pas·sion /ˈpæʃ
ən/ Pronunciation Key - Show Spelled Pronunciation[pash-uhn] -noun
| 1. | any powerful or compelling emotion or feeling, as love or hate. |
| 2. | strong amorous feeling or desire; love; ardor. |
| 3. | strong sexual desire; lust. |
| 4. | an instance or experience of strong love or sexual desire. |
| 5. | a person toward whom one feels strong love or sexual desire. |
| 6. | a strong or extravagant fondness, enthusiasm, or desire for anything: a passion for music. |
| 7. | the object of such a fondness or desire: Accuracy became a passion with him. |
I remember feeling passion as a youth. Nothing could stop me from going to that Sadie Hawkins dance and I'd be damned if it wasn't going to be the best night ever! I knew that -insert current crush's name- would be there and I was going to ask him to dance and unlike his answer to my request of dating, he'd say yes. We'd kiss in front of everyone and I could spend my nights talking on the phone with him and planning our next date instead of just dreaming it.
I never went to a Sadie Hawkins dance. Oh the agony of defeat. I could feel my heart literally cracking in pain and the unbearable turning in my stomach as I lay on my bed knowing said crush would be kissing someone else instead.
As I grew older it seemed that passion was for little high school girls and angst filled emo boys. Not at all for me. I had no time to be passionate about anything. I got up and got my kids ready for daycare or slept in and snuggled with them, we played or I worked, Brian would come home and the atmosphere of the house would turn from hectic to tense. Dinner would be made, fights would break out, the kids would get tucked in to bed and we'd go to our respective escapes to end the night.
I had hobbies, but none that I could devote my life to the way one would with passion in their hearts. Just no time. The first two years with Anya were spent trying to be a good mommy to a baby I wasn't sure was even going to be mine, church was up there on the list, work of course and learning womanly domestication. With Camryn brought less me time but since I wasn't working I took up painting. I painted for about a year. I'm very specific in the type of painting that I do, mainly due to the fear of branching out and failing miserably. I drew paintings of friends and family from photoshopped pictures on my computer and would paint them in three colors or less. I'm not half bad either, for a tracer. I started working full time and the kids were put in daycare. No time for relaxing hobbies and our home life was incredibly miserable so I took up drinking instead. An easy hobby done in the late evening to early morning or a day off with no kids. It was fun. Malia and I would go out Wed and Sat nights and close down the bars, maybe an after party would follow. Days off would be spent doing yoga and congratulating ourselves on focusing on our health with an afternoon of a variety of mixed drinks and cigarettes. I think I bled alcohol at the end of it. Hobbies like that never last and I ended up in a very sordid and painful situation involving torrid marital affairs and nasty work gossip. I immediately quit my job and put my focus back on my family. NEW HOBBY! The kids. I spent that summer snuggling with my children while watching movies, going to parks, church, libraries and Larski's for big man breakfast Thursdays. Barbecues abounded! If I take Brian out of it, what a wonderful summer it was. That was also the summer of the hip hop hobby. Andrew and Ericka were engaged and Andrew was pushing shows for months to save up money for their honeymoon in Thailand. Jimi moved here for the summer to play shows with Andrew and work on his upcoming album. Every weekend I was at one of their shows, right in front, rapping along to songs no one else had heard but me and waiting for the occasion shout out to me. I got one at every show. In September Andrew and Ericka tied the knot and left me for new adventures. Jimi moved back to Montana and I was all alone in Spokane. Back to the same old routine, I guess. I snagged a job at Starbuck's with help from my friend, Jason and worked the pre-close shift and the 24 hour store. 5:30 to 1am was the usual shift. Lucky it was only three or four nights a week because the following mornings were always tough. This is where I started to reevaluate my life and the lack of passion in it. I wish that I could be the perfect mother and say that the kids are my passion, but I can't. They are my life, the reason I get up in the morning, but I'm not passionate about it. I don't yearn to get them dressed in the morning and make them dinner at night. It's just what I do. It's who I am. It's not my passion. Babies, please forgive me. I spend from that September (2005 by the way) to the following April assessing my life and the emptiness of it. What can I do to be happy? Go to church, which I did, and pardon the word, religiously. I prayed for God to help me fix my marriage, whatever it takes, God, open my eyes to see you in Brian, loosen my mouth to speak your will over my marriage, show me the path to follow, Lord, and I will follow it, just don't let me fail at this. This could've been considered passion if my heart was completely in it, but I was tired of being Brian's mother, constantly scolding and desperately trying to mold this self consumed and rebellious boy into the man of God he was supposed to be. I came to the unbearably painful conclusion that it takes two to tango and I'd been foolishly dancing by myself for four long years. Now there was a passion of mine. Dancing is my ultimate passion, ripped from my grasp in the summer of 2000 when Club London shut down. Now here I was, stuck in a couples dance class with an unwilling partner, leading in hopes that he would catch on and I could take the proper role of follower. I never did get the spin and dip I ached for in my marriage and I knew I never would. Figuring this out in the early months of 2006 led me to the next excruciating question. Should I accept the exhausting and bitter life as Mrs. Brian Wendt, forced to raise my children with little help and fighting with Brian about going to church, dishes, kids, work, dinner, God, friends, money and everything else there is to fight about and let my children live in a home with two very unhappy parents, or end my marriage, repent and ask for forgiveness, and raise my children alone but happy. I knew I would lose friends, since all of them are "our" friends. I knew that, no matter what, I would always have Brian and his "what's in it for me?" attitude in my life, and I knew that I would have to reestablish my relationship with God as a single woman. My children would be raised in a broken home and I would always have the -failed- stamp on my naked ring finger. But I would be happy. I might even figure out who I am and find passion! I'll take my chances on my own. So I did, on April 15, 2006, after a heated argument on the frustration of Easter and it's cultural and pagan overtones, ask Brian for a divorce. This was the second time I had asked, mind you, but the first time I really thought he might change. Silly Anjye, change is for men.
In the months ahead there was still no time for passion. Going through the ups and downs of accepting your failure as a wife and daughter of the King took up too much of my energy. Besides, I had two kids to raise during the week and a full time position to look for at work. Ethan thrust himself into my life with such passion that I didn't even realize what what happening until I filed for the restraining order. No passion for me, thanks. Passion is for high school girls and crazies, not for busy single moms.
During the month my divorced finalized, my passion slipped past me into the back room at work. Much too beautiful and tranquil to be a realistic passion for me. My passions had always been so haphazard and obviously cluttered, much like my dancing. There was too much mystery and elegance to this one. I knew from the start that I could never capture it and make it my own. My passion was unlike any other. A young man with exceptional hair, a perfect nose, fashion sense that put mine to shame and a love for music that was much to underground and hip for me. Mark made a Starbucks uniform look like a work of art. He'd tell me about bands and I'd just nod in hopes that he wouldn't figure out I was musically inept. We'd compete on who was the better supervisor. Myspace was brought up so we started sending eachother messages. Pabst blue ribbon was one of the first connections we made. Both of us are avid lovers of pabst. Our conversations quickly transitioned to enjoying our most beloved beer together, which we did soon after our messages began and by the following week we're sneaking kisses on our breaks at work and texting each other cutsie "i miss you"s like mad. This began in November. Over the next few months we tried to squeeze in as much time together as possible without getting my kids involved. He'd come over a couple hours after they went to bed and we'd watch tv and snuggle. I spent most of my weekends at his house. We drove to Seattle twice in January. Once for New Years and then the following weekend just for fun. The drive back to Spokane that second weekend was the first time I had heard him talk continuously for more than five minutes. It was the best drive to Spokane I had ever experienced. My heart was leaping with every word he spoke. The mystery was being unveiled before my very eyes. From that point on I was addicted. I'd show up at work on my days off just to get a peak at him. I craved him night and day. We worked through a lot of my insecurities being in a new relationship after my divorce. He was patient and perfect in every way. He'd make me mix tapes and there wouldn't be a song on them I didn't love. Lying on the couch, with my face buried in his chest and his arms around me was a bliss I had never felt before. I couldn't understand how, after being in a decent amount of serious relationships and being married for so many years, I could be feeling something so new and unfamilar. I thought I had felt it all. There was something about Mark, such a uniqueness to him that I had never experienced before. I tried to rationalize it with "it's just been too long since you've been happy" excuses but those never felt accurate. No, Mark was definately different and here I thought I'd seen all the different there is.
It's been six months since that first myspace message and my passion for Mark has never waned. It seems to grow stronger with time. There are days where I think about him so much I almost have a panic attack. He, in every way, consumes me. My chest gets tight, my stomach fills with butterflies, my body heats up and I feel like I might explode. The desperate passion for Sadie Hawkins, for Friday nights at Club London, for an intimate relationship with my Jesus, I have that for Mark. Having that passion has reintroduced me to hope. It's restored my hope to have passion in other parts of my life. Passion for my children, passion for a career, passion for happiness, all these things are reachable now. I owe it all to a +1 for Anjye message from a boy who slipped past me into the back room.
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