Natalie Whatley

As a first-born stick-in-the-mud (I’ve mentioned that about myself a time, or maybe two. Can you tell I have a complex?) I take most of what life sends my way far too seriously. While that trait is engrained in every cell of my being, I like to believe I have the capacity for having fun. But I can guarantee I’ll not be the one starting it.

For well over three decades, life moved along with me unbothered by my lack of participation in escapism, which has a variety of definitions, but suffice it to say humans use it to escape reality when reality gets to be a bit much. (Etymologists say the word escapism probably came into usage during the early 1930s while our country was in a very depressed state. I take some comfort in knowing it’s not just current generations needing a break from some harsh realities – not that I consider my life as difficult as those who suffered through The Great Depression.)

There are those who proclaim members of modern society fritter away too much time in activities designed to take one’s mind off necessary stressors – rabid consumerism, food, recreational and pharmaceutical drugs, alcohol, books, television, computers, video games – unplugging vast numbers from real life, making us lazy and highly unproductive.

More and more, I’m seeing the value in anything that lets off some proverbial steam. Of course being a writer requires one to be a reader as well, and I’ve tried going that route, except I prefer non-fiction. It’s like I have some sick need to constantly immerse myself in what is or was actual existence. I suppose human nature dictates that at some point a part of me would revolt. I’m curious to see which side will be victorious. 

I’m learning that the wisest among us are those escapists who have mastered the balance of work and play, using the benefits before becoming overwhelmed – yet another lesson I wished I’d picked up sooner. I’m cutting myself a little slack, though. This wasn’t something I was ready to grasp before living with teenagers.

Since I realized my need for an outlet, I’ve tried to find positive ones. While I’m a lifetime member of the intermittent exerciser club, I started running after school started in August.  It’s a strange thing, too, because I’ve never enjoyed running; it felt awkward and I pictured folks outside laughing as I lumbered along. Just weeks later, I’m feeling more comfortable in my movement and furthermore, don’t care what anybody thinks.

Some days I run like the wind when I have a firm grasp on what’s irritating me at the moment and picture myself running away from it. Other days, visualizing something pleasant in the near distance motivates me to move forward. In either case, before long the pea-sized gland in my brain sends out some pretty powerful stuff: endorphins. I think maybe now I’m addicted.

While under the influence and enjoying a particular escape vision, famous escapologist, Harry Houdini, appeared in my thoughts. He was masterful at getting out of straitjackets, which is where I fear I’m headed more days than not. The good news: Before his death (he died of complications with appendicitis, not performing an escape stunt as has been depicted by Hollywood) he wrote a book that told how he got out. By enlarging his chest and shoulders he created a fair amount of wiggle room before dislocating his shoulders and gaining freedom.  Since reality makes me feel so disjointed lately, I think I may have found my new calling: escape artist. Step right up and enjoy the show!

© 2009 Natalie Whatley