The Hair Intervention.

I have padded sock-footed on the edges of groups all my life, not so much disallowed from their embrace as disallowing myself, peering through their windows Little Match Girl-style, drawn by their golden circle of lamplight spilling onto the sidewalk.

Exception: Scotch in hand, I’d rush headlong into their fray, entering stage right, casting myself in the lead, hollering round for the others to hurry up, let’s shoot darts, let’s play “Electric Youth” on the video jukebox over and over, oblivious to the glares of the regulars, sloshing my drink on the table, wondering where my friends were when the music stopped, finding out they’d all gone bowling without me. Later, alone in my apartment, wearing a frayed gray comforter and a face mask I’d concocted from a recipe in Glamour, I struggled to position the rabbit ears on my UHF-only television to stabilize the picture for “Quantum Leap.” Snow on the screen, tears in my eyes.

Taxi-cab privacy screen locked in place, I have held myself at arm’s length from former classmates, coworkers, and even my own family, situating interstates and time zones between us. Through the magic of Facebook, I can still peer through the window, seeing law school classmates celebrating 25 years of friendship – why there they all are at the lake again this summer! Their babies now old enough to captain the boats and me, a mountain range and a lifetime away, having never gotten the hang of water skiing anyway, remembering them yelling from the dock Lean back! Lean back! as I dropped the line again and again, turning blue from cold, red from shame, pale white because I refused to wear shorts ever – hating my legs – an all-American loser in the land of 10,000 lakes.

I could say it all started with the hair intervention in seventh grade but that would be a lie. In photos from three, four years old, I’m all white-haired silkiness, my flyaway ends curling up to complete a smile my mouth refused to form, giving me away: Loner. Then ten, eleven years old: there are pixie cuts and darkening and coarsening and a horrible perm and mall haircuts, always – never at the good place that cost $18 where the girls on the tennis team went. I had no right to attempt the Dorothy Hamill wedge, disastrous as it grew out, widening, never lengthening, me yanking it down, willing it to straighten so no one would notice.

Oh, but they noticed. Four or five of them approaching in the hall at school as friends, maybe? Hi! We want to talk to you! Me thinking this would be a big moment, plans would be made, something that perhaps would not include water skiing but instead studying, and I was good at studying. But wait, what were they saying? We need to talk about your hair, you just can’t wear it like that, have you tried a curling iron, you can use mine, here – thrusting it into my hand and pointing me toward the bathrooms – no, I’ll go alone, I say, gosh thanks for letting me borrow this.

But I had no business curling my hair in the junior high bathroom. They might as well have handed me a circular saw and sent me to shop class to build shelving for all I knew about how curling irons worked. My sisters were grown, in college, and there was a curling iron at home, yes, caked with years of hairspray, but I had no idea how to operate it other than to turn it on and watch the red dot turn slowly to black, signifying danger, not beauty.

touch and curl curling iron

Alone in the bathroom, I made a valiant hair styling effort. I maneuvered the foreign instrument to the right side of my head, some confidence in my dominant hand, attempting the little sausage curls that seemed to be in style, so effortless on other girls. Then panic: What of the left side? I’d surely burn myself, the tool backward and inside out and me, already confused by viewing my mirror image – for god’s sake how was I supposed to get the left side?

So I didn’t. I waited for the iron to cool, had missed nearly all of lunch hour by this point, marched back out, overgrown wedge brushing the door on the left, failed sausage curls sagging on the right and there they were, still in a group, waiting for me. Gape-mouthed: What have you done? Why didn’t you do the left side? YOU JUST TURN IT UPSIDE DOWN TO GET THE OTHER SIDE! Laughter, me heading back into the bathroom, tears now, stepping on the floor pedal for the sinks, a waterfall springing up around me, Vegas style – those were the sinks we had, communal dancing waters so all the junior high girls could wash up at once, this considered beneficial somehow by the designers – cupping and filling my hands and wetting my hair over and over, curls on the right disappearing, unruly thicket on the left unmoved by the flood of water dripping onto my plaid blouse with the peter pan collar and the red grosgrain ribbon tied sweetly in a bow at my neck. Now attempting to squeeze the water out with the cloth towels that went round and round in the dispenser, but which, apparently, had no absorptive qualities whatsoever, because there was no disguising it: I was drenched.

And of course they were still waiting, now shouting: You didn’t have to get it wet! You shouldn’t have slicked it down! The bell ringing, fifth hour was it? Counting: three classes and a long bus ride home ahead of me. Their circle of light disappearing and me again on the other side of the window, shivering, no more matches to strike, as I parked myself behind my desk in Mrs. Maruska’s English class, intent on my notebook, my eyes seeing nothing.


Posted in Uncategorized | 24 Comments

Swimming Laps with Helen Mirren and Santa.

Helen Mirren tugs her white Lycra swim cap over her sleek silver bob, then pops on her pink swim goggles. She smooths her swim skirt and eases herself into the water.

Santa is already here. Santa is always swimming laps before I arrive and he is always still going strong after I leave. Santa’s belly is not akin to a bowl full of jelly, but he is white-bearded and has a kindly smile. He puts me in mind of a right jolly old elf. Santa favors the breast stroke at a slow but steady pace.

I’m pretty sure Alanis Morissette was at the pool two nights ago too, in an ill-fitting one piece that she’d obviously given up hand washing and run through the spin cycle on high a few too many times. Alanis, of course, gives no fucks about the swim cap, letting her trademark long brown mane trail wildly behind her in the water. You look at her and think, “That is so Alanis.

These are the people who swim laps after the people who really swim laps are done for the day.

For the past week, I have been one of their number.

I like to arrive just as the pool staff is taking in the lane markers after the official adult swim time is over. One lane stays reserved for lap swimmers and that’s where you’ll find Santa. Helen Mirren likes to split the lane with him. They have a system.

I don’t know how to use the lanes. I swim next to the marked lane, though I occasionally have to dodge guests from the resort that shares the pool.

I’m new to pool etiquette. I’m new to belonging to any kind of athletic facility. I’m new to lap swimming. Last night was my fourth trip.

It’s the perfect pool for me. The “laps” are some random length unrelated to any regulation pool. But they are my laps, damn it, and if I want to say I swam six laps – or three, or ten – then I will. My daughter lets me count a lap each time I touch a wall, so when she swims with me I get to double the number.

When she’s not with me, I watch the clock. A half hour, that’s my goal.

I am winded at the end of each length and I have to take breaks. I hang on the edge of the pool as Santa keeps his metronomic pace. Helen Mirren takes breaks too, but mostly to change up her equipment. She likes to use props, which makes me feel more comfortable with my fledgling attempts. Sometimes she’ll breast stroke with a pool noodle tucked under her elbows or clutch a kickboard in lieu of a full on crawl.

Maybe I am supposed to be doing that. I don’t know what I’m supposed to be doing.

I swim, each stroke a moving meditation. You can’t not focus on your breath because of the whole drowning thing. So I follow my breath. Sometimes it is gasping, sometimes my timing is off and I swallow water, sometimes one breath barely gives me the energy I need to make it to the next.

I breathe and stroke, breathe and stroke, avoiding the kids jumping in the shallow end, wondering if I’ll ever have the guts to split a lane like Helen Mirren and Santa do. When my half hour runs out, I lie prone on the cement pool deck, unable to move.

No one seems to notice, so maybe the post-swim collapse is a common occurrence amongst the people who swim laps after the people who really swim laps go home.

I stagger to the locker room. I am so tired it is probably dangerous for me to drive the two miles home.

But I am swimming towards 50, and I think I am going to make it.

ckr swim



I was a BlogHer 2016 VOTY Honoree


Want to write a kickass story this summer? Join me for “What’s Your Story: An Online Creative Nonfiction Writing Boot Camp.” 30 days of independent study with weekly check-ins and thorough personalized feedback on your personal essay from award-winning writer Cindy Reed. Learn more and register at CindyReed.Me.

Posted in Self Improvement | 19 Comments

The Yips.

In sports, they call it “the yips” – a sudden and inexplicable loss of fine motor ability. An athlete’s skills simply vanish – no more pitching strikes, serving aces, or shooting free throws.

I’ve had the yips. I lost my writing hand last fall and I’ve been beating myself up about it every day since.

Oh, I never stopped telling stories. I tell stories in my head every day. I tell stories while I drive, when I’m walking the dog, as I’m waiting for my daughter’s roller derby practice to end already.

In my head, I’ve written about the summer of the Nestea plunge at my grandma’s lake cabin. The tragic hair intervention my eighth grade friends staged for my out-of-control locks. The solitude I found nestled in a cove of wild grapevines, journal in hand, at the far corner of the Minnesota acreage I grew up on.

I’ve mind-written a long-form article called “400 Miles to Ohio with Jason Derulo” and part of a one-woman show called “What’s a Girl Gotta Do to Get a (Non-Alcoholic) Beer Around Here?”

And in my head, I’ve told the stories of the past year since I quit my day job. I have told these stories over and over as they’ve unfolded, in blog-sized bites that I can’t seem to transmit through to my keyboard. They have titles like:

  • Lying in the Fetal Position Writing a Motivational Speech
  • Spelunking with Children, ft. Hypomania
  • My Cry for Help (or How Blue Cross Ruined My Winter)
  • Badass Outpatient
  • Trying to Find Happiness in a 12×12 Room of Depressed Appalachians

These are stories of a mom, interrupted. Of a downward spiral. Of sussing out just what rock bottom looks like (spoiler alert: there’s a moldy shower stall floor involved).

And there is a simple post of apology I’ve been meaning to write – to family, to friends, to students, to former colleagues. To all of you who have reached out to say you are there and you care.

That post is called: “I’m Sorry I Didn’t Return Your Phone Call or Reply to Your Facebook Message or Your Email or Even Your Text.”

I opened the front door to my inner self a week ago, surprised to find spring waiting for me on its stoop. I pulled on short shorts and vintage Frye boots. I carefully threaded my seventies-era hoop earrings through my ears. Digging around in the bottom of the bathroom drawer, I unearthed my make-up. I rifled through my stack of fedoras and chose the jauntiest.

With boot heels clicking, I picked my way along a cobblestone street to meet an online friend for the first time. I watched as she resolved from a profile picture into a real human being. We sat on the sun-dappled patio of an outdoor café. The air had just begun to hold on to its humidity, and the breeze smelled like hope.

Photo by Kevin Collins/CC BY

Photo by Kevin Collins/CC BY


I won an award today for writing. A BlogHer Voices of the Year award, affectionately known as the VOTY, for my post “The Layered Look Only Works When You Wear Layers,” about flashing my daughter’s taekwondo class. It’s my third VOTY in three years and my friend Bill has won three in three years and he’s a real writer, so I’m thinking, through the fog of my wintry doubt, that I might be too.


Posted in shut up and write already, These posts are not funny., Uncategorized | 14 Comments

I have lost my words.

b and w the leap 2

I have lost my words and I am failing my literary idols.

Norman Mailer, whose towering work of creative nonfiction, The Executioner’s Song, made me want to write in that genre, said that “[i]f you tell yourself you are going to be at your desk tomorrow, you are . . . asking your unconscious to prepare the material.”

And Joseph Campbell, whose work changed my world vision and whose theories I taught for twelve years, said to find “a room, or a certain hour of the day” that must become your place of “creative incubation.” He promised that if you visited, “[a]t first you may find that nothing happens there. But if you have a sacred place and use it, something eventually will happen.”

The message is simple. In order to find your words you must show up. Write every day. Make a commitment. Do the work and the inspiration will come.

It’s a message I pass on to my writing students: Write regularly and the ideas will flow. You will form and shape your stories and give them life as only you can do with your authentic voice.

Perhaps I am failing my students too.

Because I have no words.

I quit my day job last April to “be a writer.” To take a leap and the universe would catch me. I even tattooed that quote on my forearm, a constant reminder that once I was brave and did brave things, and that everything would turn out all right in the end. Never one to shy away from hard work and secure in my belief that I was the smartest girl in the room, I trusted in my ability to give my dreams flight.

But I can’t find my place of creative incubation and my unconscious isn’t preparing the material and I can teach, but not do.

And so I’ve barely written. The “award-winning writer” phrase in my bio makes me cringe, as though it were spit-laughing in my face. Dust gathers in the corners of my blog, and the cobwebs overtaking the ceilings would make Miss Havisham proud.

My mind is never at rest, racing with a flight of ideas I can’t harness and hitch to the page. My archives read like a blow by blow account of the mania, anxiety, and depression that trap my bipolar mind, and they shame me. That illness holds my words locked away in a high tower, neither a length of tresses nor a shining prince in sight to rescue them.

I count as close friends the talent-filled members of my online writing group. I applaud them as they chalk up success after success: Agents, book deals, articles in influential newspapers, stories in literary journals, posts accepted by major websites. Their voices rightfully need to be heard because they are unique and valuable and resonate and capture universal emotions and change hearts and minds. Their work astonishes me and leaves me breathless and I am honored to be among writers of their caliber.

But I feel like I’ve become a silent partner.

I hate my mind. It’s taking away the one thing I thought was my purpose, and I am left here, my world shrinking to the isolation of my bed and the eight square feet of my desk and the school drop-off line and my keyboard, which stares up at me with the sad, empty eyes of rejection, begging for human contact, and daily finding its affections unrequited.

It is breaking my heart.



Posted in I am the weakest link. Goodbye., These posts are not funny. | 40 Comments

“They won’t mind if we sort of steal these pumpkins.”

I needed twelve mini-pumpkins stat for Akeyla’s birthday party craft – the only craft I’d planned for the preschoolers who would be descending on my home in a mere two hours.

The pumpkin patch was closed.

Who the fuck closes a pumpkin patch on October 28?

“Let’s just take them and I’ll leave a note,” I said to Astrid. “We’ll come back later to pay.” I began to examine pumpkins and stuff them into the fair trade basket I bought to look like I was headed to the farmers’ market even though I never go.

“Isn’t that stealing?”

“Nah. It’s more like a rent-to-own situation. Look. I’m writing in my best handwriting and leaving my name and number and how many mini-pumpkins we took.” I scrawled my explanation onto the back of a Dunkin Donuts flyer. “See? I made a little invoice that shows I know how much I owe them.”

Then the clincher: “They won’t mind.”

I’m big on ‘they won’t mind.’ “They won’t mind if we park in this reserved spot for twenty minutes” I might say. “I’ll leave a note.” The leaving of the note is essential for the ‘they won’t mind’ to work. The note cancels out the wrongdoing, making it okay to temporarily break the rules.

I wedged the note inside the screen door and heaved the basket into the car.

Astrid glanced across the parking lot. “Why don’t we just go in that building and ask?”

I followed her gaze. The world beyond the pumpkin patch resolved into focus. She was pointing at a church.

A church. I was quasi-stealing pumpkins from a church.

We crept in the side entrance, my confidence in the whole rent-to-own scheme wavering. To the distant hum of unfamiliar hymns, we tiptoed down the stairs in search of answers to our pumpkin dilemma.

“Mom, what’s that rumbling sound?”

I panicked. “THEY’RE GETTING OUT!” Parishioners, freed from their pews to go in peace to Cracker Barrel, stampeded like herd animals to the exits, ready to lose their church offering envelopes in the nearest collection basket.

We tore up the stairs. “Mom! Why are we running?”

I didn’t know. All I knew is that we were strangers in a strange land and I had a load of hot mini-pumpkins in the passenger seat of my van. I imagined the Town & Country surrounded by pitchfork-wielding churchgoers demanding atonement.

I turned to Astrid. “Act natural.” We folded ourselves into the crowd. I tried to look like my soul had recently been nourished.

We ambled to the car and left with our loot, promises to return flapping in the autumn breeze.

PUMPKIN CRAFT INSTRUCTIONS:  PIN THIS!


Click on photo to enlarge instructions.


Posted in Inappropriate Behavior | Tagged , , , , | 10 Comments