Identity Crisis

You know how they say there are only 2 certain things in life--death and taxes? Well, I've just found a third: identity crisis. You'd think that by now, I'd be over the whole searching-for-my-identity thing, but the truth is, it's an ongoing process I don't think I will EVER achieve.

When I was a child, I was SHY. I'm not talking about speaking quietly or offering a small smile to strangers. This was painful shyness, one where if I found out we were going to eat out at a restaurant, I was mortified that people might look at me while I ate. With the last name of Frye, I was casually teased by boys who made me horrified of my last name, and if all possible, I would avoid letting people know it. So when a boy happened to pass me at school wearing my same UGLY blue moon boots, I thought I would die. And when my mom made me wear a plastic bag tied around the cast on my leg. And when I found out we were doing all those physical exercise tests in P.E. the only day I decided to wear my tightest pair of jeans. Yeah. Life was tough for a shy girl. I remember coming home from school one day ecstatic because I actually got in trouble for talking in class. Ecstatic...because I had talked...loudly!

Once I reached junior high/high school age, my self-worth was based off of how many friends I had. On the last day of school, I would seek out as many acquaintances as I could to sign my yearbook, so that maybe, when I was looking back at them fifteen years down the road, I might forget that I really only had like five really good friends. I honestly thought that the more signatures I had, the more my life was worth.

This was also the time period where I thought I was nobody because I didn't have a boyfriend. The only girls whose lives I desperately wanted were those who were going out on dates, kissing boys, or holding hands with boys. Even those girls who simply got asked to dance got my full serving of envy. This identity crisis followed me to college.

I was certain that once I reached college, I would meet the man of my dreams, and get married within a year or two. My new identity was "single." Then, something strange happened. I suddenly turned into the world's biggest flirt. I lost my fear of boys, and shyness flew out the window. When I told people that I used to be shy, their mouths dropped open in disbelief. There was no way this girl was EVER shy! I was now officially "flirt." How many guys I had swarming me was the reason for my self-worth. I was now a dating machine, securing dates nearly every single weekend. If I went two consecutive weeks without a date, I thought my life was over. Who I was depended on how many guys liked me.

The one milestone I had desperately wanted to reach since I was probably 3 years old was getting married. Once I got married, all of my problems would magically vanish. I would be an adult, I could handle anything life threw my way, I would be mature, pretty, friendly, successful, and, of course, envied. So, when I finally got that gorgeous engagement ring, I smugly flaunted my new "engaged" status. I turned my nose up at good-looking single guys, because suddenly, I was better than them. I was going to get married. And they weren't. Those gorgeous, flirty, skinny girls were suddenly beneath me, because I had a shiny diamond on my finger, and they didn't. I relished the dirty looks they gave me, and happily accepted my roommates' sneers as I admired the most coveted item in the "single" world. I couldn't be happier.

Once I was married and home from the honeymoon, "newlywed" status, I learned, wasn't anything great. The family ward my husband and I went to was pretty transient, so you were a nobody unless you were either in the ward for over a year, or you had children. People eagerly wanted to know when we would become parents. Nobody cared anymore about the diamond on my finger.

When I became pregnant with my first child, I was ecstatic. "Pregnant" was awesome! I was on my way to becoming a mother...until I got sick. "Pregnant" was not that great. I gained half a million pounds, and was forced to eat and eat and eat so I wouldn't keep throwing up. My back ached, it was hard to get up and get things, I was tired all the time, and I just wanted to be a mother.

Eight months later, my status changed. Finally. "Mother" was what I had always wanted. I was officially an adult--although, honestly, I didn't feel like it. It took almost an entire year before my son was able to sleep through the night. I was tired, grouchy, didn't want to clean, and because it was so cold outside, was stuck inside my little apartment with a crying baby while my husband ditched me...for work. And then school. I was lonely, bored, stressed, and because I was married, I had no guys to validate my worth. Naps were vital for my baby, and so I gave up spending time with friends. "Mother" stunk!

While I had a hard time adjusting to my new role, I was aware that my status would rise if I had several children. The more children you had, the better/more successful mother it meant you were. So I was happy when I found out I was pregnant with my second child. When I saw pictures of my college friends who were mothers to three, four children, I knew I had to "catch up" to them. Mormon moms needed lots of children. That's just how it was supposed to be.

So, here I am, mom to four little boys, hair graying probably a little faster than it should. I was tired, stressed, and needed a break. I got a great part-time job, because "Mother" just wasn't as glamorous as I was certain it should have been. I wanted another role in life. I was now "contest judge", "employed" and I knew I was finally somebody again. But I felt that ache as I drove to work every day, guilty for leaving my husband home with three young boys and a newborn. I should have been home. I needed to be there, cooking for my family, baking cookies, mopping the floors, folding laundry, instead of sitting at a computer and laughing and loving the silence. I embraced my employment by dressing up, make-up on, earrings matching my necklace, and feeling business-like and sexy. But I still had a newborn to worry about. It's hard feeling sexy walking into your workplace carrying in a bag of milk that you just pumped. Whether I wanted to be it or not, "Mother" was the role I was keeping, and it wouldn't be replaced.

Just like the circle of life, I'm pretty much back to square one. With the craziness of mothering four young, active children, I haven't had much opportunity for friends. That shyness that I kicked out the window about 10 years ago is back in full force, haunting me. Meeting my new neighbors has become terrifying, when just a few years ago, I would have run up to them, anxious to develop a friendship. Several of my good friends I haven't seen in over a year, because I'm bombarded with feedings and nap times and dishes and just plain old exhaustion. My idea of a good time now is eating chocolate and Cheetos and watching a movie at night--uninterrupted by children.

Don't get me wrong. I love being a mother. I love my son's sweet smiles, their fierce embrace before bedtime, the way they play with my hair when I read to them, the way their young, squeaky voices say, "Mom, I love you a hundred million thirteen million five-teen." My husband treats me like I'm sexy, cooks for me when I'm too tired, and lets me take naps in the morning before he has to go to work--tired. But I am still searching for who I am. I miss the spontaneity I used to have, the nights I'd blow $3 to go country dancing until the early morning hours. I miss being in school, and going out with a bunch of friends, and going out for a midnight run to Denny's, just because we could. I miss being able to buy clothes whenever I wanted, and I miss the enjoyment grocery shopping used to bring me. But I suppose that with everything I have achieved in life, I AM more than a mother. I am an adventurer. I have achieved so many identities, and my personality has developed everywhere. I've done things I never thought I'd do in a million years, and I'm living the dream I prayed for for over 20 years. So what if all of my identities aren't perfect? I have everything I've ever wanted, and though I'll probably want something a little bit more, and want to be someone a little bit different, I have lived a great life. And I am happy.

My First Kiss--chapter 25

Getting my first kiss was about as easy as stealing the Mona Lisa from the Louvre. It was something I was still eager for, but no situation ever seemed like it was the right time. Surely there wasn’t something wrong with me! My good friend Emma proclaimed her faith in me by announcing that her friend Eric and I would be perfect together. Yeah, right. I remembered how well my last date with my “soul mate” went. Still…I was greedy for dates, and decided it would be better to meet a new guy than to sit home by myself. On Monday evening four days later, I arrived at her apartment for my blind date. I was giddy with anticipation and euphoric when I saw who I was being paired up with. Eric was tall (taller than me, at least), very handsome, had black Ken-doll hair and gorgeous green eyes. I couldn’t believe she was friends with him!
Any uncomfortable barriers that might have been present were nonexistent as we laughed away the night playing Mad Gab and Phase 10. Eric and I talked easily over our card game and cheered each other on with each victory. I only hoped that it was because he was interested in me and not just a nice guy being, well, nice. Little fireworks erupted in my stomach each time he looked at me, and I savored each slightly uncomfortable sensation. He was polite, smart, and actually laughed when I made a joke. He was definitely boyfriend material.
Although a quick hug ended our date outside of Emma’s apartment, there were no future plans set for another get-together. Anxiety ate away at me as I impatiently waited for information from Emma. When I talked to her again, I was unable to ask her what Eric thought of me, fearing rejection. I decided to leave our relationship in the hands of fate. I was glad I hadn’t pushed for information, because seeing him the next week would have been embarrassing had I known his feelings (good or bad). He passed me as I was studying beneath a shade tree, and we made uncomfortable small talk that managed to still be exciting. We uneasily said hello to each other as we passed in the campus library several days later. After some more chance meetings with small talk that got a little less embarrassing, we decided that it was time to get to know each other better.
“There’s going to be an outdoor movie on the Lacrosse field Friday night,” I suggested apprehensively.
“Sounds great!” he smiled.
I breathed a little easier.
As the Friday sun sank behind the Wellsville mountains and the stars peeked out of the sky, I paced the sidewalk, awaiting Eric’s arrival. He was late and I was certain that I was getting stood up.
A silhouette made its way towards me, and I instantly recognized Eric’s voice. “Sorry I’m late!”
As we made our way towards the crowded field, Eric found it necessary to break the awkward silence with some not-so-small talk.
“So, do you cook?”
He’s lucky I liked him, because I might have introduced him to Lucy, my right fist.
“Yeah, I cook,” I answered, trying my best to smile like Betty Crocker.
“What do you like to cook?” he pushed.
I timidly told him about my grandma casseroles, knowing that it was obviously some pretty significant information in a relationship.
Surprisingly enough, he didn’t barf and run away. In fact, after the movie, he asked me if I wanted to hang out again.
“How about next Friday?” I suggested.
“I tutor a girl from four until six, but I don’t have any plans after. Do you want to meet pre-or post-dinner?”
“Pre-dinner,” I heard myself tell him. “That way, I can cook for you.”
Wait! That wasn’t me! There were demons in my body making me say things I would never say in a million years!
Ignoring the fear that ignited in my eyes, he smiled his approval, and it was set. I was doomed. Nothing I did could stop Friday from coming. In fact, I believe that Wednesday somehow tiptoed away when no one was looking. When Friday strutted in unfashionably early, I miserably realized that I had survived and was now forced to cook dinner for Eric. Where was an earthquake when you needed one?
I felt as if I were sealing my fate with the chicken enchiladas that steamed from my casserole dish. I carefully watched his face as he lifted the fork to his mouth, eager to interpret the future of our relationship by the look on his face. He ended up asking for seconds! Whew. Maybe he liked casseroles.
Five dates later found us walking through Adam’s Park as the sun was lowering. Our fingers were comfortably intertwined, and Eric was carrying a quilt. We found a tall pine tree, and opened the blanket beneath it, sitting close together. We spoke quietly to each other as we watched the emerging night turn running children into shadows that reluctantly walked home. The stars twinkled softly, and a warm night wind engulfed us, drawing his arms around me.
A sudden tension filled the space between our two bodies, and my heart erupted into a sprint.
“Can I kiss you?” he softly asked.
Terror I had never before experienced held me captive as I desperately tried to nod my approval. I wanted to speak, but my throat was constricted.
“Can I kiss you?” he asked again.
“Yes,” I yelled out in a nearly inaudible whisper.
My palms suddenly became drenched, and I trembled all over like a palm tree in a hurricane.
Eric gently turned my chin up towards his face, and I closed my eyes. I didn’t want to watch. I felt his hot breath on my face, and then as it enveloped my mouth. I waited, but never felt his soft lips touch mine.
I opened my eyes to see what had gone wrong, only to see his own face connected to mine with his eyes shut. He was kissing me. The problem was his mouth was opened.
Oh, great.
Not wanting to destroy this once-in-a-lifetime moment, I cautiously opened my mouth ever so slightly. Our lips finally met, and there they remained as he breathed down my mouth. Okay. Now what? Our lips moved ever so slightly, giving me the feeling of a nursing baby. Actually, it was more like kissing an octopus. The magic of my first kiss had been swallowed by Eric’s octopus mouth, and the only words that swam around in my head were, “I waited my whole life for this?!”
I had finally gotten the chance to be Cinderella. I was wearing the glass slippers, I was with my prince, and I still had two more hours until midnight. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. My first kiss was supposed to create music, stirrings in my soul, or at the very least, a desire to continue kissing. Wasn’t there a way to summon my fairy godmother, and have her move my curfew ahead a couple of hours?
After an hour of a cranked neck and dry, annoyed lips, I finally admitted to myself that having a fairy godmother wasn’t all that great. Prince Charming couldn’t kiss, and right there, I discovered that magic really wasn’t all that magical. As Eric dropped me off at my doorstep and sucked away at my lips a final time, I came to terms with the honest fact that glass slippers really weren’t my style.

Finding My Fairy Godmother

Okay, it's now time again to start polishing up this story, and getting it ready for re-submission. Please, any advice would be very appreciated! These are the first three chapters. I LOVE critiques, and ANYTHING to give me ideas for improving would be extremely useful. Thank you!


Chapter 1
President of the V.L. Club

You know the saying that you need to kiss a bunch of frogs in order to find your prince? Well, I wouldn’t mind giving it a shot. He doesn’t even need to turn into a prince. From New Kids on the Block to Alvin the Chipmunk, I’ve always been pretty open to all types. I know what you’re thinking, and yes, it’s true. I am officially desperate. But can you blame me? I am twenty-two years old, and I still have never been kissed.
It’s not like I’ve never tried. I unsuccessfully sported a “Kiss me I’m Irish” pin in the second grade. I thought I thought I’d make it easy on my 3rd grade classmates by not running during kissing tag. Guess what? You’re supposed to run. I even tried giving my lips a sexy, lustrous shine by licking them all day, but only ended up with dry, lizard-like lips. Nobody thought of telling me about lip gloss.
I remember pushing eighteen years and being ashamed of the fact that I still had yet to kiss a boy. Or go on my fourth date, for that matter. Not exactly a promising beginning for a girl entering into her adult years. But once I hit twenty-one, a true, honest-to-goodness adult, and still having been denied the rite of passage into love, I felt it was my right to not only become an official member of the Virgin Lips Club, but to become the president. And so I did, no nominations even needed.



Chapter 2
Cinderellas and the Ugly Stepsister Syndrome

There are two types of people in this world: those who find love, and those who don’t. Guess which one I am? People like Cinderella really get to me. You think Cinderella’s just a fairytale? Well, you’re wrong. I’ve met plenty of Cinderalla-type girls, and believe me, they’re everywhere. What really irks me is that moment when they walk onto the crowded dance floor, not much caring about finding a dance partner while the rest of us ugly-stepsister types waste the night away pining for that one guy who’s looking at every girl…but us. Then suddenly, the hottest, most beautiful man you’ve ever seen approaches your side, smiles, and asks that Cinderella standing next to you for the one dance that leads to their engagement only two weeks later. Sort of sounds like my college roommate, Jan.
Jan’s the type who can wear an oversized hoodie, throw on glasses instead of contacts, and wear her hair up in a ponytail, and still somehow manages to snag a date from a guy she just met. Put me in an outfit like that, and I’m usually pointed in the direction of the ice cream aisle.
It’s hard not to hate these perfect girls who make acne look cute, actually go on dates, and are somehow not afraid of boys. It’s quite disgusting, actually. But what’s really painful is the ease in which love enters into their lives. They don’t even have to try. I’m the type who makes looking for love an embarrassing event.
There are some who are pre-selected to go through life just for the purpose of entertaining the gods, and I happen to be one of them. It’s true. Instead of gracefully passing through my years, I stumble about clumsily just to give some immortals a few good laughs. Experiences that ought to be dealt with naturally, such as smiling at a crush, are somehow presented in awkward, unnatural ways that render it impossible to handle with poise and dignity.
As it turns out, this Ugly Stepsister Syndrome is in no way genetically linked. My older sister, Liz, happens to be a Cinderella. When she was younger and liked a boy, he would sit next to her on the school bus. My childhood crush stood over me while I sat on the ground and broke wind over my head. It appeared that I lacked certain natural attributes needed to attract the opposite sex.

Chapter 3
Wish Upon a Star

In fourth grade, Liz already knew a little about flirting. She often used it on our next door neighbor, Shawn, who was three whole years older than her. He would chase her around our cul-de-sac, while she tried not to outrun him. One time, when she yelled, “Missed me, missed me, now you’ve gotta kiss me!” he nearly did. He was only stopped by the pickle she had been eating. I wished pickle breath had been my only problem.
When Liz first found out about wishing stars from her Kindergarten class and her wishes began coming true, she tried to share the magic with me. I memorized the wishing phrase with her, and eagerly looked forward to that night where I could find the very first star and begin my journey of sweet greed. Although I was four years old at the time, I was aware of the great power wishing stars had. They were obligated to provide anything my little heart desired, so long as I didn’t mess up the wording. I remember the day being spent in sweet anticipation, thinking up the perfect wish. Endless images of ponies, magic, castles and a never-ending supply of food swam through my head. It was hard to choose the perfect first wish. But even at my young age, I knew what one of the most coveted gifts on earth was.
As the sun sank down and shadows engulfed the tiny mountain town of Elk Ridge, I stood at our large French doors, overlooking the valley below. The city’s thousands of twinkling lights were nothing to the one tiny spark I saw up above. With an air of delicacy, I slowly made my wish, making sure the star wouldn’t misunderstand. I tiptoed to bed in reverent anticipation, making sure I was extra nice to my family so it would be known how deserving I was of this sacred first wish.
I climbed into bed and scooted all the way over, smashing up against the wall to make sure there would be room for my gift. Every few minutes I would peek out to make sure I hadn’t shifted over (and to see if it had arrived yet). My wishing star was sure to notice how considerate I was.
I awoke the next morning to an empty bed, but I was not discouraged. In fact, I was even more excited because my star took the time to hide my gift and send me on a treasure hunt! I looked under my bed, in the closet, in the bathtub, and in all the usual hiding places. Undaunted and still just as eager, I checked out all the unusual hiding places—like inside the kitchen cabinets with the pots and pans. But my first boyfriend was nowhere to be found. I must have wished wrong.