Hey Blondie

Sometimes, I worry I lost the old part of me. The part before all of the brush with death and illness stuff. The part who, forgetfully, loses her wallet or leaves her coat behind at a restaurant or forgets all of the group’s tickets to a show. After many scars and an early dose of life experience, I, sometimes, find pride in the awareness and mindfulness these scars have cultivated. And, sometimes, I loathe these scars. 

When I lose something or pay for a movie when it is clearly offered, for free, on Netflix streaming, my dad is notorious to offer his conditioned response, Hey Blondie. This phrase is as old as I am in years. Many people question the color of my hair, and my dad is happy to assure every skeptic, that every inch of my hair is the color with which I was born. There is no question in his mind. Whether due to my age or my forced maturity, his use of this phrase diminishes over time. I don’t find it an insult either way, but, I must admit, when I do hear it, I know we are back to normal. I know emotions left over from accidents and pain and huge life changes are on the back burner for a bit. I know this because when he says, Hey Blondie, he’s only seeing me, his little girl that used to forget everything and lose the most important papers and fail to understand the simplest of instructions. That part of me that could care less about the real stuff and just wanted to play in her Barbie Dream House.

Yesterday, after a better than normal doctor visit, I wheeled to my car and plopped my bag on the seat of the car, and took Belle for a walk. She, now, comes with me to the doctor and loves every minute of the visit. The sun was shining and the sky was so blue, I thought it would be nice to go for a quick walk around the parking lot and building. After our quick walk, we returned to the car and headed home. As I was gathering my phone, keys, and wallet before we headed into the house, I realized my wallet was missing. I searched the inside of the car, the glove compartment, and my big bag. I searched several times, hoping the wallet would suddenly appear. Then, I decided, the wallet was taken when we were on our two minute walk. I failed to realize, in the moment, the doors were locked, my phone,  and my bag were still left. In my mind, the wallet was gone. I called my doctor’s office to see if it fell on the floor, no luck. A sweet nurse even walked the parking lot to see if it was anywhere to be found, no luck. So, I called the bank and cancelled my credit card. I called the police to place a police report because my license was gone. And then I called the insurance adjuster because the kind police officer told me to file a claim for the cost of the wallet. I was devastated. Mostly, because I now had to apply for a new driver’s license and replace the wallet I’ve had for a decade. It might be faded and worn and have threads coming out, but I love it so very much for all of these reasons. The wallet tells a story and is soft from so much wear and tear. I, reluctantly, packed up my phone and keys, grabbed Belle’s leash and we headed in the house.

And, then, I passed my trunk. I felt this huge rush. I opened my trunk. And there was my wallet. My wallet, just sitting there, waiting for me to find it. The very wallet I locked in the trunk to prevent theft. Hey Blondie, was all I heard. I called the bank, the cop, and the insurance adjuster. Each of them responded with laughter and an abundance of kindness. Without question the bank reversed the block on my card, the officer stopped the cancellation of my license, and the adjuster refrained from filing my wallet claim. Then, I called my doctor’s office. And the nurse who answered the phone, after hearing the story, said, “At least we know your hair color is real!”

You know, I don’t mind a good blond joke. I especially don’t mind it when it reminds me of who I was and who I still am. Even though I am covered in scars, I can still make the mistakes I did before all of the pain. I can still laugh when I find out what was lost is found. 

The end of a relationship changes us and makes us feel lost. Death and near death experiences make us feel like we are just wandering through life without a purpose and don’t recognize the person looking back at us anymore. Addiction and pain make us feel like we are scarred and damaged for life and all innocence is gone. But, every once in a while, we are reminded, we are still there. We may be changed and bruised a bit, but that person who played in her dream house, is still alive. She might not be out front and visible, but a good look in the trunk and we will find her.