Ordinary Rockstar

On Accidental Meetings with Angst
Interior Dash - "All the Minor Adjustments We Need" - E. Howard via iPhone 4 and Hipstamatic

Today I was driving in the minivan across the river, when it hit me.

I needed to screech.

All these letter-perfect songs played themselves out over the speakers all day, telling me that the dull edged blade I was balancing on was tuned just right.

I kept opening my mouth to sing along. But I couldn’t make a sound.

Except to scream at the top of my lungs.

Everybody Hurts. Sometimes.

The most frightening truth I have met while driving around in my life is that no matter how enormous my heart swells, and no matter how many trillions of pieces I feel as though I’ve shattered into, at the end of the day I see that I am (like you and everyone else), quite simply:


I carry around a heavy bridge. I need it for the canyon crossing.  On one side is my tall, lanky, rockstar insides, who says all the right things at the right times and who rolls around in perfect love and desire.

On the other is that stubby, fuzzy-haired suburban housewife. The one I didn’t recognize in the my reflection in that store window.

Most of the time, I am pretty good at dispelling the rockstar. I am grounded. I’ve let bygones be bygones. I push down the teased hair and zen out on the soccer field sidelines. I am one with the juice box.

But once in awhile, by accident, something or someone reminds me of the other possibility. The raking hot coals get stoked because they weren’t ever completely dead. And I look downdowndown. Into a bottomless canyon, swaying on a ropey bridge. My knees shudder and melt away.

It’s hard to identify with “ordinary” at these moments. Even if I know they are.

A few good rockstar screams help.

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