Girl in a Fight Club
When I was a kid I joined a fight club — something neighborhood boys do in the long stretch of summer. I remember the sharp sting of the first right hook I took to the face and the burn of my opponent’s boxing glove as it crossed the left side of my face. The impact left me stumbling and swallowing hard to supress my emotion.
Sporting blue jeans, colorful tees, and long blonde hair, my parents had nurtured in me a giant sense of self-confidence and a spirit of individuality. I am grateful that I never felt pressure to be like anyone else. In turn, I took seriously the notion of being strong, independent and adventurous.
As far as I know, I was the only tomboy on the block. I treasured my pocketknife, rode a Big Wheel, and would surely have levied for territory had another like me emerged. And as I am sure my parents would agree, I didn’t need to be causing any more trouble than I already did.
Before turning ten, I spent plenty of afternoons waiting in my room for my father to return from work so we could begin sorting out my punishment. I can still hear the clock ticking toward the time he would walk through the door. He would repeatedly and patiently greet me with an opportunity to be honest, to cry on his shoulder, and to resolve to be the best kid I could. I always left with an internal committed to make a better choice next time.
My best friend in childhood had always been my sister, Marcee. Eighteen months younger than me, she was perfect, pink and pretty. She loved dolls and Barbies and supporting me in my adventures as long as she could remain interested. We played grocery store and Star Wars, created pretend radio and TV shows, turned mom’s living room furniture into airplanes so we could travel the world.
I remember many mornings setting out on my Big Wheel, pretending to drive to work like my father did, and searching for an adventure. While things like catching salamanders and frogs and grasshoppers once thrilled me, somewhere between eighth and ninth grade I decided to surrender my softball mitt for dance shoes, and asked my sister to teach me to wear makeup.
I love looking back at the girl I was. In adulthood, I continue to seek adventure, and my imagination never seems to pale. Becoming a parent has taught me that I really must have been quite a handful. And with each year, I adore my parents more for the ways they continue to support my individuality and encourage me. They do not pressure me to be like anyone else, and they continue to love and celebrate with me.
Once while on assignment for a magazine at 20th Century Fox, I completed an interview and photo shoot was given a memento hoodie to wear. The studio had just released a new movie, and the V.P. of marketing made sure I was donning the latest Hollywood propaganda as I drove off the lot.
When the airplane landed and I walked off the ramp wearing the words “Fight Club” across my chest, I thought how this time, I would likely not find mom waiting by the curb in her Volkswagen Bug to summon me home.
How grateful I am for life’s adventure.
