Finding My Badass Self

by Sherry Stanfa-Stanley

  Although I’d strayed from the Catholic Church, what had remained with me was a vague comfort in being a passive observer of Catholic rituals. When I occasionally attended Mass, I could rely on simply listening to the refrains and prayers that seldom changed, week to week or year to year.

  Everyone else at Friendship Baptist was accustomed to this active involvement. I squirmed in my seat, reluctant to shout out. Yet I was fascinated by the congregation’s enthusiastic engagement. While I wasn’t comfortable enough to fully take part, I was surprised that the differences between this service and a Catholic Mass were what appealed to me the most.

  And, the music. Oh, the music!

  The old-time gospel songs, combined with more modern rhythm and blues, brought the congregation to their feet. My friend, Cindy, danced and sang along with them. I knew few of the hymns, and I couldn’t dance to save myself (pun intended), but I smiled and swayed beside her.

  My favorite sermon that day came from one of the newly anointed ministers. He talked about the importance of not just attending church services but also of incorporating core beliefs into your everyday actions and decisions. He noted the need to live your life “with The Word on you.”

  This struck me as the true mission of any religion. It seemed to me that spirituality should not center on a full alignment of formal religious beliefs or be judged by our church attendance: It should be based on how we live our life.

  I can’t confirm I left that morning with “The Word” on me. But, I did walk away feeling moved and inspired.

  Maybe, just maybe, that’s the first step in any life-changing journey.

  Chapter 7:

  I WILL SURVIVE

  I’d always secretly imagined myself as a TV or movie star. Since I didn’t live in New York City or Hollywood, the possibility of a show auditioning or filming anywhere near Nowheresville, Ohio, made that a long shot. Well, that detail along with the fact that my only acting experience was playing Ernie in an eighth-grade production of Sesame Street.

  Who’d have guessed that one night, while avoiding my mildewing mountains of dirty laundry by scrolling through my Facebook newsfeed, I would spy an announcement about an open cast call for the TV show Survivor. No acting experienced required! And, auditions were being held two days later at Put-in-Bay, a tiny but popular summer resort town on a Lake Erie island just a hop and a skip away.

  I cancelled all plans for the day (including an important meeting with my new boss), jumped in the car for the hour drive, and took the ferry to the island. If there was one thing I had learned, it was that when serendipity comes calling, you better open the damn door.

  While I probably should have worried about my job security, I agonized instead over what to wear to my audition. I finally decided upon a black T-shirt and black Capri-length jogging pants, along with the running shoes I’d bought a month ago to start training for my planned 5K run—and still hadn’t worn. Surely this ensemble would make me appear thinner and more athletic than I truly was. An important impression to make, I figured, since one of the requirements was that contestants be in “excellent physical and mental health.” I’d only seen the show a few times, but enough to know this noted mental health stipulation allowed a lot of leeway.

  Athletic wear, I discovered upon my arrival, was a female fashion faux pas. I was the only auditioning woman not baring her cleavage and shapely, bronzed legs in a bikini or skimpy sundress. The other bad news: I was among the oldest and most full-figured women there.

  The good news, however, was my pasty white cankles were as much of my skin as the on-site production crew probably cared to see. I would have to rely on my speech and my charisma.

  The online announcement had explained we’d each have a one-minute taped screening to sell ourselves to the producers. The guidelines explained the selection would be based on the contestants with the following traits: strong-willed, outgoing, adventurous, physically and mentally adept, adjustable to new environments, and interesting lifestyles, backgrounds, and personalities.

  I figured I met all the criteria, except that little detail of physical and mental adeptness.

  With little time for prep, I wrote up talking points that morning, focusing heavily on The 52/52 Project objectives and experiences. While I made the hour-drive to the ferry dock, I attempted to commit the speech to memory. Considering I could seldom remember my ATM or email passwords, I could only hope for the best.

  Anyone familiar with Put-in-Bay—the Key West of the Midwest—won’t be surprised to know ninety-eight-percent of the people there, at 3 p.m., were fully stewed. I went into the audition stone-cold sober. I figured I deserved bonus points for that.

  When my audition number was finally called, I bounced onto the stage, in an effort to demonstrate my youthful exuberance. I caught myself as I tripped and just before I almost landed facedown. Righting myself, I grinned at the woman who appeared to be in charge. One corner of her mouth turned up in what I told myself was a smile.

  As the perspiration poured down my face, melting that morning’s painstakingly applied makeup, I dove into my prepared speech. I’d spent two hours standing and sweating in the audition line, but it didn’t seem anywhere as long as the single minute I stood on that stage.

  Concentrating on my speech, I tried to block out the shouting and splashing from the hotel pool. A pool-side resort at Put-in-Bay: Who chose this venue, the Jersey Shore producers? Jerry Springer?

  Thankfully, I remembered most of my last-minute script. But my memory didn’t make up for my ineloquent delivery. As I stuttered and stared at the onsite director, she began rolling her hands in the universal “Wrap up this shit now” signal, long before I reached the most compelling part of my spiel. I stammered some more, wiped a combination of sweat and Maybelline honey beige foundation from my cheeks, and finally murmured something like, “So, I hope you’ll please consider me.” The semi-smiling director nodded, waved me away, and called the next number.

  I walked off the stage, my lips and my legs still trembling. But my confidence was boosted by a couple of young women, Donna and Julieann, who’d become my BFFs during the long wait in line.

  Oh yes, you can bet we’d already formed our alliances.

  Donna hugged me and assured me I nailed my audition. “Oh my God! You did great! You are totally in!” She was so sweet and supportive. Did I mention she was tanked?

  She later emailed an action shot she captured of me, mid-audition. And by “action shot,” I mean the only moment in which I wasn’t standing awkwardly with both hands clenched in fists by my side. Is it possible they’d award extra credit not only for sobriety but also for stiffest pose?

  I am patiently standing by for my Survivor callback. Surely, the producers are seeking a middle-aged, square-shaped woman who is ready to change her life.

  I have big plans for my million-dollar prize, so if I’m chosen, you can be sure I will kick even my closest alliance’s ass. When we eventually arrive for the show’s filming on another far-off island, I will have a tough time backstabbing Donna and Julieann. But I will do it because I am a gamer. And verbal contracts, even with the sweetest of island drunks, don’t hold any water on Survivor.

  If I never hear from the producers again, likely because they lost my audition tape, I still walked away that day feeling like a player.

  And then I stopped at the closest bar for a drink. Or three. Because when you’re stranded on an island, especially a place like Put-in-Bay, you do what it takes to survive.

  Chapter 8:

  CREEPY CRAWLERS

  While still awaiting my callback for Survivor, I reasoned I should start training by learning to live off the land. Choking down a couple creepy crawlers seemed a good start.

  Except for my brief foray into competitive pizza eating, I’d been following a high-protein, low-carb diet for months. I’d grown weary of obscene quantities of cheese and meat—I’d even tired of bacon. If nothing else, eating insects would diversify my protein selections.<
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  The first step was researching how one procured such delicacies. I knew of no mom-and-pop edible bug shops in Toledo. The answer, of course, was the always accommodating Internet.

  I scrolled through the selections. I could choose from bare-naked bugs, barbecued, or the chocolate-covered variety. Sure, I wouldn’t have that option on any Survivor island. Also, chocolate wasn’t exactly low-carb.

  But the chocolate variety pack proved to be the winner. If there were leftovers, I figured I could freeze them for thoughtful holiday gifts.

  The online disclaimer noted, “Sorry, barf bag not included.” Not the most practical marketing ploy, but the company wasn’t targeting reasonable clientele.

  I left the UPS carton on my kitchen counter for three days before I worked up the courage to open it. The “variety pack” included two dozen tiny crickets and worms, half of them covered with milk chocolate and the other half with white chocolate. “White chocolate” was the persona non grata version of real chocolate, and would make those insects even less appetizing. I’d save those for gifts.

  I scrutinized the treats and called over Son #1 to take a look. He glanced through the clear plastic wrap on a couple of packages and read the labels.

  “Eww!” He stepped back. “Why would you order these?” “I’m going to eat them, obviously,” I said. “But I was hoping for more of a variety, maybe some grasshoppers or ants. I hear chocolate-covered ants taste like Nestlé Crunch bars.”

  I sighed. “And I thought they’d be bigger. I’m kind of disappointed.”

  Son #1 stared at me. “OK, stuff like your belly dancing and adult bookstore trip were just plain embarrassing. But when I hear you talk like this, you’re really starting to worry me.”

  Several of my friends, however, were eager to get an up-close look. We scheduled an insect-eating party. I assumed they came along to provide moral support, yet this was apparently manifested in their cringing and laughing at me. One friend proved helpful by taking photos, and another videotaped the ordeal. But not a single one agreed to partake in a sampling of my party hors d’oeuvres. I should have made that a requirement.

  Tackling the cricket first seemed the obvious choice, since crickets were considered good luck in China. Although I did question whether eating them would bring me the same good karma. Either way, I figured a tiny cricket would entail only a couple of quick crunches before it could be swallowed right down the hatch.

  The chocolate masked the insect’s initial taste and texture. But just like an M&M candy, the chocolate melted in my mouth. Immediately. Once it dissolved, I was left with nothing but bits of cricket.

  And by “bits,” I mean a leg. Or maybe an antenna. Whichever piece remained, it wedged itself between two of my top molars, and I was forced to dislodge it with the nail of my index finger. I presented the tiny body part to my audience for inspection.

  My friends recoiled in disgust, but surprisingly they—and I—stuck around for the second course. Round two was the worm, or “larvae,” as it was labeled on the package’s list of ingredients. For some reason, “worm” seemed a far more appetizing notion than “larvae.” When eating insects, the devil was in the details.

  I feared the worm may be an even bigger challenge than the cricket. I anticipated a long and suffering chewing process. The best I could hope for was that it was similar to eating a worm’s gummy candy counterpart.

  I shuddered, mid-bite, and wildly waved my hands.

  “Uh-uh-uh,” I squawked through a mouth of unswallowed worm. “Worse than I thought! Not chewy. Crunchy. It’s crunchy!”

  My videoing friend, Joan, shrugged and nodded. “Well, yeah,” she said. “Because it’s dead and dried up, like the worms you find on your driveway a couple days after it’s rained.”

  This was the precise moment I was captured on camera, mid-gag. I finished off the worm. And I washed it down with half a beer.

  Four unopened packages of chocolate-covered crickets and worms remained on a back shelf in my refrigerator. It was unlikely I’d be finishing those off any time soon. Instead, I offered them as prizes to readers on Facebook, and I found several enthusiastic takers. My followers were clearly of a questionable nature.

  I promised to mail out these treasures, but not until winter. I didn’t want these chocolate delicacies to potentially melt in transit. They would melt in my reader friends’ mouths soon enough.

  I suggested they each have a stiff drink before they dug in. And that they have some dental floss handy to deal with any leftover bug body parts.

  It was the best way I knew to get a little leg up on the experience.

  Chapter 9:

  YOU’RE GETTING VERY SLEEPY

  A conversation with friends about nature versus nurture made me wonder if we are who we are either due to our genetics or to our upbringing. Or could there be more to it—something stemming from our far, far past?

  While I’d always been intrigued by the idea of hypnosis as well as the concept of reincarnation, I couldn’t say I was a true believer in either. I decided to test my combined curiosity and cynicism by being hypnotized for past-life regression.

  An acquaintance referred me to Virginia Ulch. Ginny was a professional counselor who also specialized in hypnosis, particularly for weight loss and smoking cessation. Hypnosis for past-life regression had proven a successful tool for some of her clients struggling with various issues in their lives.

  Other than reading some basic background on Ginny’s website, I did no further research, in order to remain objective. Besides, research seemed unnecessary since I doubted I’d actually be hypnotized.

  I felt slightly unnerved going in, knowing so little about the experience. All I could envision was the age-old stereotype of having a coin waved before my face and being told I was getting very sleepy. And then, being asked to squawk like a chicken.

  Instead, with her office darkened and soft music playing, Ginny offered soothing words to try to steer me toward relaxation and, ultimately, hypnosis. As she recorded our session, she painted an image of a garden in my mind and suggested I find myself sitting among the flowers and fountains.

  Gradually, my body began to feel both heavy and weightless at the same time. My mind drifted. Ginny did indeed coax my mind and body into a highly relaxed state.

  Was I truly hypnotized? As the first moments passed, my skeptical side was certain I was simply primed for a nice afternoon nap. I told myself I couldn’t be hypnotized, since I remained cognizant of Ginny’s voice and my immediate surroundings. (I found out through later research that hypnotized people generally do remain aware of these things.)

  In fact, I was mindful enough of my environment to realize my left leg was bent awkwardly across the ottoman. I remember thinking it was uncomfortable and that I should readjust my position. But even as I considered this, I just couldn’t move my legs.

  It was a strange and surreal sensation—like experiencing a dream while asleep and comprehending that it was a dream, yet being incapable of awakening and opening your eyes.

  The cynic in me wasn’t sure what to think.

  “I can’t move my legs,” I told Ginny. “I don’t know. Maybe I can, but it seems like too much effort.”

  “You can move, if you need to,” she said.

  Maybe, yet I never managed to convince myself to move my cramping leg. Eventually, I gave up on the idea.

  As I grew more relaxed, Ginny asked me to think about a time and place in my childhood, as far back as I could remember. I let my mind wander and finally pictured myself pushing open the screen door to the concrete back stoop of my childhood home, a place I hadn’t been in nearly thirty years. I was about two years old, barefoot, and wearing a dotted swiss romper. In my mind, I stepped onto the porch and gazed out at our backyard.

  I saw this visibly, which was no surprise since I’d always had an incredible long-term memory. Even though I clearly described the setting to Ginny, I couldn’t provide any other telling details about the scene. No oth
er people present, no significant events that occurred. It was simply a moment in time.

  Next, Ginny verbally led me toward a large mirror. “You see many images in this mirror, of different times, places, and people,” she said. “Many faces you remember. Choose one. Choose one and go back.”

  Even though I was presumably hypnotized, I knew what she was implying: One of these “images” would take me back into some subconscious beyond this life—into a previous incarnation.

  I tightened my closed eyes. I concentrated. I blew out a sigh of frustration. I couldn’t even envision a mirror, let alone see a reflected collage of faces.

  I sat quietly for quite a while. Ginny encouraged me to keep searching.

  Finally, I envisioned a scene. I eventually saw three scenes: visions of three different individuals in three distinctly different time periods and locations.

  Was I reliving these moments from my soul’s own past, or was I only envisioning these individual episodes with someone else taking part in them? That remained the major question.

  My first image was of a Native-American woman. She/I walked alone through fields and thick forests. I sensed this was set a couple centuries ago. I told Ginny it appeared I was on a journey to a faraway place. It seemed I walked for days before finally coming to stop on a riverbank.

  As I stood and watched the river run, I accepted the fact that I would likely never find my way to my destination.

  Ginny prodded. “Do you see any other people? Do you have a sense of anything else happening?”

  I shook my head. “No.”

  “Is there anything from this life that you should learn,” Ginny asked, “to carry over into your present life?”

  I contemplated this for several minutes with no revelation. We moved on.

  The second scene took place in the kitchen of a small urban apartment, possibly above a storefront, in what seemed to be the early 1950s. I was a fortyish-aged woman, wearing an apron. I sensed there were a couple of small boys somewhere in the home, but not in the room with me.