By Icy Frantz
Over the last few years, I have become slightly obsessed with a new trend in fiction. I guess I would call it the “Girl” series and, for the most part, I am referring to a type of fiction, mostly psychological thrillers, with titles that all include the word “girl.” In each, the main character is a girl, slightly deranged, unstable or mentally ill.
You know the ones: Girl on the Train, The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, Girl, Interrupted, Gone Girl, The Luckiest Girl Alive, The Good Girl. My obsession has led me to wonder, being a girl and all, what title would I give my book?
My kids might name it, Girl, Ill-Equipped to Take on the New Digital World, or, Girl With Her Yellow Sticky Notes. My husband might call it, Girl Dressed in PJ’s at Sunset, or Girl Dreading Another Rubber Chicken Political Dinner. I have considered a few: Girl Wakes Up Suddenly Married with Four Children Wondering, What the Heck?, or, Girl Gets Eaten by Her Shoe Collection, but, personally, the one that seems to fit me best is, Girl in the Middle.
For as long as I can remember, I have been the girl in the middle. In my early years, I was simply the second born, arriving two years after the birth of my older sister and three years before my adorable younger sister. I grew up in the middle, and just as research would suggest, I was neither the privileged, rule-following guinea pig who had to teach my parents how to parent, nor was I the coveted baby, beloved by everyone. I was the never-rocking-the-boat middle child, and I gained attention by being easy-going and living life in contrast to my two sisters. In high school, I was ranked somewhere in the middle of the class, which suited me fine. Most of the time, I was just happy to be in the mix, doing well enough to fly under the radar. I was not accepted into my first choice Ivy League college and, instead, settled into my mid-tier choice, playing squash on a competitive team, finding myself, once again, somewhere in the middle of the ladder.
Over time, being in the middle has become a place of comfort and familiarity. I am happiest when I am in the middle of a book, fully engaged in the story but far enough away from the end. Being in the middle of the ocean is pure joy, and nothing is cozier than being in the middle of my bed surrounded by my husband, a child, a dog and maybe a cat. Who doesn’t like scraping the middle of an Oreo or eating a munchkin, literally the discarded middle of a doughnut? At a long dinner table, I am happiest in the middle, the coveted seat that allows me to be a part of more conversations. And, despite most people’s opinion, I prefer the middle seat on an airplane. My daughter loves the window and my sons love the aisle that allows more room for long legs.
So far, I consider myself lucky. I am not bothered by middle age. I hear about the midlife crisis and the need to purchase expensive and fast cars or date younger men or women. I need neither. For me, midlife feels just about right; not so much giving up but giving in. There is less to prove, less need to be in the limelight, and less rushing around and a little more time to sit back and enjoy the shadowless midday that surrounds me. I am ok with a few wrinkles and a few extra pounds. As Eleanor Roosevelt once wrote, “Probably the happiest period in life most frequently is the middle age when eager passions of youth are cooled and the infirmaries of age not yet begun; as we see the shadows which are at morning and evening so large; almost entirely disappear at midday.”
In Buddhism, the Middle Way is defined as the way to enlightenment, the path in the center of two extremes. I won’t be presumptuous and insinuate that I am on that path, but it does tend to be the path where I am most comfortable. Politically, I favor those in the middle and I try my hardest to live a life of moderation. A few times a year, I swear off sweets, but mostly I enjoy just a little bit of chocolate or cake every day (maybe that’s a slight under exaggeration). My kids have heard me say too many times, “Everything in moderation, unless you are not yet 21, then no alcohol,” or another favorite of mine, “No one is all good or all bad.” And, I think both are basically true. And, one of my favorites from Jack Nicholson, “All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.” So, that’s basically me. I work a little. I play a little. I give a little. I get a little. I strive for balance that will keep me swimming somewhere in the middle of the stream.
And, sometimes, it is important to share my cozy spot in the middle. Just last weekend, I returned to my college campus to watch an old friend’s son play lacrosse. When I arrived, it was 70 degrees and the campus was happily celebrating Spring Weekend and the first warm day of the year. Flooded with memories of my own college days, I was reminded of the passage of time. As the game progressed beyond the first quarter, the temperature dropped and the wind picked up. I was not prepared. I huddled in the stands with my friend, her husband and daughter, under blankets and towels and anything we could find from the back seat of our cars. I sat on the outside of our huddle with my old friend squashed in the middle soaking up the warmth and love and words unsaid. She has terminal cancer and I was blessed to be together with her in her quest to spend as much time with family and friends. She was in the middle on that cold day, and I was simply honored to be in the mix.
Our lives will never fit neatly beneath the title of a book. We need subtitles, lots of subtitles. There will be a beginning and a middle to our lives, and plots will thicken and at other times quiet down. We will all have the chance to be the protagonist and the antagonist. There will be the need for dialogue with others and ourselves, but sometimes just taking in the descriptive scene will be enough. We will find ourselves in many genres: love stories, mysteries, adventure, psychological thrillers and comedies. In fact, our lives could fill a library.
Recently, I heard the President of Trinity College, Joanne Berger-Sweeney, at the Reach Prep lunch and she said, “We all have the power to create our own story.” How true. We can name our book anything we want but, in the end, the way in which we fill the chapters is what matters. We are much more than a title.
