“Tryin’ to stop the waves behind your eyeballs,
Drop your reds, drop your greens and blues.”
There have been countless times that I’ve gotten into the car, and just sat there. I sit, entombed in my machine, wondering where the fuck I went wrong in life. Why don’t I have a better job, a better house, kids that love me, a husband that cares about me, and maybe even some sort of rocking body that people would envy. I wonder what ever happened to that girl that used to play with Barbie dolls and….
wait a minute….
I did play with barbie dolls, but really…I had more barbie CARS than I ever did Barbie stuff. I could care less about what the hell she was wearing, it was what she was driving with was so much more important. Was she going to drive her convertible corvette or was it going to be a red mustang sort of day? I sit in my car, I wonder what life would be like if I were Barbie. I’d probably have those kids, that house, that husband (Ken…I’d have Ken and his non anatomically correct package). I shake my head, I realize that’s not me. I’m fooling myself. I get depressed.
Really. Fucking. Depressed.
This is where you cue up Exile on Main Street and get lost in some passionate, gritty rock that hits you right in your midsection like some sort of emotional sucker punch. With the sadness of realizing I’m not where I should be, I realize that I’m probably where I need to be at this point in my life. With the opening couple of licks from “Rocks Off” i melt into this puddle of what I like to call “fuck it” and ponder life. I spend lots of time in my car, I spend lots of time pondering life, I also spend lots of time shaking my fist…but that’s for another day.
Why is it, however, that this fictitious perfect family scenario is so deeply carved into my frontal lobe. Why do I want the house, the kids, the husband, the damn golden retriever asleep in front of a fire place named Spot. All of those things that I see other people having, why do I want those things? Are they really as awesome as they seem in movies/public/my brain? Then the song changes and typically by then I get myself motivated to drive.
“He ain’t tied down to no home town,
Yeah, and he thought he was wreckless”
Torn and Frayed comes on and I start to realize that I’d be the worst stereotypical “mother” in the entire world. I’m selfish, I care only about myself, and I’d probably end up on the news for leaving my child on top of the car. My lifetime of experiences, good and bad, would follow me into my parenting and I’d probably turn my kids into little criminals. They’d not graduate high school, they’d work at a truck stop (which there is absolutely nothing wrong with that), and they’d probably never speak to me after leaving the house at a ripe age of 16. The girls will get knocked up, the boys will knock girls up, there will be drugs and booze. There will be fights, lots of those….but chances are, I’d probably still love them, but hate myself for thinking that there was any way in the world I could pull off such a gig.
With all this pondering, the music melts into Loving Cup….
“See your face dancing in the flame,
Feel your mouth kissing me again,
What a beautiful buzz, what a beautiful buzz,”
Aaannndd suddenly I realize that that concept of a “perfect husband” probably doesn’t exist. The concept of having somebody want to see my face in a flame and kisssing and all that sappy stuff doesn’t really exist, does it? Are there really people out there that feel that way, and if so, what the hell is the chance that they’d cross into my existence? Getting a beautiful buzz, now that’s something that comes when you have those butterflies in your belly when you see the one you love. The person that you cuddle up next to every night buzzes your brain better than any drug and you’re in a love sick puppy state. Sigh, and how long does that last, you reckon? At least until your kids are out of diapers,
“I need a love to keep me happy.”
That damn song always comes on right when I’m getting over the fact that there isn’t a perfect relationship, and again, it whirls me in another direction. He’s right, he sings those words, with so much passion, and makes so much sense. Alone. Finding yourself alone because you’ve been pondering stuff too much and spending time in your car too much too. Love keeps people happy, I think that’s why they have pets, but they die. They have relationships, but fight. They know what makes them happy, companionship, love….then luckily enough Turd On the Run comes on (which is a freaking amazing name for a song…
“Begged, promised anything if only you would stay,
Well, I lost a lot of love over you.”
How many times have I throw myself at the feet of someone and begged? Honestly only once, and it didn’t work so I didn’t try it again. How many times have I made promises. Eh, too many, but that’s not the point. Losing love is worse than having it in the first place. I have been the turd on the run, I have run after turds. I think about those turds. They were, well, turds. At the same time, I have to self reflect on who I am and why I think I deserve a turd, and more importantly why I treat other people like turds. I hang my head and for the next eight minutes I self loathe and wonder to myself if there is any sort of support group out there for turds. I also say the word turd out loud and sort of giggle. It’s a funny world.
Before funk sets in any deeper, Shine a Light comes on….
“When you’re drunk in the alley, baby, with your clothes all torn
And your late night friends leave you in the cold gray dawn.
Just seemed too many flies on you, I just can’t brush them off.”
There is a light out there, the light that shines on you comes from, well, you. You can’t expect a scenario, a person, or a social status to provide you with the inner light of happiness. The song spills wisdom and I find myself singing along like some sort of American Idol reject, grooving to the salty guitar licks and rolling down the windows. The personal capsule that I created for myself in the cabin of the car suddenly seems too small. I need air, I need sun, I need the world to share in my vibe.
Then someone usually flips me the bird or cuts me off, and out comes the Turd word again (rhymes, freaking awesome).
Moral of the story, listening to Exile On Main Street in it’s entirety is better than therapy, better than fighting, and probably better than having kids.
After the emotional roller coaster I usually stop and get a beer. It’s tough being me.