Mr. Cellophane

Glee is Heathers for thirty-somethings and is my new favorite confection.

Fox got it right with their new musical satire and after watching the pilot twice on Hulu, I'm thinking that September is much too long for Fair and Balanced to expect me to wait to see episode two. It's a tease and teasing isn't fair. We all know that. And it would only be balanced if I teased Fox first; and even if I did, I'm pretty sure Fox didn't hear me so it can't possibly count.

It's Memorial Day and I'm home with the dog. Saturday morning there was a cow moose and two spring calves in the yard. Yesterday on a hike, Dasha and a black bear shared a small stream; they were both thirsty. Today I finished sewing a pair of cammi pants into a tote.

Like the Marc Jacobs wearing kid who auditions with Mr. Cellophane on Glee, I'm feeling a little invisible. Alaska makes me feel invisible.

Chicago was a competition. The Navy was a competition. Either by conforming and striving, or by eschewing the standard set of rules, competitions make it easy to stand out.

In Alaska most women are content to dress like, and maintain the same physique as, men. Coworkers don't seem to care how much I achieve. And while it's not a marker of geography but of age, I'm old enough that my mother has stopped waiting for me to turn into something.

It's suddenly, and for the first time, OK to be average.

That's not OK with me. I want to live a Jane Austin novel where choosing the unexpected has fantastic potential. And the sticking point is that I don't have anyone here to talk to about it. I don't have a Flaco to encourage chasing the well-suited-to-me arcane. And I don't have a Master Chief to encourage the well-suited-to-me obvious and frequently traveled path.

Time is the indulgence of the thirty-something and childless and with my indulgence I'm stewing. Probably not the best choice. (But for what it's worth, today I've also started a lawn of clover, planted ferns, rearrange the rock gardens, washed the winter down jackets, and stitched a tote out of old pants.) If I was all aflutter with three kids I wouldn't write this, wouldn't have the time to write this, and wouldn't have the time to think it.

So where does that leave me? With the need to find a motivator. I've always been good with external motivators, but in their absence, now is the time to harvest from within.