SOULSWAP™: Starter Kit for the Existentially Restless or Just Simply Curious

I told myself I wasn’t going to cry as I grabbed a new box of Kleenex.

My Jeramie was off to college with his Boho girlfriend in her rusty VW bug. Our Suburu station wagon had tons of room but they needed to do it their way, unencumbered by the baggage of the youth they were in a hurry to outgrow.

As I try for one final hug, Bethany yells something about the window being stuck. She lights a joint and smoke fills the Beetle as they flee their childhoods. Jees. They couldn’t wait till they were down the driveway?

I wave till my carpel tunnel screamed bloody murder. Nothing in the fridge appeals, not even a slice of the chocolate cheesecake I spent all day yesterday making for the kids. The one they had no room for.

So I trudge upstairs. Jeremie’s bedroom door’s open. A rare sight. I knock anyway and enter.

Muffin lies catywompus on the floor. I pick up my son’s favorite stuffie and start back down the stairs. Surely, he’d want Muffin on those lonely nights in a new place. But then again, he had a real live cuddle buddy far from the watchful eyes of parent-people trying to insert a sense of judicious caution into their young lives.

Trying unsuccessfully I might add.

I hug Muffin and take the little guy into my bedroom. Shaped like a bear with the face of a frog, his silly grin mocks me. But he’s soft even with one eye long gone. That’s when the dam breaks and tears spill down my cheeks onto his fuzzy head.

I must’ve cried myself to sleep because when I awake, the house is dark. An eerie silence settles around my shoulders like a shroud.

Now what?

Nothing. Just the hum of the refrigerator and a dull ache in my heart.

“But Mom,” Jeremie said as he hauled his duffle bag down the stairs. “You get a fresh start. You can do anything. You can be anyone. Nothing’s stopping you.”

Yeah, right. “I suppose,” I mumbled, rubbing the knot in my chest. I didn’t want to be anyone else. I just wanted my family back.

But now, his words reverberate less like a platitude and more like an invitation. I wasn’t alone. I was with me.

Yeah, but who was that?

Muffin slips to the floor as I boot up my laptop and type, “starting over after 50,” when an ad pops up:

“Still feel like someone else is living the life you were meant for? Try SoulSwap™. Five lives. One you. Limited trial offer.”

Was this some kind of joke?

My mind scoffs while my fingers click the link. Then this comes up:

SOULSWAP™: Starter Kit for the Existentially Restless or Just Simply Curious

Ever wonder what it’s like to live the life you didn’t choose?

No. I never did. I loved my life and missed it desperately. But I keep reading:

Try on the wisdom, wit, and wonder of extraordinary souls—each with their own story, heartbreak, and gift. You’ll return to your regularly scheduled life…changed. Slightly. Or profoundly–that’s up to you.

“Because one lifetime isn't always enough to get it right.”

Get what right? That elusive it the nebulous they are always taunting us with. Madison Avenue at its best–or worse–depending on your perspective. Still, I keep scrolling.

Your SoulSwap™ Trial Kit Includes:

--3 temporary soul inhabitation passes (good for up to 24 hrs each)

--Conscious reentry tether (do not detach)

--Memory-filtering option included (select “partial recall” or “let it all in” at checkout)

--Auto-reintegration support in case of emotional overflow

Reentry tether? What a crock! Besides I’m already on emotional overflow. I don’t need any more pain. I need numbing. Now!

So I hit the cheesecake. Hard and heavy. The soporific surfeit of cheesy sweetness does the trick. I’m snoring in no time.

And by morning I’ve forgotten all about that ad.

My first full day on my own looms large and promising. But those three cups of coffee—I was used to making that much–turn bitter in my mouth and my mood soon follows.

A hot bubble bath helps for a bit, but I stay in too long and my skin wrinkles like Jeremie’s unironed shirts. Standing naked in the full-length mirror, frowning at cellulite, the doorbell rings.

Who the eff?

I throw on my ratty robe and pad downstairs.

“Who is it?” I holler through the door.

A sexy male voice answers. “Your future.”

By the time I run my hands through my still-sopping hair, tighten my belt, and open the door, whoever he was has flown the coup. Typical.

At least the paper’s within reach. I don’t have to dirty my feet to retrieve it. Reaching for The Times, I see a box on the top step. Now I have to dirty my feet, but I can’t just leave it there. Boxes have to be opened.

I brace myself for its heft, but it practically lifts itself. I not so much carry as follow it inside. It hovers over the table a moment and then lets me set it down. Weird, but so was my mood.

Grabbing a knife, I cut through the packing tape and open the flaps. Inside the box, I find…another box. It, too, lifts itself out with my guidance.

Prying open that lid, the scent of lilacs engulfs me–Mom’s favorite flower. So heavy I choke. This so-called soul swap kit contains three velvet pouches, a braided leather rope with a dog clip on one end, and an instruction manual. Skimming it told me I can try on up to three lives, but if I want more, I have to order the deluxe kit. And pay for it. Oh, and do not detach the reentry tether.

The colorful pouches bear labels. Woman of Power’s purple. Art of the Heart’s—no brainer—red. Song & Solitude, a midnight blue.

According to the manual, each pouch contains an accessory. To experience its magic, I have to put it on. Well…unless something better comes along, why not?

I fasten the tether around my waist and dog-clip myself to my chair. With eyes closed, I let my hands pick a pouch at random. Opening them, I behold the color purple.

Reaching inside, I pull out a wig. Silky black hair in a style called the bubble. More evocative of an early Barbie doll than a modern woman of power. Still, I have to try it.

No sooner than I tuck the very last strand of my mousy brown locks under the wig and pull it snug, a tremor runs through my body. I dissolve and reconstitute, like the crew of the Star Ship Enterprise when Scotty beams them up from an alien planet.

Only the alien planet I’m beamed to is a noisy upscale cafeteria full of men. In suits. I, too, am in a suit. One with a bold navy print, a boxy jacket, and a knee-length A-line skirt. Pointy heels pinch my toes. The plate in my hand—my black hand—has three meticulously scooped mounds of salad. Tuna, potato, and cottage cheese.

I must’ve been watching my girlish figure. Young and buoyant, I grab the closest empty chair at a table full of men. White men.

Before my bottom hits the seat, they stand up en masse.

I look up at them and smile.

They glare back.

I keep smiling but don’t move.

The one with the biggest beer belly stammers out, “Here in this body, we all have our special tables. This one here belongs to Georgia.”

The way he elongates the word special means only one thing. A cancer that needs to be excised from the heart of our nation.

I take a bite of tuna, chew, and swallow before responding. “Look,” I say, “I’m eating my lunch and enjoying it.”

With that, I take a bite of potato salad and wipe my mouth. “After today I will not sit at a table that belongs to Georgia. But if you can’t sit here and dine with me, I suggest you sit at one of the empty tables over there.”

I gesture with my chin and continue. “And if any of the other delegates ask you to rise from that table, I will be the first to support you. Understand?”

Understand they do. Their way, of course.

To a man, they get up and plunk their London Broils down at a vacant table rather than sit with Representative Shirley Chisolm from New York.

Shaking with fear-tinged satisfaction, I finish my lunch. It’s the dawn, or maybe the pre-dawn of a new day, but I remain alone in that white male bastion known as the U.S. Congress.

When lunch’s over, I stand up, looking for the way back to the chambers. Before I make it back to work, another tremor runs through me, and after that sparkly shimmer effect, I’m back at my dining room table, safely tethered, but still shaking from the close call.

Maybe politics wasn’t my calling after all.

Kamala got close and we still lost. All that fund-raising and campaigning, and look where it got us. Obama’s hair grayed in the White House. Not that I’d start there, of course, but my limbs ached just thinking about it.

Maybe the way to leave a lasting impact on society isn’t through politics but through art. I reached into the red pouch and pulled out a necklace of translucent beads. a watery green, heavy with the weight of what? Time, perhaps.

With the click of the clasp, my body tingled from head to toe as I was whisked away again. The scents of oil and turpentine accosted my nose before the tingling stopped.

The paintbrush in one hand dips into a squeeze of crimson on the palette in my other. Humming a faintly familiar folksy tune, I dab at the huge canvas in front of me, painting not one, but two hearts. Switching to a smaller brush with long, thin bristles, I trace the rough pencil line of what appears to be veins connecting the two hearts.

Something screeches behind me. A caged macaw squawks at my work.

“What? Which me don’t you like?” I ask it in fluent Spanish.

My harshest critic squawks again.

Setting the brush down, I step back to get perspective. With every move, pain ricochets through my hips and back. Sharp, yes, but also familiar, like the well-worn rebozo wrapped around my shoulders.

The pain in my back’s a dull ache compared to the stabs in my heart. I throw the brush down and scream, “Damn it, Diego!”

Then I collapse into a nearby chair and stroke the beads around my neck, reminding me of the light in his green-gold eyes. I want to yank them off and throw them across the room, but I need something that thuds or shatters.

The parrot squawks again and it hits me. He’s not my Diego. He never was. He belongs to nadie but himself. Funny how that word sounds like naughty, which he was. I pick up the glass next to my paintbox, down a final swig of stale wine, and hurl it at the wall.

There! It’s done. I pick up the thin-tipped brush and return to my canvas. This one's for me. Finally.

Before the painting’s even half finished, that familiar shimmer comes over me. Back at my table, with a still-achy back and an even more achy heart, I sigh. Love Frida and the raw honesty of her work, but for now, I’ll stick to browsing through my coffee-table art books and visiting my local gallery. Maybe put a trip to La Casa Azul on my bucket list.

My stomach growls and I slice into the cheesecake. This would be a good day to work on my resume or browse for job listings.

But the last pouch calls like a siren. Wherever’s in there, I don’t have to wear. I just have to know.

When I open it, a silky scarf slides out, thin as a sigh, smelling of rain and woodsmoke. Cerulean blue. My favorite color. It practically wraps itself around my shoulders. My skin purrs at the touch, while something inside my chest pulls tight, like a string being tuned. Then everything shimmers.

Now I’m sitting on the floor, of all places, in a sun-drenched loft somewhere vaguely familiar. It’s hard to see out the window for all the smoke in the room. My throat burns with each breath.

I’m playing a guitar and singing. Me who can’t carry a tune is singing Blue. Joni’s Blue, of course. A song I love, but avoid when it hurts like this. But I wasn’t listening to it, I was singing it. Or was I inhabiting Joni while she sang it to me? For me?

At first, it’s clearly Joni. But then, her smoky voice slowly fades until it’s just me holding the song and releasing it with my velvety voice.

When the song ends, there’s no shimmering. I reach over and snuff out the cigarette. Then I get up and open the window. A rusty swingset replaces Laurel Canyon’s eucalyptus trees. I’m home, but something’s different.

The guitar’s on my chair and a dulcimer’s on my table next to an open notebook. I pick up the guitar, sit down, and strum a few cords. When I glance at the notebook, there’s a line in my handwriting. Silver swingset, you rust away in my heart. A bitter end to what barely got a start.

Corny as hell, but I keep strumming and start humming a new tune. And ever so softly, give voice to those words, my words, and through them, my pain and pride. Not Shirley’s. Not Frida’s. Not Joni’s. Mine.

My voice isn’t perfect. Far from it. But it rings true with a familiar cerulean resonance. I pull the scarf tighter. I’m home. Finally home to myself.

I don’t need another life. I just needed my own voice back.