I love a good montage. I find it rather unfair that one only gets them in movies. How convenient to condense days/weeks/months of hard work into a series of images that will fit within the space of one perfectly chosen song. When I was dumped, years ago at this point, I watched Forgetting Sarah Marshall over and over again. Partly because it was funny. Partly because I love Jason Segal, and he is stark naked for a good two minutes at the beginning of the film. Mostly because I could relate to the very ugly, clumsy task of trying to pick your smooshed heart up off the floor and reshape it into something that once again resembles a beating organ. But my favorite place in the film was the montage at the end. He sits down at the piano to play his notable song from his vampire musical in sweatpants, hangdog expression dripping all over the keys. He pity parties, gives up and goes to lie down. But then he tries again, and soon, the music is swelling, Peter’s up on the treadmill, his apartment is clean(er), he’s composing music in a J. Crew sweater, making dinner for his step brother and step brother’s wife and baby, and then the musical’s complete, he’s ten pounds thinner and has mastered ayurvedic cooking (okay maybe not that last one). As much as I loved the film, in particular this moment in it, I felt gypped that no montage was coming to save me. The hours of sitting on the floor in stunned silence, working through shame, rejection, hopelessness, and hurt had to happen in real time.
In spite of the fact that we don’t get to fast forward in our own lives, perhaps we can relate to montages so well because when we look back at events, that’s what they seem to us: a series of well-chosen images. Add the perfect song, and you’ve got yourself a montage, in retrospection. It doesn’t make it easier to get through the muck, but it makes the muck look a little nicer once we’re past it. The memory glosses over a lot, sepia tones it, hides the snot running down our chins because we’re too grief stricken to wipe it away.
So, here’s my montage from the past five years, set to Ben Fold’s “The Luckiest” (and I can assure you I looked fabulous through all of it). My good friend from high school stopped by to visit. We talked and laughed. He showed up again. We talked and laughed. Eventually we kissed. We had dinners out, alone and with the girl. We went to Texas and got caught on a beach by a hurricane-like storm. He donned cape and superhero body suit and saved us. We married. We moved. The girl grew. And through the movie watching, card playing, walks, runs, musicals, orchestra concerts, Christmas and Thanksgiving dinners with extended family, we became a family.
Fast forward. I was younger. Now not so much. In the five year span, I have moved into middle age. It’s uncomfortable, and I want a montage to pull me through it to a place where my skin fits again. Because middle age is puberty, round 2. There are hormones. You grow in places you wish you wouldn’t. There are mood swings. And through it all, you have the same teenaged desire to run away, from others and from yourself. But unlike in your teens, you can't run ahead to the better version of yourself that awaits in your 20s and 30s. Middle age has left all of that behind, and there are no more leading, romantic roles waiting up ahead (at least not in Hollywood blockbusters). Middle age is stepping aside, accepting a certain level of center stage invisibility, and having to decide what supporting role is worth your time. This struggle with identity is the perfect place for a musical interlude. I don yoga pants and become peaceful and reflective. I master ayurvedic cooking. I support charity Mother Teresa-like. Movies are made about my Stand and Deliver teaching success. I do not spend years struggling to lose weight, or even worrying about my weight. I do not snap at my husband and child when my rope is frayed. I do not sneak the Cheetos for the child’s lunch and then claim that she must’ve eaten them already without being aware of it. I do not lose days to Desperate Housewife and Office marathons.
If only.
The reality of any current montage would be messy. My pants are tight. I have never learned to deal with paperwork. I see my dermatologist on a regular basis to fight acne that is worse now than it was twenty years ago (and I still pop pimples). I have read so much about nutrition, I’m no longer sure what to eat (sweet potato fries win out more often than they should). The floor is still my favorite place for clothes that I have (or haven’t) worn. I can justify not working out when the temperature drops below 30 (dangerous as we move into winter). It’s probably no longer cute that I can drink three beers over dinner. I grind my teeth. I laugh too loudly, or not at all.
Unfortunately, there is no fast forwarding here, which is probably for the best, but I think I’ll still add a soundtrack while I roll up my sleeves and get to work. Let’s go with Ben Folds again: “We’re Still Fighting It”. Or maybe “Best Imitation of Myself”. After all, Ben’s 48 now. It sounds like he can relate.
