The Transformation of Betsy

Heavens to Betsy! Betsy-Wetsy! Betsy. Her name is Betsy. Her mom, like the moms of all the other Betsys her age, named their Betsys after the fragile, dainty, darling Betsy McCall doll. Betsy - the perfect name for a fragile, dainty, darling girl . . . but most definitely not the perfect name for her. Fragile? Try frumpy. Dainty? Try dumpy. Darling? Try grumpy. Lumpy. She often overheard the hushed behind-her-back sniping: Frumpty-Dumpty. Look at what she’s wearing. Frumpity-Grumpity. Why is she never happy? Lumpity. Frump. Why doesn’t she do something with her hair?

The last time Betsy used her oven was when the heating coil burst into a small flame and the glow snaked along the length of it, even after she pulled the plug. The next morning, cool to the touch, the snapped pieces of coil resembled a pile of tubular, crispy lava. Losing patience with faulty appliances, she pulled the plug on her microwave oven and toaster oven as well, and pulled out her under-used, under-appreciated fondue pots. Who needs any type of oven, when two fondue pots will do? One for the cheesy main course, the second for the chocolaty dessert course. Gooey cheese, dip, dip. Sticky-sweet gooey chocolate, dippity, dip. Dippity, dippity . . .

Over time, partaking of these twin indulgences, day in and day out, soon enough layered Betsy’s form, but she was never warm. She contrived to layer herself in clothing; tanks, tees, tops, turtlenecks, pull-overs, and zip-ups, in every imaginable shade of wash water. Finishing with her trademark dull gray cowl-neck raglan sweater-coat, yet she was never warm.

Instead of regular exercise, Betsy regularly ignored her ImageGlider exerciser. She felt guilt-ridden and full of self-loathing every time she looked at it, so she kept the guest room door closed so she wouldn’t accidentally catch a glimpse of it. One night, insomnia and chills at their worst, she thought she might as well use the damn thing, if only to generate some heat. Pulsating light emanated from under the door of the guest room and as she entered she heard the machine whisper her name. As she clambered aboard, she noticed that the aqua read-out screen spelled WELCOME B-E-T-S-Y in bold, black, block letters. Picking up words of gentle encouragement, she picked up speed. As she ran, the screen came alive showing images of her possible future. Faster, faster, farther into the future she was shown. She ran for hours, generating more and more images, waking up in bed the next morning, confused. She ran again that night.

Betsy ran nightly, the ImageGlider's siren call growing louder, irresistible. One night, the screen read WELCOME B-E-T-T-Y. Could she possibly live with the name Betty? Yes, of course, she could and she hoped that Betsy was done and gone for good. Betty seemed to her a stronger name; gaining strength, she ran. Cooling down in reverse, the screen showed B-E-T-S-Y yet again and she was shocked to see images of her chunky past revealed. Chunkity, chunkity . . . She sped forward to escape the sight, waving goodbye to her past, running, striding, gliding to images of her future.

WELCOME B-E-T-T-Y, night after night, until she felt a new vibration throughout as she became Betty. She is Betty. The layers dropping, she takes her woolen sweater-coat to the dry cleaner, never returning to pick it up. Impulsively, she gives her television set to a family she heard about on the local news who was devastated by a flash flood. She joined an experimental multi-cultural dance troupe. She lost the ability to gossip, and gained the ability to say just the right words to help someone feel better. She kept a single fresh flower in a cut-glass vase on the impromptu altar she arranged in front of the guest room window. She repositioned the ImageGlider so she could catch the starlit breeze coming through the window as she ran, providing a coolness she craved. Continually watching the images on the screen served as REM, eliminating her need for sleep.

One night, the screen-greeting proclaimed WELCOME B-E-T-T-E. What happened to Betty? Gliding in reverse as fast as she could, she caught up with her, Betty’s image on the screen appearing in sepia tones. Like a scene from a forties movie, Betty wore a hat and trench coat, her image fading away with one long, wistful, backward glance. Bette. A more distinctive name, sophisticated, worthy. She must become worthy. Run, run, run to her future. She is Bette as the ImageGlider initiated her further into the ways of luminosity. The word "focus" becomes her mantra as she plays with energy, luminescence and form. She cleared her closet of items reeking of khaki or camo, and revved up her sewing machine. Favoring palettes of pastels and brights, patterns of lilting florals and subtle geometrics, she styled fashions influenced by regions of India and Greece. She performed a whole-house bookshift, giving to the Annual Book Drive without bothering to check for signature, inscription, or forgotten bookmark. She authored a book of her own with the double entendre title: Becoming. Once, finding the guest room unusually dim, she performed an energy-scan, discovering the water in the vase had evaporated to a dangerously low level. Refilling the vase with water to its original line set things to rights, resuscitating the room.

WELCOME B-E-L-L-E, this time her name change is a smooth transition. Belle's skin had taken on an ethereal translucency, defying ethnic origin. Her nail tips sparked and sparkled, revealing her current auric hues. She wore her fast-growing hair in a soft updo, its color that of fine champagne. She giftshifted the trinkets and treasures she had received over her lifetime, taking pleasure in finding new, more appropriate homes for each, including her fondue pots; she thrived easily on an occasional cheese puff or chocolate kiss. She twirled on one toe for sheer delight. She tuned in to the wonder-filled thoughts of others swirling around her: Wish I could wear clothes like that! Is she always this happy? Her hair is gorgeous!

Belle donated her sewing machine to the local middle school. She took up weaving.

Breakers of nostalgia hit Belle without warning late one night. Awash with emotion, in a frenzy, she scoured the ImageGlider screen to find Betsy. Speeding in reverse, brushing first past the images of Bette, then Betty, she finally found Betsy sitting on the edge of the sofa, struggling in spite of her bulk, to tie her shoes. Looking at the image of Betsy from this vantage point, she could only feel fathoms-deep, overwhelming compassion for this tormented soul. How could she have ever hated herself so? Why hadn’t she shown herself even half an ounce of kindness? The name Betsy, after all, did carry the vibration of BE and YES. But that T in the middle was like a cross, a weighty cross to bear. Belle knew in that moment that she couldn’t be Belle without having been Betsy. Gathering and cradling Betsy unto herself, she was thenceforth known as Betsy-Belle: YES. BE. BEAUTIFUL.

With best wishes, Betsy-Belle gave her beloved ImageGlider to the next person who greeted her with genuine warmth.

Fully integrated, Betsy-Belle timed her exit to coincide with the first new moon after the summer solstice. Concentrating her form, she slipped through the guest room window screen as a pinpoint of light. Once through, anyone chancing to glance up would have seen the brilliant, expansive flash of a nighttime rainbow phenomenon fill the sky. Later, they came looking. The curious who had previously spurned her and those few who had always loved her came looking. They found her home empty, save for a long, silky scarf, finely hand-woven of her abundant, shimmery locks.

NOTE: The use of the phrase "forgotten bookmark" was inspired by and pays homage to Michael Popek of the ever-intriguing site: Forgotten Bookmarks.