Respectable

Growing up being respectable meant everything to my mother.

She said things like: Get a good job, always be nice to the people on the way up, because you never know who you will meet on the way down, and the favorite of all mom’s in the ‘60’s—wear clean underwear, you never know when you will be in an accident.

I still strive for respectability and compromise my creativity, work life and friendships to appear ok to family and friends. What if I just blew it off?

Would I dare to live on a beach in Cabo and write murder mysteries (or at least try until the money ran out)? Could I sell off everything and hit the road in a camper with a dozen notebooks, pens and my digital camera and see what I could produce in 90 days? Would I dare publish a scandalous memoir of growing up in Larchmont, where respectability was punctured from time to time by crimes like rape, murder and assault? What about less offenses like teaching young ladies not to sweat, to say please and thank you (when you rather say a four letter equivalent of jack off), and of course to always look presentable. The first tenet of respectability seems to be “presentablity.” Don’t forget—full make up required while running to the store to buy a loaf of bread.

Hog wash. I don’t need to run away to be creative. I want to do my work and be a business woman, and earn the required fortune to stay afloat in NY. And I also want to take the risk, and write the tough stuff. Write the stuff I thought I would take to my grave; write the stuff that is not respectable.

I want to be free to write poems, short stories, letters, and reviews that blow the lid off respectability. I want to be free to be me and to do that I must undo, break free, work hard at recovering my true self. I want to start working out to get stronger physically which I think will also allow me to feel stronger mentally to write the tough stuff.

Why be respectable when you can have fun and just be free?