short.  And, generally, it was the most important of those things that suffered.** 

Then I realized that I didn't care what other people thought of me.  If they were repulsed by the fact that my hair often resembled something that just crawled out of bed after a much-too-late bender, fine.  If they didn't like my "natural, no make-up needed" look, OK.  If they thought I could stand to lose a few pounds, let them work out for me and I'd burn calories on the sidelines, via osmosis.  My kids?  Not perfect.  My marriage?  Could use a little work.  In short, I was very NORMAL.  It was just those around me, who were still trying to race to the red light, holding up the "I'm perfect, my kids are perfect, and I have marital relations 2.7 times per week" that were screwed up.

Shortly after that, I discovered that forgiveness in my life was of such extreme importance that I could hardly stand another day without it.  I started with myself;  that took a LONG time.  Then, I started working with other people whom I had wronged.  And, one at a time, I humbled myself long enough to make things right.  I also discovered that forgiveness is a life-long process;  there are still plenty of people that I probably need to talk to.  But, I'm waiting for God to lay them on my heart.

This year I realized I wasn't living up to who I could be as a Mother.  So, I decided to put my needs second and my kids first during that all important, between school and bed, time.  I have been rewarded more than once by Hooman, who has noticed the change and commented on it "Gee, Mom.  You do so much for us.  Thank you."  The compliments have been flowing more freely from Nickels, too.  And, surprisingly, I'm more fulfilled in my life than I thought I could be, considering the chunk of time that I just readily gave away.

I can hardly wait for the next revelation.  While I complain that getting older isn't for sissies, that it oftentimes sucks, and that I can't believe how old society THINKS I am, I wouldn't change my age for the world. The wrinkles and cellulite, however?  Do you have a New York minute?  But, I wouldn't trade those for the freedom I feel in my mid-40s.

So, next time you see me at a red light?  With the dude behind me cursing because I moved so slowly getting there?  With my hair all funky, my face bare, and my clothing a little wrinkled?

You can send a fan mail thank you to Mr. Kyle Chandler.

 
 *Doesn't work, incidentally.

**Use your friggin' imagination.