Living Lois Lane: The 10-Year Itch

Welcome to my version of "Being John Malkovich." Actually, I have no idea what BJM is actually about, because I am, to the consternation of my husband, a rom-com kind of girl, but hey, the title is catchy, and it inspired this one.

The more I write "The Story of Us" (which I recently remembered is also the title of a movie where Michelle Pfeiffer and Bruce Willis get divorced ... greeeeeat) the more I think about my role in the story, my relationships, my motivations ... What led me into journalism, and what led me out of it ... So while this series may be a lot of jumbled thoughts on paper, it's somewhat cathartic, so bear with me ... or leave a comment asking for less words and more pictures of THE bear.

There's something about it being my 10-year reunion this year that has me feeling reflective. Being on the committee has reconnected me with people I haven't seen or talked to in a decade, and awakened memories that I hadn't thought about in who knows how long. And now I'm thinking about who I have become in the last 10 years.

The bottom line: I'm not the same person I was in 2000. Hell, I'm not the same person I was in 2008. But that's not the point.

Once upon a time, in the pre-Facebook dark ages, it often wasn't until the 10-year reunion that you got to see how your classmates have turned out. Who's married, who's divorced, who has kids, who got fat/thin/implants/botox, etc. It's an evening of memories, one-upsmanship and barely contained smug self-satisfaction for those who did, in fact, have a post-high school metamorphosis.

With a month and a half until my own trip down memory lane, here's the analysis: No more glasses, no more unibrow, no more Indian 'fro ... and a whole lot more stretch marks that I can't entirely blame on Collin since they showed up long before he did.

Do I feel better my appearance than I did in 2000? Sure. No one wants to look like the love child of Diana Ross and Bert from "Sesame Street". But am I satisfied? Of course not. I look at my wedding pictures and get annoyed with myself for not having had the fortitude to turn down the pie, pasta, pumpkin-spice lattes ...

Let me put it this way: There's more than one reason why I am having an affair with the Wii Fit.

Granted, anyone who has seen me on Facebook knows exactly what I look like right now, but even so, it's a matter of pride.

And it's not just a matter of physical attributes. Yes, I am still a
Type-A control freak/overachiever. But not in the same way.

If someone had told me 10 years ago that I'd be a stay-at-home mom who writes about high-school sports and Cougar football on the side, I'd have said they were crazy. And if they had said I would marry Chris .... well ... that's a whole separate issue, to be continued in TSOU Part VIII.

This afternoon, I called an old friend about the reunion, someone I hadn't spoken to in seven years. I don't want to get into the details of why, but back in 2003, I had my reasons for why I felt our relationship had become toxic. I was nervous about calling her, but the conversation was very pleasant. And here's the kicker: She didn't seem surprised whatsoever that I had traded deadlines for naptimes.

"I'm sure people are shocked that I'm a stay-at-home mom," I said with a self-conscious laugh. "Most people didn't even think I'd get married, let alone have kids."

"They didn't know you very well," she replied with absolute certainty.

Her reply threw me for a loop. This is someone who once upon a time DID know me very well, back when my greatest passion was my career and my single-minded goal was to win the Pulitzer before I was 30. And here she was, sounding as if my lifestyle change was as common as rain in Seattle.

Which begs the question of who didn't know whom ... and the realization that maybe *I* didn't know myself that well.

Honestly, it seems sometimes that the only person shocked by my transformation is, well, myself. Oh, Jenn, my friends say, you're so creative, you love all that domestic stuff, you were born to be the room mom who brings cupcakes on birthdays.

But ... but what about the Pulitzer?

I had my dream job. I fully intended to grow old in said dream job. But it didn't work out that way. And here I was, after all my aggrandizing about being the next coming of Lane, about to go to my reunion and say that I was a not-so-desperate housewife. I mean, honestly, when I look at job listings, I always mentally evaluate if it would be a job I'd be proud to say I do at my 10-year reunion.

To clarify, I am not worried about what my former classmates would think, nor do I regret my choice to be a SAHM. I love being home with Collin (and I'm saying that after being up half the night dealing with his teething woes and other assorted dramas). It's more a matter of self-judgment about what I'm not versus what I am. I don't take failure lightly.

And maybe, subconsciously, it's why I can't bring myself to say I am done with journalism. After all, I do freelance reporting and editing. I have, in fact, expanded my horizons since leaving The Times. And I haven't failed. Yes, I lost my job -- but that was a matter of economics, not of skill. I can still write. I can still edit. And I still have the love of the game, of the words and deadlines and the adrenaline.

So, I may not be able to do anything about my thighs by October, but I can be assured of one thing. I can to go my 10-year reunion and say I am still, in fact, living Lois Lane.

After all, by now, she would have evolved, too. Maybe she'd even bake cupcakes.

Nah.

But that doesn't mean I can't.