Looking Inside

I had an epiphany while standing in line at the DMV. Since I had all the time in the world I picked at scabs of old hurts, swept away the fragments of broken promises and scoured the stains of spilled tears till I saw a pattern.

In the crevices between memory and reality live the ghosts of dreams.

I remembered bedtime stories from when I was a child. The stories of girls who became princesses and lived happily ever after. Though evil tried to interfere, no amount of deceit and lies would aid the wicked. It was always the patient, innocent, sweet, and above all pretty, no beautiful girl who got her happily ever after.

While the line moved forward another space, I briefly wondered what lessons little boys walk away with. Poor Hansel was helpless and at the mercy of the witch while needing to rely on the cunning of his sister. Lazy Jack taught us that robbery paid off. Though none of the boys I have known ever considered relying on their sister, I have been the victim of break-ins, and theft three times. Could I blame that on the brothers Grimm? I should ask sometime what men remember from fairy tales.

Of course, as a young girl I dreamed of being one of those princesses, being swept off my feet, carried off by a handsome and above all, charming prince. Though I would have preferred something low-slung Italian with more than one horsepower over that white smelly steed, I realized even then that as a humble but fair maiden I couldn’t be choosy until I became the princess.

My conundrum was how to entice a prince. There were no hearths to clean. I searched but never stumbled upon any dwarves to look after. Garden gnomes don’t count, I learned. No doubt I tracked in dirt and soiled my share of floors. I probably could have scrubbed those. But let’s be real, I’d rather read a book.

I practiced virtue, didn’t I? As a schoolgirl, I would sit at my desk and study my irregular French verbs. A flash of brilliance told me it would be speedier to write the difficult ones in my palm only to forget and wash my hands when I used the girl’s room. It turned out, just writing them down helped me learn them. Such a clever student.

I honestly planned to share the afterschool treats with my brothers, but I was rarely fast enough to get my share. Never mind, I would just sneak back later to be sure I got what was coming to me. And of course, I was caught often enough to earn a reputation.

The gasp of surprise came in my teens when a bucket of icy reality was poured over my dreams. I was told that I couldn’t count on finding a husband or prince who’d support me in the manner to which I would love to grow accustomed. I had better apply myself and make sure I could earn a living.

That cold shower taught me that I was probably not beautiful or sweet enough to make a prince look twice. That sitting back and waiting wouldn’t get the job done. And even if I had all the qualities, it wouldn’t matter how many hearths I scrubbed or dwarves I fed. If I didn’t shout from the roof tops that it was my bloody shoe that the bitch was wearing, malevolence would still win. And finally, there might not be any princes out there.

And poof! There went the dream of happily ever after. The one that was brought to life by fairy tales and nurtured by Harlequin romances and Hollywood. What was left were the ghosts of make-believe princes, starry eyes and wonder.

When they haunted me, restlessly scratching at the walls of their fissure, I threw a blanket over them by turning away from the Hallmark Channel, sneering at someone’s wedding plans and gritting my teeth when I heard everlasting love songs. I then hunched my shoulders, kept my head down, got lost in work, switched to reading Koonz, Grafton and King, scoffed at compliments and nuked another Stouffer’s-for-one.

I looked up and saw that all this house cleaning brought me only half-way to the driver’s license window. So, I continued taking inventory.

In the next fissure I found a pitiful and dejected ghost. The pathetic remnants of my other dreams. When I asked, the creature told me its name was potential.

I have always thought potential to be a wistful word. Merely a pie in the sky, a carny’s bull’s eye, those birds in the bush, all the eggs in a clutch that never hatched, a promise, a vision, a dream that would never be realized, the boys who could have been incognito princes. Talent without belief will wither, skill without training will stifle, visions without execution will fade and desires without drive will sink into potential.

Since I was dusting my own memories, scraping the gunk out of my forgotten crevices, I admitted my flaws to myself. My talent? I had a quick mind that easily meandered around corners, imagining alternatives. But seeing the first raised eyebrow and smirk, I would lose belief, tuck my tail, and return to the main road. Skill? I had been blessed with very handy hands that worked with my quirky mind to make unique designs. But I was always too timid to show them to others. I dreamed of “big” things, fame, fortune, and recognition. But never pursued them, being equally afraid of success and failure.

Although I was never discouraged from trying new things, no one ever expected greatness or anything beyond average from me. But ultimately it was me - my own hesitation to step into the unknown, my reluctance to upset the status quo, my abhorrence of being seen and thus inviting ridicule, my lack of believe in myself or trust the opinion of others - who neglected my dreams and gave birth to the ghosts of what could have been, the ones that took my crayons and plans.

At last! I am at the head of the line.

Mentally wiping my hands on the back of my pants, I felt I spent the time productively. With a deeper understanding of my averageness, I was ready to step forward as soon as the lady at the window would call "Ne-ext."