A new identity.

The Clash's album Combat Rock came out in 1982, and it was one of the first albums I bought with my own money. I bought it early enough that it still had the 2000 Flushes ad in "Inoculated City" before those flush-folk figured it out and threw a hissy fit, demanding that it be removed. That's always been a singular point of pride for me. 

1982 should have been peak awkwardness for me - 12 years old, daily shifts from pre- to post-pubescent, still reeling from the trauma of losing my dad, and the general horror that is middle school. MTV became hugely important to me, and the uncontrolled nature of it had an astonishing ability to affect my mood. Bowie's video for "Heroes" would pop up and I'd be overcome with a great rush of feeling that I didn't quite understand. It was my first taste of FOMO - fearful to turn the TV off because something really good might be on next, and I couldn't bear the thought of missing an all-too-rare showing of "Prince Charming" by Adam and the Ants. The video for The Clash's "Rock the Casbah" featured a little grey armadillo running across the screen, and even though I didn't really understand the song, I became enthralled with The Clash and mohawks and armadillos. A friend gave me a toy stuffed armadillo, and I gave it a ridiculously complicated long name that included all the members of The Clash plus a bunch of words I liked. That was a sweet spot in my development - half stuffed-animal loving kid, half angry teen discovering great music that was far outside the shlock played on the radio. I grew a personality and an identity, and made sure it set me apart so I wasn't just lumped in with my other nine siblings, or known as 'that girl whose dad just died.' I went to the barber shop with a Generation X album and asked for Billy Idol's haircut. I used ice and a safety pin to pierce my ear. And then did it again. And again. And again, most often when I was whirling with anger or sadness or frustration, like a more productive form of self-harm. I went to all ages punk rock shows with my chums and only later heard that I gave off a slightly menacing, unapproachably cool vibe that was - in fact - pure terror and social anxiety. I was worried about what the other punk rock kids thought about me, but blessedly did not give a rip what my classmates at school thought. 

Now I'm 53, and spend far too much time wondering if I look fat. Hoping nobody gets close enough to see my awful skin. Slathering unguents on my neck to firm up the incipient wattle forming there. Pointed words of anonymous feedback about me on a survey at work have inserted themselves in my psyche like some kind of evil mantra, often so loud they are debilitating. Untenable levels of work-stress can quickly turn me into a weepy, negative mess, throwing babies out with the bathwater and wondering if I can use DoorDash to order up a meal of worms because nobody-likes-me-everybody-hates-me. There are a lot of real factors contributing to this current sense that I am a cooling pile of cat vomit, but there are far more imaginary factors. The curse of the creative brain, I guess.

Something's gotta give. 

For my coworkers, for my boss. For my kids. For my friends. For my family. For the man I love and this burgeoning relationship that may be the first truly healthy one I've ever had. I need to get back to that sweet spot where I was 40 years ago - self-assured, confident, and effortlessly cool. 

So I'm going to become an armadillo.

While I'd like to become a glyptodont, a giant precursor to today's armadillo that could be up to 4.9 feet long and weighed two tons, they're extinct. So I'll have to be the no-less-awesome but more moderately-sized modern armadillo, covered in plates of dermal bone but with soft fur on my undercarriage. For snuggling purposes, you understand. 

I spend a lot of time driving south lately, and while I don't love seeing my comrade's carcasses along the side of highways 49 or 13 or 7, I am impressed by their staying power, and the fascinating way they decompose. Apparently North American 'dillos have an unfortunate habit of jumping STRAIGHT UP INTO THE AIR when frightened, which puts them in direct conflict with the guts of speeding vehicles. Anyone who has ever startled me when I'm daydreaming will recognize this reaction. 

Armadillos, because of their low body temperature, are especially susceptible to leprosy, and can pass it on to humans through physical contact. (Also by those humans eating armadillo meat, which freaking serves you right, you barbarian.) I love the idea of saying "sorry, I don't give hugs, unless you want leprosy." I'll just need to put a sweater on when I want my love to brush the soft fur on my undercarriage. 

An armadillo will not feel tears welling when she can't get SharePoint to work on the conference room computer and everyone is waiting for her to bring the agenda onscreen. Armadillos don't care about fat or wrinkles or bad skin or freakishly short shins or the gap between their two front teeth. An armadillo will read an email listing everything they've done wrong in planning an event and will use one of their three-to-five digging claws to hit DELETE and move on. As an armadillo, I will amble through my days digging up grubs and not giving a single #(%* what the lady next door thinks of my lawn-mowing skills. And when my time on earth is done, I will make a fascinating and long-lasting corpse. Please play The Clash's "Lose This Skin" at my wake.