Conformity, is it comforting?

I was looking at the little "key" card I use to grant entrance to the office.  It tracks my moves, allows entry and exit - without it, I am not recognized as a citizen of my employer's world.  This little plastic card that clips to my pants pocket holds such power - it is entrusted to keep out the unwanted or unauthorized.   Miraculous little device yet quietly devilish forcing us to conform to standards and track our moves.  

There once was a time when I threw that card to the ground (really the top drawer of my desk), stepped over it and said - "no way, man!  I'll just buzz the receptionist when I want entry."   But that gets old, and after awhile the receptionist grows tired of the interruptions - there is leaving to go to other parts of the building for meetings, to meet with co-workers, go out to lunch, come back from lunch, numerous bathroom trips - even more numerous if  you drink as much water and tea as I do.   Eventually, I became tired of the dirty looks and the snail's pace in which she lifted her hand from the mouse that is navigating the game of solitaire, to move it 6" to buzz me in.  Exhausting, I know.   So, I gave in.  I conformed.  Here's my ode to that little white menace of a card.  

 

Keyless Entry

By Stephanie

I have denounced you and all that you stand for, yet I am a slave to your power.

Without you, I am alone, on the other side of the glass with only fingerprints to mark my existence, mindlessly gazing upon myself and buzzing the receptionist to grant my entrance.  

You came into my life and appeared harmless, ghostly and as thin as a credit card. Soon I would learn you are more dangerous than fluctuating APR’s and hidden fees, because you know my every move.  When I enter, when I leave, I can’t ever be alone in the building without your menacing swagger, you hang around my neck or are shackled to my hip like a deranged chastity belt intended to keep me from giving birth to new ideas.   

Your intention was never limited to simply allowing access to the building. I knew you couldn’t be trusted from the first day I clipped you to my three piece pant suit and waved you over the sensor to activate my ID.  Even when not in use you revel in your authority, threatening a revolt against the residents of my handbag - eyeglasses, makeup, checkbook, perfumed body spray; nothing is safe from your silent chiding, your presence is as chilling as the shrill tone you exclaim when stimulated.

To come to this level of dominance you must have disclosed corporate espionage or used your electromagnetic charisma to wipe their minds.  For when I predicted your plastic conquests, they all laughed at me from behind their piles of spreadsheets, glued to their 9-5 destinies.

Now gone are the days of 10:30 arrivals, shoe shopping at lunch, discussing boys with the girls around the water cooler, and forget about getting a jump on the weekend, you have re-programmed my mode with your cold little heart that stands guard and rules the passage between occupation and reality. 

It's just a number, right?

I'm 37.  I know!  Dear reader, you couldn't guess by looking at my profile pic; then again, if you went by my profile pic you would think that I am an egg, dressed as a man, sitting along  a riverstone wall, along side a clear blue stream.   I digress...

I am fast approaching the, <gulp> 40.   I'm thinking...I'm analyzing, I'm living.  It's like throwing a bunch of stuff up against the wall and seeing what sticks.   I'll do yoga, work hard at my job and see where it takes me, sign up for the crochet class, take spinning classes 3x/week, learn how to make croissants (my most favorite of all things that are being throw against the wall), be a better partner, friend, daughter, sister, neighbor, citizen of the world.  When it comes down to it...I do 1, well, maybe 2 each week.  Everything else, falls to the side and here I am.  I  feel unfulfilled.  F*CK!  (I'll cuss every now and then..don't worry) Why do we have a conscience or this inner urging that says, "hey, wake the hell up..."  Life is calling.   

In astrology, when you are approaching 30 you experience something called a Saturn Return - it' s when Saturn returns to the position it was in when you were born. Saturn is the reality check, a cosmic kick in the pants that says, grow up or shut up.  I thought 30 was wicked...40 is 2.5 years away and I am feeling the burn like a large person after an advanced level step class. Damn, my glutes are sore, but I keep going because I know the pay off is there. 

Shut up or grow up?  I think I can live with that and choose both options - dependent upon the day. 

One thing I have come to learn, you can't fight city hall nor can you stop the ticking hands of time.  So, what to do?   What a life we live.  I think I am going to throw away my watch.

86,400 Seconds

By Stephanie

Time

Disrupts the art of living

Basing our days on 86,400 seconds as

The dark veil of the night’s sky

Has drawn herself tightly

Amongst the crocheted sweater

That houses in its pocket

The tissues of tears you have wept

Because of the lack of time

Patience is illogical

It is another word that exits your lips

Amongst other words that have meaning

But lack the sensitivity they so lovingly deserve

All because you didn’t have time to

Fit them with their own delicious adjectives

And you failed to provide the action verb

That causes a series of syllables to jump off the page

And catch the reader’s eye

All because you didn’t have time.

Thoughts on Motherhood...

When a woman reaches a certain age and has made the decision not to have children, people often question.  She often questions her own thinking.  What kind of woman am I?  I know I would be a great Mom. I have a great Mom and know plenty of great Mom's. Child rearing is just not where my head or uterus are at this moment in time.  I contemplate the decision every now and again, and reconcile in the best manner I know how- in a strange poetic way. 

A bouncing baby…

These words are property of this blogger.  If you reprint, you must recognize their rightful owner.

Today, I put a basketball under my shirt. I wanted to see what it felt like to have a belly that wasn’t the result of overdosing on Oreo Cookies, but I’m still not sure what it would feel like because the child, I lovingly named Voit, didn’t shit itself or cry for a nipple to suckle upon. 

How could I make an accurate assessment of what it would feel like to be a Mama if my round, orange off-spring didn't emit needs for feeding, bathing, nurturing, rides to school, go-kart racing, guitar lessons?  Voit has simple requests: fill to the proper inflation weight, dribble with a nimble hand, and then lay up or dunk into a net.

What about the quality time? I can barely give Voit the time he deserves now!  Rarely, a game of Horse on a Saturday afternoon, and occasionally some free throw shooting on a Thursday night.  I couldn’t make it to the Sweet Sixteen or Championship Games.  And, it wouldn’t be for my lack of trying. I believe that some people are cut out for this type of full court play. Me? I’m a traveler, and it’s hard to find luggage that matches Voit’s orange, dimpled skin.

Liberation!

I often wonder why Humpty Dumpty fell off the wall... was it his egg shaped physique that threw him?  Perhaps he was contemplating the great mysteries of life.   And, why couldn't all the king's horses and men put humpty together again? 
Well, like Humpty, I like to sit on walls and contemplate life.  Some days I fall and it seems like nothing can put me together again, but then there are other times I fall, cracked open, exposed and vulnerable, interestingly enough, I rise.  I am amazed at our resiliency.

This is my first post, and I guess like most people who create a blog site they are either bored, contemplating, looking for their voice or an audience to listen to them.  I think I am all of the above.  I feel like I need a little reflection... who I am and where I am going next.  Life is good, but is there more?  I don't mean that in a selfish manner - grateful for what I got, but something is eluding me and perhaps a little free form verse on a public blog, instead of hiding away in my composition books of short stories or verse will be a bit more liberating. 
Here goes... oh yeah, and be patient...centuries later, even the greatest of minds haven't figured out what constitutes existence other than that - I type, therefore I am.  And, I am not interested in arguing about wax.