Behind the Mask

Jesse performing Paper Jamz, clad in CVHS wrestling singlet, Jason mask and jeans.

I spend a lot of time performing and hiding behind a somewhat less frightening and certainly less plastic mask. 

I can relate to this picture in ways words can't explain.

••••••••••••••••••••••••••

On the worst days, I not only lack motivation to do my daily tasks, but to even exist at all. Sometimes I drive around to numb the pain - it seems somehow therapeutic. And on those days, anything can get me crying.

I remember one particular day - by all appearances uneventful, but burned into the walls of my brain. I had gone out for a drive with my 1 year old strapped safely in her car seat behind me. She couldn't see what I could see because she is still rear-facing. But even if someone had occupied the empty passenger seat beside me, they couldn't have seen what I saw.

I saw a woman, around my same age. Her hair was pulled up in the back, but it was clear that style was not her priority. She was in the middle of the most mundane of household tasks - a transparent bottle of crystal clear blue window cleaner in her left hand, reaching up with the other and simply washing her windows. She had the front door open, probably to air out the strong scent of ammonia. I'm certain she had no idea that anyone would even notice her, let alone be afflicted by the heavy emotions that would begin to eat at my self-worth like drain cleaner on a clogged pipe.

She was wearing heather gray drawstring sweats and navy tank, but she might as well have been walking out of a Manhattan day spa, every hair pinned perfectly into place with wispy strands framing her face. Somehow, my brain transformed her into nothing less than a supermodel, wearing $300 black crepe wide-leg pant and a silky vintage tank worth more than my wedding ring. The curse of over-exaggeration.

Without warning or reason, mascara stained tears began to stream down my cheeks and neck and my twisted face must have resembled someone in great physical pain. As my chest was heaving, all I could think about were my own windows at home. My sticky, smudged, filthy windows, and how I should be examining them, clenching the bottle full of blue in one hand; waxing-on and off with the other. At the very least, my motherly duties called for sitting in front of the dirty windows, reading books or putting together puzzles with my toddler instead of dragging her around town in a car seat during my self-loathing, wasteful, gas-hogging ride therapy. The cancer of guilt spread quickly.

 

But that's what I do. I look around, see everything I'm not doing proactively, and look right past every insignificant, tiny accomplishment I have achieved, all the while glamorizing the mundane tasks of unassuming strangers. Breaks are not acceptable. Spending time doing things I enjoy is simply not on the agenda. 

It's exhausting! It's degrading. 

I mean, for all I know she had finally emerged from her daily alcoholic hangover! I bet her husband is a complete jerk. Maybe she doesn't even have a husband, like my wonderful, caring and dedicated J.R. You know, what if she had been laid off and had nothing else to do but clean her neglected house? I wonder if she has children - had she ever experienced even 5 minutes of the pride, pure love and heart-bursting joy you are given as a parent? Heaven forbid, what if she had recently lost a loved one?

Or maybe. 

Just maybe.

She likes window washing.

I compare myself with complete strangers. It's just what I do. I wish it would stop. I long for the power to control my disillusioned perspective.

But not today - there are no comparisons today.

Today, I was that woman. 

As I felt my fingers squeeze the trigger and heard the foamy liquid softly cover the glass, the image of the model window-washer flashed through my mind and I felt something I don't feel very often. I felt a simple pride, or satisfaction if you will.

I was washing my windows. And I wasn't in sweats and a tank; not in $300 wide-leg pants either, but dressed in layered cotton tops, dark designer jeans (on sale and a STEAL) and houndstooth ballet flats. I was window washing and I actually felt OK for a few minutes. I felt like I was doing what I ought to be doing.