On Bubbles and Being Weird

Stopped at a red light, I crank the music and move my head to the loud dusky sound of Enter Sandman. Chin jutting out as I step on the gas and get into the far right lane, I lowkey sing the chorus to an invisible passenger:

Exit light
Enter night
Take my hand
We're off to never-never land

Never-never land sounds eerily like Neverland, Michael Jackson’s creepy non-ranch Ranch that was the site of all sorts of mayhem and abuse. Remember Bubbles, his pet chimpanzee and so-called “good friend”? Michael took him everywhere and now, in his early 40s, he resides at the Center for Great Apes in Wauchula, Florida, where he is said to enjoy painting and listening to flute music.

Bubbles even has his own Wikipedia page and I highly recommend it. The profile picture shows him wearing what can only be described as a simian marching band jacket, which is reason enough to click on that link. It’s fire engine red.

I’m driving to work, which is pretty far from Never-never land and even further from Neverland. But today I’m going to make it a wonderland. With six writing prompts in my pocket, I shall transform our classroom from a stodgy place of stained whiteboards and worn-out linoleum floors into a space of flourishing creativity.

After the last stop sign, I turn the steering wheel to the right and enter the almost empty parking lot. It’s early, around 8.45 am, and the usual suspects are already there. The green Kia Soul on the outer edge and the gigantic motherload black Suburban that’s always next to the front doors.

The music has me jacked and as I peel into the lot with my head banger tunes blaring, I make a massive U-shape turn and veer into a spot close to the entrance. Just then an idea pops into my head: I WANT TO BE WEIRD.

I’ve always known myself to be strange and weird, but this proclamation feels specific to my age. Middle age. This strange phase that sometimes makes me feel like I’m wearing a costume. That can’t be my crepey skin or baby jowls I see before me. Who is this gentle clown in the mirror?

At other times, it’s like a duvet to cuddle into while calibrating who I am becoming and what my body is changing into. Does anyone know? What do we call the caterpillar who has already transformed a million times and whose furry whiskers are no longer the invisible peach fuzz of youth but the coarser strands familiar to women in the third act?

There’s something exhilarating about it too. I’m bearing witness to leagues of Gen X women – friends, followers, and influencers- who are relishing their I DON’T GIVE A F*$K era. They are sharing knowledge and making space for us to enjoy being ourselves, including all the weird and unforeseen things. Naomi Watts wrote a best-selling book about it, journalist Tamsen Fadal just published How to Menopause, and Halle Berry, along with Canadian Doctors Lori Brotto and Jen Gunter, recently released a Menopause Masterclass.

***

Entering my campus building, I run into a colleague, who asks: “Hey Treena, how’s it going?” This question is increasingly difficult to know how to reply to when so many many things are awry inside my body and the frowning world at large.

Like, how am I feeling physically? I slept ok after taking my nightly cocktail of melatonin, followed by a THC gummy and a moonbeam sleeping patch. But I’ve discovered some ingrown hairs in places I’d rather not have them. Or does she mean how am I doing emotionally? That’s tender territory to venture into with someone I don’t know very well.

After pausing for a few seconds I say, with an animated smile: “All things considered; I’m doing pretty well. Having a deadly metal playlist helps when driving to work. You know, some classic Pantera and Metallica- Enter Sandman.”

She nods and smiles when I ask her if she remembers when Enter Sandman came out, which was accompanied by a superfly but also very scary video.

“Yeah, I think it was the last song played at the grade 9 dance” she says.

I press the elevator button and reply, “Yeah, that’s not creepy at all.”

We both laugh. As the doors close I am still smiling. Who knew she would be so fun this morning? Who knew coming to work would be this fun? Is this what fun is now?

***

After trading my purse for the Art Institute of Chicago tote bag that holds my lecture notes, a pen, lip balm, an elastic, my phone, and my keys, I cross campus. I’m on my way to make a garden of words.

The coldest day

Trapped in an airport

Thank you card

Someone who won't be accountable

An unexpected gift

A mistaken proclamation of love from a stranger

Each student chooses two prompts to do in two x 10-minute segments, and I do them too. I select the coldest day and someone who won’t be accountable which, as it turns out and as I already knew, includes not just that person from yonder years but also myself. There is such wisdom in introspection.

Some students read their work and it’s astoundingly good. In the health sciences, we don’t teach them how to write reflectively or with unbound imagination, and it’s something we must do. It’s thrilling to see them read, laugh, and hold papers that shake with excitement and nerves. It’s healing.

What begins to bloom is self-confidence and their secret skills wind their way down the rows and along the forest green blackboard. We are growing together through these creative acts and forging a field of flowers to which we can return every week. These young people are creatives in waiting and unleashing this freedom doesn’t cost a dime. It only takes magical thinking.