When leaving Target today, I could not exit through the “In” door. It wasn’t a physical impassability, but one I’ve experienced before and have fought to overcome. I stood in front of the sliding doors, baby in one arm, the other arm resting on the cart, my mind willing all of us forward. For the purpose they serve, the In and Out doors are identical, save for the signs “Do Not Enter” and “Exit Only.” I wasn’t trying to be a rebel, choosing to exit via the In door as a big middle finger to The Man; I had just left the restroom, which lies in closer proximity to the entrance to the store, and, having carried the baby while pushing the cart all over the mammoth retailer, it seemed, in that moment, more prudent to just get to the car.
An internal battle raged. “Just go,” I said. “But that’s the wrong door,” I whined. “Don’t be silly, they’re both the same,” I urged. “The sign says they’re different,” I argued. “Go,” I commanded, with a little shove to my other self. “I’ll get in trouble.” “Go!” I shoved myself again. My less-assured inner self takes a timid step forward, then whimpers and runs back to the innermost brain folds, slamming some metaphysical door to prove a point. And I walked out the exit door.
On other days, my strong self has won, and I’ve left the way I came in, my chin up a little, just for effect. It wasn’t my having lost today’s Battle of Rebellion that stuck with me, but the realization that those damn doors suddenly seem like a metaphor for my entire suburban existence, and by default, the primary focus of this blog. Not the purpose, mind you. The purpose of the blog is so I will write and continue to write. But the focus is my existential exploration of my place here among the soccer moms.
Because I’ve never felt that I belong here. I see the minivans, with their little stick figure families on the back window, the professional moms handing each offspring a nutritionally balanced snack, pre-sorted into reusable, plastic snack containers before they left the house so as not to produce unnecessary waste, and I want to stick my tongue out at them. I sit on the park benches and make small talk with them about blah, blah, blah as our children play. I cheer just as loudly at the little league games, and wait dutifully in the pack of parents for gymnastics, dance, karate, or [insert various kid activities here] to be over, so I can go home, which looks pretty much like all the other homes around ours. But somehow none of this ever feels...normal? No, more like...comfortable. It doesn’t feel comfortable. It just feels...expected.
And some days I want to wear hot pink spandex biker shorts under jean cut-offs, crimp my hair into a side pony tail, and pull on an obscene amount of jelly bracelets, just to feel like a kid again. And I want to rearrange all the stick figure decals into questionable positions to see how long it takes the other moms to notice. I want to throw a family-sized box of Wheat Thins, unopened, at my kids as they tumble out of the van, while I remain belted into the driver’s seat, yelling, “Don’t come back till they’re all gone, kids,” making sure the other moms on those park benches hear me. I want to sit with my back to the game, cheering when it feels like a good time to make some noise. I want to turn to Little Johnny’s dad as our sons spar each other on the karate mat, and say, with the tilted head of the falsely concerned, “So, Little Johnny chooses his own clothes, does he? He’s so creative,” then turn away and pretend to get water out of my ear before he can respond. And I want to walk in through the Out door every damn time, wearing a Raspberry Beret, singing Prince’s anthem for rebellious women, and NOT, I repeat, NOT let the suburbs shape my identity.
