Every so often, I get really sick of reading my own writing, and I begin brainstorming new ways to write and connect – or not write and connect. This is one such occasion.
It’s too late to do a video, or write a new ebook, or make a survey, so … here’s what I’ve come up with:
For a while I’ve been thinking that I should share more personal stories here on the blog – that I should, you know, put some skin in, and give you all a little more insight into my secret innie life.
So, here we go:
Talking Ovaries: The Story of Why I’m Never Alone
Before I was born, my brothers had a live-in Filipino nanny, named Wilma. My mother and Wilma got pregnant at the same time. People often say that women’s ovaries have a way of communicating with one another. This makes me imagine animated white eggs talking through tin cans attached together with string. I’m sure this is the reason that mom and Wilma conceived at the same time. My mom’s ovary called into his tin can, “ready, set –“. Then in unison with Wilma’s ovary he yelled, “OVULATE!” I’m sure this is how it happened.
Not only were they pregnant at the same time, mom and Wilma gave birth on the exact same day. On December 28th, 1984, Elizabeth and I flew head first through the gates of our mothers’ vaginas and out into the world. We were a lot slimier then, if I remember correctly. Our fathers (both named Eric, if you can believe it) must have thought their wives had somehow coordinated the tandem births while they weren’t paying attention. Little did they know that the talking ovaries had been the true culprits.
Elizabeth and I lost touch after we grew up, but somehow it was enough to know that we were born on the same day. It made me feel as though my birth was that much more miraculous. I like to think it was God’s way of saying, “I can’t give you a sister, but I’ll make sure you’re never alone.” There was and always would be someone out there like me. Though years and distances built up between us, an invisible thread kept Elizabeth and I tied to one another – not unlike the string our mother’s ovaries had used to talk us into existence.
The Girl Who Is Always Smiling
To me she is like a character in a movie. There are flickering scenes of her smiling and laughing. Then there are images of him and her together. They are always in the sun, bathed in warmth and happiness. There are no awkward moments or disagreements, only fragmented scenes of harmony. I’m convinced that she has never had a dark thought or a bowel movement.
I create a compilation of photographs of her in my mind. They are mostly pictures I found while creeping her profile on Facebook: her face peeking out from a sea of smiling children; her sweet smile as she poses for the camera; her rosy cheeks, nipped by the sun and cool air, as she hikes through exotic landscapes.
Nausea begins to set in.
I flip through the images in rapid succession, at times slipping in my own constructions, until she becomes animated and alive. She is a perfect being who small children, animals, and God favor. She has never been plagued by insecurity or ugly feelings. She is a two-dimensional portrait without depth or true emotions. Surely, she isn’t as juicy, feminine, and complex as I am. No, she couldn’t be. But then the scenes begin to roll again. They are fuzzy and incomplete, but her face is always distinguishable. She looks pretty and kind. And she is always smiling.