Mapquestless

There are times when I feel like something is so distinct and peculiar there must be a metaphor hidden there somewhere. Other times, something is just so damn obvious that I am a victim of a metaphor bitch slap. The other day was one of those times.

OK, so this is cheesy and obvious. Don't think "Jen's turned into Kitchen Soup for the Soul or something" I need something to write about. This blogging thing is a big personal goal, and this is just a place to restart - you metaphor snobs, you.

So, back to my story... I was walking alone in the local park (Kenana). I was keeping a good pace, heart rate was up, I was enjoying the Robert Frost-like trails surrounded by bare trees and crisp air. I am trying to get to know this park better - there are tons of trails going in every direction and I want to know them well enough that I can walk in the park, decide I want, say, a 3-hour walk and know what trails will give me that. Actually, every time I go I get annoyed. Annoyed that the trails aren't marked or colored or something, so that a simple map could tell me this information without me spending all my time trying to figure it out (put me in a city or town and I always know my way...if lost in the woods I'd be one of those people walking in circles for days. I never remember where a trail goes. It's sad, I know.) . I follow a trail I think I know and suddenly find myself in an open field with a lot of standing water and mud. My pace grinds to a halt as I scan what is before me: mud and dung (Robert never mentioned dung, the dick) or returning the way I came. That's when I saw the symbolism that was too obvious to ignore.

I came here to get off the marked trails - I didn't really want to, I mean it would be sort of comforting to be fulfilled by the path most traveled by - you know where it leads and what to do. You just enjoy the walk. But I was drowning in sadness and anger and frustration (I just got my personal passport from Peace Corps and my photo from 1998 looks like I am ten years older than I look now). I needed a new trail - my own. BUT, and there always is one...I still want that comfort, that knowledge that the marked trails provide. Even after jumping across the ocean and landing in a random town where no one knows me, or my former creation of me, I am still fighting what I know I need. That full plunge is so...overwhelming.

The field was the end of even the unmarked trail - just openness with a lot of mess and I really had to just slosh around a bit until I found and opening that looked like it could lead some place. Like I said, I went from this brisk pace to almost a dead stop. I am at that "almost dead stop" now. Every day passes by me with lightning speed. I don't feel like I do anything or accomplish anything from when I wake to when I sleep. My former self still hangs around screaming about to-do lists and goals. I mentioned in a previous post what I felt like upper-class and working-class women do to avoid dealing with their lives. I didn't mention the middle-class. It was too true, too painful to admit. This is what middle-class women do: we become workaholics. We eat and drink and breathe to-do list and meetings and lots of busyness. I DO still want that, but not as a means of avoidance. And I want to let myself stand or slow down, if that's what I need to do. I just don't know when goals are there for my self-growth and when they are there for avoidance. And I don't know when standing is processing or checking-out. I'm hard on myself - it feels like I go from avoidance to checking-out. Perhaps I do.

In the end I found a way out without going backwards, though my running shoes were mud-soaked in the process. I walked back home through the main strip in the park. Everyone stared at my shoes - I mean, they were COVERED in mud. This is not something people do here, like it's not something people do often in the States - you stick to the clean trails, the trails you know. My reaction to their reaction was two-fold. One, I was proud that I got off the beaten path and was showing people there were other things to do in the park but stick to the safe grounds. Two, I was ashamed. It was clear. It was all over my shoes. I fucked up and had no idea where I was going. I've never been that girl. It's hard. It's hard to wear that truth on your sleeve, or in this case, on my shoes.