MY GULLIVER SYNDROME

It happened again.

I flew into St. Louis recently and noticed it.

When I flew into Des Moines a couple of months ago, I noticed it.

I noticed, or was reminded, that – NEWS FLASH - I am tall.

In the Midwest, you may not notice.  I’m just another fair-haired, light-skinned, blue eyed, freckled farmer’s granddaughter - a product of my German heritage.  (When we were traveling through Europe, I was mistaken for a German more than once, even by Germans.)

But I am tall (for a woman) - 5’8.”  It’s not like this is new information.  I don’t think I’ve ever had to change my height on my driver’s license; I shot up to 5’8” during puberty and never deviated.  I inherited my long legs from my maternal grandmother, who even at 93 years of age doesn’t have to look upward to gaze into many faces.

My height has never really been an issue, except when trying to find slacks long enough or when dating.  My husband Tim was 4’11” when he graduated from high school.  He sprouted to 5’11” in college.  I’ve often told him that if he hadn’t grown, I wouldn’t have looked at him twice.  I had no interest in dating men shorter than I.  I’ll leave that to statuesque models that can pull it off with aplomb.  I figured I couldn’t so didn’t try.

In San Antonio, however, my height is an issue.  I tower over the majority of the residents - a bit like Gulliver amongst the Lilliputians.

With almost 1.5 million residents, San Antonio is the seventh largest city in the U.S. and the second largest city in Texas (behind Houston).  Of this total number, over 63% are Hispanic or Latino.

I am an Aryan product amid a population of predominantly black haired, dark-eyed, caramel- skinned…short people.  I feel uncomfortably tall amidst the diminutive stature of my neighbors.  Even the men who are building our subdivision, although incredibly muscular, probably average 5’5”.

My initial impressions of the people of this community are that they are kind, friendly, respectful, hard-working, family-oriented, and when speaking, transition from Spanish to English without blinking an eye.  But they are small in stature.  I am the oddball.  I tower above them, while trying to fit in.  In the Midwest, my height was barely noticeable; in San Antonio, amid these residents, I am constantly reminded.

Perhaps I’ll grow accustom to my head in the clouds.  It doesn’t seem to bother my neighbors and hopefully soon it won’t bother me; however, everything about San Antonio is still so new, I can’t help but notice…

Regardless, San Antonio still holds more potential for a happy ending than Lilliput.

MONSTER TRUCK RALLY

“MONSTER TRUCK RALLY!”   The words reverberate through the stadium.  You’ve seen the commercials - monster trucks mounting handily a line of small cars; their giant wheels pummeling average sedans.  I’m living in the midst of a Monster Truck Rally and regretfully I’m in one of the little cars that gets smashed at the bottom of the pile.  Vroom, vroom.

I have been driving since I was 14 years old.  Growing up in rural Iowa, a driver’s license was freedom, independence, and the only means of getting good pizza.  I was at the county courthouse on my 14^th birthday to get my driver’s permit and on my 16^th birthday to get my license.

Driving is second nature to me.  (Although I will admit that manual transmissions are the great exception to that statement.)

I’m accustom to big vehicles too.  Iowa farmers must have their pickup trucks and suburban St. Louis moms must have their SUVs.  But I’m having a hard time getting accustom to Texas’ enormous trucks.

The phrase, “everything’s bigger in Texas,” is especially true of the trucks.  They are not just big, they’re monsters and the Texas highways are full of them - dual wheels, extended cabs, giant beds. 

The cabs of these trucks must sit five feet in the air.  Our Toyota could easily slip beneath the chassis.  How does the driver get behind the wheel?  Is the extended bed meant to hold the ladder required to get into the vehicle? 

At a stoplight, I look to my side and stare directly into glistening chrome wheel wells.  King of the Cab looks down at me from his lofty perch.  He smirks and points at the mere mortal.  With a wave of his hand and a foot on the gas, I’d be smashed like a bug.  He knows it and smiles benevolently.  I pause a bit as the light turns green to let HRH go first.  It seems prudent and customary.  He is King of the Road and I am just a serf who would like to arrive home in one piece.

Recently, my husband Tim looked at an MG that was for sale by owner.

We owned an MG early in our married life, but quickly realized its impracticality.  It wasn’t great in hot summers or cold winters, which left little of the St. Louis year remaining.  Two people could barely fit in it comfortably and forget about luggage or babies.  We owned that car for nine months.  Tim remembers the car fondly and eyed excitedly the red MG sitting in the corner of a parking lot with a “For Sale” sign on its dashboard.

Tim and I in the MG (Sept. 1990)

MGs are cute, but small and low to the ground.  What was Tim thinking?!  The monster trucks would scoop it up and eat it for lunch!  The monster trucks would roll over it and not even notice!  We’d be left at the side of the road with the rest of the roadkill.

I sighed with relief when Tim discovered the car’s price was more than he wanted to spend.  I’ll leave the side of the road to the skunks and armadillos.

BYE-BYE BARNUM & BAILEY

The circus left town.  Without me.

Two years ago this month, my husband was offered a job in San Antonio, Texas.  The offer was too good to pass up.  During the ensuing months, I became star of the Big Top.  I juggled like my life depended on it…because it did. 

In December 2011, I moved my husband to Texas and set up his apartment. 

During the winter, I finished a kitchen remodel in St. Louis and laid 1,200 sq. feet of wood flooring.

I put our house on the market in March and sold it six weeks later.

That summer, I put all of the family’s belongings in storage and moved the children and I into a corporate apartment, as there were no rentals available in my son’s school district until August.

When August came, we retrieved some things from storage and moved into a Kirkwood School District apartment.  During a quick trip to San Antonio, Tim and I decided to have a house built.

Two return trips to Texas in the fall provided opportunity for me to make decorating decisions for the house. 

Throughout my son’s Senior year, we visited prospective colleges and kept up with the resulting paperwork.  (He visited ten schools.)

With the arrival of another spring (We’re up to May 2013, in case you’ve lost track.), I moved my daughter from Truman State University to Des Moines, Iowa for her internship.  My son graduated from Kirkwood High School and went to orientation at Drake University.  We collected our things from storage and the apartment, and moved them to San Antonio.

I kept all the balls in the air.  I kept moving.

from the U.N.I. years, when I first encountered juggling

Years ago, I was a theatre major at the University of Northern Iowa.  As a requirement for an acting class, I had to learn to juggle.  It wasn’t that the professor thought we would literally join the circus, but it was an exercise in concentration.  I never was very good at it.  (My lack of any type of athleticism was apparent.)  My most uninterrupted tosses were accomplished by facing a wall.  With only three feet between me and the wall, the balls had few escape routes.

The balls of the last two years never escaped, but a few certainly went astray.  Now, however, the last ball is put away.

What happens next?

Journalist Cokie Roberts once said:  “Women…often they’ve spent their early years juggling so many different activities that they were simply making it through the day.  But then they reach a point where they are able to integrate their life experiences.” 

I juggled so much in the last two years that I felt lucky to simply make it through each day.  What happens when the balls are put away though?  That’s what I’m trying to figure out.  What life experiences can I integrate into this new life, in this new place?  What happens when time (which there never seemed to be enough of) returns to its normal pace. 

In short, I’m breathing again – taking big gulps of air and exhaling with a well-deserved sigh.

I’m writing again.  (This blog is proof positive.)  I hope to return to the book that was in progress two years ago.

I’m meeting new people – through organizational means, as well as the former Chicagoans who happened to walk by our house with their dog.

I’m finding ways to volunteer.

I’m taking care of myself.

I’m finding time for me.

And I am exhaling.

Sometimes, when I close my eyes, the balls are still flying.  One, two, three balls - no wall to rein them in - picking up speed.  A drop is imminent. 

My eyes squeeze shut.  I blink the threat away.  And breathe.