I Got Out of Bed for Sesame Street

This is a continuation in a series of stories that tell about a backpack trip to Europe (and back) in the spring of 1976 by myself in an effort to run away from the pain of a broken heart. (To read from the beginning Google "The Ramblings of an Aging Baby Boomer" go to March 27, 2015, "I'll Never Find Love Again").

I came within two days of marrying Prince Charming, but my intuition told me it was the wrong thing to do. For ten days before my marriage, I was out of my mind with confusion. Should I? Shouldn't I? Three times my VW bug and I headed out of town leaving a message behind that I could not go through with the wedding.

At twenty-nine I had no close friends. There was no one on the sidelines of my life that I could turn to for advice. Jack had been my life for nearly ten years--the only close person I thought I needed. He instructed me on what to do, how to think, what to eat until one day I said, "Stop telling me what to do, Jack. I have a brain, you know."

Then I met and fell in love with someone else. My Cinderella Complex took me from one controlling man to another. They weren't bad men--well, one of them wasn't. They just wanted to choreograph my life, and I was willing to do the dance--whatever it took to keep my man. There was just one itty bitty problem.

I wanted a knight in shinning armor to rescue me, but I didn't want him or his horse to get in my way when there was some thing I was determined to do. Like, for example, go to college or have a career outside of the home or have platonic men friends or wear a bikini or build a rip-roaring fire in the fireplace--all things my husband-soon-to-be didn't want me to do.

"Check your brain at the altar," I kept repeating to myself (referring to the wedding altar) as I drove out of town on my last escape from impending incarceration.  Only two days to go before I would be required to check my brain at the altar, check my brain at the altar, check my brain at the altar.

I stopped the wedding. Incredibly, he didn't break up with me. I said I needed more time and he gave it to me. I moved to Evansville and rented a farmhouse around the corner from his apartment. Living on what little savings I had, I decided (at first) to not get a job because once we were married, I would be a stay-at-home wife. Domestic duties (cleaning house and cooking) became my purpose for getting out of bed each day, so with that to look forward to, I oftentimes slept late. The highlight of my days was Sesame Street. All housework stopped when this show created for children came on the television. I grew especially fond of Bert and Ernie whose off-the-wall, silly humor was aligned with mine. It was those few moments of laugh-out-loud comic relief that I looked forward to everyday. I got out of bed for Sesame Street.

In short order I became lethargic and dull and unmotivated. I stopped wearing makeup and fixing myself up for my future husband. I began to dislike myself more than I already did. I thought I was lazy and worthless. Why wasn't I happy and more excited about spending the rest of my life with a man who was going to take care of me. All I  had to do was be a good wife and mother ...and...and... give up control because as the leader of our household my man would decide what is best for me.

As it turned out, he didn't know what was best for me. I admire women who have dedicated their lives to being housewives and mothers. Raising children is the most important job in the world, because how our children turn out determines the success or failure of everyone's future. But if there is one thing I am not, it's a perfect keeper of the house. Dust doesn't bother me; it sits around minding its own business, hurting no one. Dishes in the sink? That's the best place for them; easy access--rinse and ready to go again. Laundry? I wear the same jeans and T-shirt everyday, so laundry is a bi-weekly thing and only when I run out of underwear. Oh, and about that cooking thing. If it involves chocolate, I'll turn on the oven for you. Other than that, I have no reason to go into the kitchen...except to retrieve a dish out of the sink.

Forty years ago, I did not know who I was or what I wanted in life. I had no direction or purpose of my own; I gave away my options. I gave away decisions and choices that I should have been making on my own. I was smart; I was capable; but I was imprisoned inside a belief that I was not able to take care of myself; I needed rescued. I was trapped, yet I didn't know at the time that all along I was the prison guard who held the key.

Breaking free and running away from my wedding was the first step in the right direction, but I didn't realize it then. I came back to the entrapment--need a rescuer, need a rescuer--several more times before I broke free for good decades later.



Just for Fun...to watch vintage Bert & Ernie go to You Tube and type in: Bert & Ernie - Cookies in Bed (vintage Sesame Street)