I got these pink boxing gloves for Hanukkah last year. They were the only gift that really spoke to me. Well, along with the complete set of Dick Van Dyke DVDs. (That’s funny. If you abbreviate Dick Van Dyke, it’s the same as DVD. Hmmm.) Anyway, both gifts were from the same person, a newish friend who seemed to know me better than anyone who had shared my life for decades.
My sister gave me a plastic water bottle and pink paisley bandana from what I’m sure was the clearance bin at Old Navy. My husband gave me a “lovely” outfit from Tommy Bahama and a Dyson vacuum cleaner, which, in his defense, was a very expensive gift that I had asked, no, begged to receive for months. But, between you and me, it was one of the greatest gift letdowns of all time. “Oh … a vacuum. I love it.” Note to men: No matter how desperately a woman professes to pine for a household appliance, do not believe her. She is living in a complete state of denial.
My mom gave me … well, what my mom always gives me. Money. So I can buy something “special” for myself. Even my aunt, who prides herself in gift-giving creativity, sent a clunker last Hanukkah. It was a hand-painted, Israeli folk art tambourine. Do I sound like a woman who’s into folk art … or tambourines?
But this friend, who knew me only superficially I thought, had listened when I said that I wanted to teach my boys about comedy and that, in my opinion, any comedic education should start with a review of the greatest television show of all time, “The Dick Van Dyke Show.” She also heard me confess that I’d always secretly wished to be the kind of person who could step into a boxing ring and knock off someone’s block. You see, she got my sincere aspiration to overcome my perpetual pleasing affliction and become somebody who no longer felt pushed around by the world.
This friend saw me for who I wanted to be, not for the over- tired, over-worked, over-burdened super mom who never had time to watch a favorite TV show with her kids or the stamina to get to a gym after a day of professional appointments, household errands and maternal duties. And it worked. Those gifts reminded me of who I truly was inside, not who the world, or circumstance, or responsibility dictated I should be. She gave my soul permission to emerge, to exist, to expand.
I watched every episode of Dick Van Dyke ever created with my kids. It was a process that lasted nearly six months. When chores and homework were finished, we’d snuggle into the sofa and giggle as Rob and Laura mistakenly suspected Jerry of cheating on Millie or Ritchie got his head pecked by a giant bird trying to feather her nest. My boys adored those shows, and I felt like somehow they knew me better by watching the reruns that I’d religiously enjoyed for at least a decade of my youth.
Most importantly, I started boxing. I proudly punched, jabbed and uppercut my way out of everything that felt expected, mechanical, ordinary.
It’s funny how someone new can look at you and see you for who you wish yourself to be rather than who you were 10 years or 20 pounds ago. A new friend is like an artist seeing a model for the first time. Sometimes it takes someone outside our dutiful reality to remind us that it’s not too late to be someone different, that we can still become that person we always meant to become, that there’s still time to … ”float like a butterfly and sting like a bee.” Anyone who thinks otherwise can meet me in the ring.
