The Two Ends of My Life

There exists some cheesy bumper sticker somewhere that says, "I have gone to find myself. If I should come back before I return, please hold me here until I get back."

Or something equally vague.

That's how I feel about myself lately. I don't know who I am. I don't know where I belong. I don't know how I got this fat. I don't know how much longer I'll be able to get away with saying, "When I grow up I'll _____________ (get married, have kids, join the Peace Corps). I'm very restless and unsettled, and fighting the various dichotomies that exist in my head is more exhausting than I have the energy for.

Through all of this, though, two things remain my stable rock: Every year, for 5 amazing days, I don't need to look for myself; and I'm still too fat for the bike ride.

Let's break those down, for they in and of themselves are two diametrically opposed concepts that collide every year.

I fancy myself a caver. Truth be told, I haven't done any real caving in a very long time. But I still love the sport, love the environment, but most of all, love the people. Cavers, by their very nature, are a diverse lot. We're poor, rich, thin, fat, hardcore, armchair, modest, whore-ish, Republican, Democrat, passionate, accepting people. We don't care who you are, where you work, where you went to college, what you drive, where you live, or any other superficial symbols of success mandated by the real world. We just care that you care about caves.

It is amongst these people that I fit in. Not just because I care about caves. Because among these people, I don't have to be anyone other than what I am. They gather without judgement, accept without exclusion, and love without regard for status.

Every year, for five glorious days over Labor Day, these people gather, Woodstock-like, in a field in West Virginia. There is no agenda other than to have fun, hang with your friends, and observe the closest to utopia I've ever found. For those who have never been, it's impossible to do it justice with these descriptions. For those who have been, descriptions aren't necessary - it's an unspoken common bond and language that ties us all together.

For 5 amazing days, something akin to a tent city pops up on 18 little acres on Back Road 38 (no, really, that's it's name). 1500 people come from all over the country, and hour by hour, a modern-day refugee camp is erected, grotto by grotto, until everyone gathers at the river on the final day to eat, drink, and engage in just enough debauchery to eliminate 1500 names from the "Potential Future Presidents" list.

Here, I needn't contemplate my place in the world. I needn't worry that I'm being judged on how I look, what I'm wearing, or how many letters are behind my name on my business card. Here, I don't spend even one brain cell thinking about landscaping the lawn, web usability testing, or the never-ending list of extra-curricular chores waiting for me back home. Here, life is stress-free, and I get to be me, free of judgement, free of expectations, and free of the little reminders of life's little failures.

Except for that darned motorcycle.

In this field, 20 years ago, I met someone who made my life very complicated, yet very peaceful. He rides motorcycles. Every year, he rides up on his bike, we sing the "Cool Rider" song from Grease II, we mock each other for ever having watched Grease II, and I am reminded of the one thing I can never escape, no matter how far I go.

I'm too fat for the motorcycle.

For 20 years I have wanted a ride on the back of that cycle. And for 20 years, he has said no. He's too polite to say it's because I'm too fat and he doesn't want to do wheelies through the mountains of West Virginia. He's too polite to make up any excuse, for that matter, other than, "I don't like riding people on the back of the bike."

But my skinny sister, and my skinny cousin have both graced the back of that bike, 100 miles-an-hour, hair on fire, screaming down the straightest stretch of road in the Mountain state.

One thing. That's all I've ever wanted.

Well, two things. I wanted honesty about why I couldn't have a ride. That lack of honesty and candor, despite the fact that it might hurt my feelings, has been one of the things that has complicated our lives over the last 20 years.

Yet another thing that fat has gotten in the way of.

So, for 5 days every year, I run between the ends of the rope that are spread over both ends of my psyche. Acceptance, love, and forgetting who I am in the real world on one end.....reminders of my failures always creeping under the surface on the other end.

Whilst I'm off looking for myself, I hope to figure out what my overwhelming need to surround myself with fat is protecting me from, why I can't do what I know is best for myself, why I settle for so much less than I am capable of or deserve.

And whilst I'm off looking for myself, if I come back, please sit me on a bench, hand me an ice cream cone, and tell me to stay put until I get back.

Or something equally vague like that.