Once upon a time, in my little girl brain, I thought that driving a pink car and living in a pink house was all you needed to be happy. Of course, having your own “Ken” with great abs and underwear you couldn’t remove was also important. Chastity.
Kelly—now, Kelly could reproduce. Barbie, on the other hand, was an independent woman who didn’t want to get tied down with all that business. She had her convertible, her sexy hips, and her man…who couldn’t take his pants off. (Is that some kind of metaphor for feminist emasculation?) Or maybe Ken was gay. He did really, really, like tennis, and his hair was perfectly combed and he was always well dressed.
That’s it. Ken was Barbie’s best gay-boyfriend, which does, pretty much, make a pink world the best place ever to live. I would like that for myself, actually.
But the thing is, I was always kinda Kelly too. I wanted babies. I wanted the kind of man who would sign up for taking his pants off, and I wanted my house to have things like little tiny step-stools and high-chairs; things that allowed the next generation some equality with the older folks. I wanted to teach little human beings how to become incredible, big human beings. I wanted to cook them dinner, teach them songs, and celebrate holidays. But I did not, under any circumstances, want to give up my gay-boyfriend OR my pink convertible. I wanted it all.
Moving away from Chico was sad, but holy shit did it save my liver. I had a fantastic season of achieving goals, but what I didn’t have was much connection with the other part of me—the more tender and maternal one.
I have traded my convertible life for a logical and stylish coupe life—one that’s more Jetta than Mustang. And although I never drove a damned Mustang (because, who would want to?) I was living pretty selfishly, totally focused on my goals.
It’s time to set that all down for a while, take Ken’s pants off, and slow my roll. I’m cutting things out and making room for inspiration. Goals? Well, of course I still have them, they’ve just evolved… mellowed out a bit. I don’t want pink or plastic. I want real. I want ME back, my family back, my steady head and good-natured personality back. I’m done draining the bank.
So, my friends, it’s with the kind of sadness that makes your chest tingle a little (because you know something must be done even though the idea of it isn’t your favorite) that I write this “Farewell Synthesis” letter.
Synthie, I have loved you. Thanks for letting me put my dumb ideas on paper every week, and thanks, even more than that, to all of you for reading the things that came out of my self-important brain. You can keep up with me on my blog, or find me a couple times a year at Duffy’s, or be my friend on Facebook, or write me off as a dumb bitch. But basically, I’m going-going back-back to Jenny-Jenny. And it’s a good thing. Mwah.