>In Search of My Daredevilism

>A few weeks ago, 15 and I were dropping 12 off at a friend’s house when we saw him.

Cinderella. In the flesh. Sitting on his front porch.

Longtime readers will recall when I discovered that the lead singer from the 80s heavy metal band Cinderella lives in a cookie cutter subdivision a few houses down from one of 12’s best friends. This friend has regaled us with stories of garage practices and late night parties and young groupies smoking in the driveway. One day, the band even let 12’s friend and her brother check out their tour bus.

I had tried to get in on the Cinderella action by forcing the baby to trick-or-treat at their house. Unfortunately, a teenager in a witch costume answered the door and shouldered off my attempts to peer around her in an attempt to catch any Satan worshipping going on inside.

But now, I had another chance.

“Okay, 15, here’s the deal,” I said once 12 had gotten out of the car. “We’re going to drive up to the house and sing, “Don’t know whatcha got till it’s gone!” as loud as we can out the window! Then I’ll just drive away!”

“Okay!” 15 said, excitedly, rolling down her window. I drove down to the end of the street and circled back. I was giggling in anticipation. Oh, this was a classic Lucinda operation!

Then, about two houses away, I froze.

“What’s wrong?” 15 asked as I stopped short on the street.

“I. Can’t. Do. It.” I gasped.

“Yes you can!” 15 insisted. “Let’s go!”

“Yeah,” I said weakly. The car rolled forward a few feet.

“I can’t!” I said, shocked at my own stage fright. Down the street, Cinderella turned in his lawn chair and stared at our car. The look in his eyes seemed to say, ‘Come on, get it over with.’

But I couldn’t. My nerve had broken free and flown right out the open window. Defeatedly, I drove around the cul-de-sac, not even stopping to make devil fingers as I passed Cinderella’s house and drove home.

It was then that I realized I was experiencing the first symptoms of becoming a boring, comfortable-shoe-wearing grown-up.

And I’m not the only one noticing a difference.

“There was this crazy woman at the ice cream bar talking to herself while she was choosing ice cream,” I said the other night at a Chinese all-you-can-eat buffet (um, it was my choice for Mother’s Day, okay? Shut up). And the man at the buffet next to me said, ‘Who the hell is she talking to?’ And I was going to say, ‘Who the hell are you talking to?’ But I didn’t!”

“Why not?” 15 asked. “That would’ve been perfect.”

“I don’t know,” I said. “I just know I’m totally losing my mojo. And it has got to stop.”

So I am embarking right now on a personal journey of self-discovery, a journey that will take me to dizzying heights and murky depths, whatever it takes to relocate my old daredevilism. I will not let the plastic people get me down, dammit. They may have won the battle, but they will not win the war!

I will haunt that cul-de-sac until Cinderella comes back outside again. I will jump out of my car, stride confidently onto his postage stamp lawn, and sing every word to “Nobody’s Fool.”

And I will play air guitar.

No longer will my snappy witticisms bubble fruitlessly in my throat. I will say them aloud. The hills, nay, the very supermarket aisles will echo with the fervent tones of my dry and subtly snarky humor. I will go down in the history books as the suburban answer to Dorothy Parker.

Either that or I won’t be invited anywhere ever again.

Whatever. I’m off to look for my mojo now. Don’t expect me for dinner.