Or Maybe it's Just Another Stupid Movie Line

Why do only the stupidest of memorable movie lines stick with me? I know some people who go around quoting Citizen Kane and Pulp Fiction. I can only throw things back at you from films along the lines of Legally Blonde and Elf.

A favorite stupid movie quote that I latched onto, because I just thought it was so stupid, is from Dirty Dancing. Patrick Swayze, as Johnny Castle, at the climactic final dance out, extends his hand to Jennifer Grey, as Baby, and at the protest of her father – and says, “Nobody puts Baby in a corner!”

This time Baby doesn’t demure from her destiny or even briefly look around as if to say, “He can’t possibly mean me!” For the first time in her whole repressed life, her dancer’s chin is held high as she takes center stage. Everyone’s going to see what she’s made of. Without hesitation, for almost three whole minutes, she works the fact that it’s ONLY about her. The audience breathes their collective sigh of relief, because her transformation and her new self esteem are for real, thanks, in no small part, to the buff, tone and simpleminded Johnny. Yet again, a Prince Charming closes the deal. Without him she would still be in that corner and no one would have ever witnessed her undeniable fabulosity. There would have been no Dirty Dancing at Mom and Dad’s cotillion.

Last night I didn’t dream that I could suddenly dirty dance, but I did dream I could kiss my elbow. Kissing one’s elbow is physically impossible. According to family lore, my aunt when she was a young tomboy used to try to kiss her elbow, because my grandmother told her that if she could accomplish this she would be able to turn into a boy. You’re going to have to trust me that this dream doesn’t mean I want to turn into a boy. Someone totally different, sometimes; a male – unless I’ve totally missed the point of my whole existence – no.

In my dream the midday sun warmed the top of my head on this imagined playground of life where there were no swings or seesaws. Other adults, doing stuff I didn’t care about, shared this playground. Even though I had my space and the other people had theirs, everything was out in the open. One minute I’m sitting on a playground of life bench, by myself, but not lonely. The next, without even meaning to, I effortlessly twist my arm around and bring my lips to my left elbow. I don’t kiss my elbow, it just happens that my lips are touched to it. I look around, troubled that someone may have witnessed this. To myself and the world, I felt exposed as the freak of nature I always deep down knew myself to be.

If this got out to the others on the playground of life, everyone would look at me. They would expect things, great things. Things I couldn’t really do, at least not sustain. They would have no way of knowing that this elbow kissing was probably the result of some screwed up gene mutation and wouldn’t understand that left to my own limited devices this skill wouldn’t mean success for me in any way whatsoever. I vowed never to even think about twisting my elbow to my lips again. The best case scenario would be that a person would come along at that exact moment and take me under their wing and show me how to parlay this desirable and rare talent into a meaningful existence. In reality I knew that even if such a person just happened to walk by on the playground of life, because life ain’t a movie, that he or she would end up being nothing more than an evil ringmaster where I would soon end up being abandoned, or part of the freak show.

Now, what the heck does all this mean? Feel free to chime in, if you are so inspired. One minute I think I get it and the next I think I’m just nuts, but here’s my best shot:

I didn’t set out to be a writer. The hordes of English majors who received incessant praise from English teachers, whose bios mention having won their first writing competition when they were 8 and with seemingly small effort went on to simultaneously teach, write and receive master degrees – these are the real writers. They had callings. They had plans. I’ve tried to quit writing countless times, the way some people spend years trying to give up smoking. I have experienced what some might call “success” whatever the heck that means, but no matter what I write, I never know where I’m headed, or if I’m even capable of being headed anywhere. I’ve tried on being all kinds of writers for size: journalist, speechwriter, essayist, author of short stories, author of novels, travel writer, humor writer, poet, and columnist. No matter what, I feel like a poser if I call myself anything too confining. I’d rather just not call it anything at all. I go to writing workshops and conferences and find myself bewildered by some of the other writers, with their word counts, outlines and marketing plans.

So, I think dreaming about being able to kiss my elbow, somehow relates to being able to write.

Or maybe it’s just another stupid movie line and some pre New Year’s over thinking that brought this on!…There I go again, apologizing for being myself.