Finding Me

By Gina M. Granger

On occasion, on a rare occasion, in a rare moment of serenity, wedged ever so tightly between excursions to the grocery store and trips to the potty, I find me.

Not the overworked, stressed-out, rhyme-singing, laundry-folding, coupon-clipping zombie that rambles on endlessly about weekly sales on bath soap and the injustice of meat pricing, but the authentic me. The me that chose "the road more traveled." The business suit-laden, perfectly manicured (and pedicured, for that matter) luxury SUV-driving, frequently networking me.

The "me" whose baby bag has been replaced by a laptop case and whose CDs require a monetary investment greater than $14.95. The "Me" supreme - "Platinum me." The Rodeo drive me, the "gorgeous studio apartment overlooking the Hudson" me. The Manolo Blahnik me.

Not the ever-patient, "That's good enough" me who plucks cream of wheat granules from her hair each night before bed, and who smiles when she wipes spit-up off of her new shirt for the third (or fourth, or fifth) time.

But rather the capricious me, the hot-tempered "Why I Never" me, the silver tongued vixen who wears blouses, not T-shirts, and who looks on with disdain at tantrum-throwing toddlers and at moms engaged in unending battles of will with people whose shoes are on the wrong feet.

I see the "me" that I would be, if "me" was all that there was.

And every once in a while, while re-buckling my three-year-old into her safety seat at a red light, I look up and catch a glance of me, replete with hands free phone and palm pilot and actually, for a moment, come face to face with choices made and promises kept.

This is not an ode to regrets but rather a celebration - of unselfishness and of capabilities, a lyric of gratitude, because for all of my trade-offs and "sacrifices" -- I am beautiful. In my ability to give endlessly and never take, to provide and yet, rarely receive, I am perfect.

While at times my "Platinum me" does appear before me at inopportune moments creating anguish, I relish the thought that my endless labor will give birth to true meaning. That while I often desire the glamor and glory of the driver's seat, it is I, the pit crew that makes it all possible.

And when I hear my mother tell others that I am a freelance managerial consultant for a Fortune 500 company, and not an at-home mother of two, it is the wide-eyed adoration of my children that sustains me.

When frustration and anxiety mount up formidably against me, when I have given all that I am without reservation, when I come face-to-face with the actuality that my job will never be complete, I can smile, secure in the knowledge that surrendering my "Platinum me" creates for my children a better chance to live, to learn, and to grow with me by their side and supporting them all the way.

But when I look just a little closer at "Platinum me," a little more deeply into the eyes so often hidden by tinted designer lenses, I find her reality: That she is unhappy and unloved, that no one holds her close or cries onto that soft place of her neck. She is only known as "Miss Turner" and has never answered to an endless chorus of "Mom," and something in her desires just that.

Her heart covets exactly what her executive ambition won't allow her to entertain. And beneath the designer veneer, behind the new-aged gadgets and toys, in the inner sanctum of her soul, she sheds a tear.

For she really wants to be me.