Except I let the packed bag sit there for four days before I did anything. The courage I developed the night of coffee with Christian slowly ebbed until I’d pushed the bag under the bed and bid myself a moment of insanity. My thought process slowly strung together reasons why separating myself from Stanley were obtuse: Where will I go? Jack and Mel just got engaged tonight. You’re not going to show up tonight of all nights begging for a home. Who will stand beside me in the Christmas card photo this year? Who’s place card will be attached to my place card at Judy’s next party? It’s ludicrous to believe you won’t find struggles in other relationships. So I decided to stay and try harder. But Mel called on Sunday and broke the confused trance.
“Good morning,” she said cheerfully. “Happy DLA Day.”
“There’s no meeting today....”
“I know but its Sunday – its your day in my book.”
“My day and the Lord’s day. No pressure there.”
“So I’ve decided to ask Jack to be my DLA partner. Is that okay?”
“Sure. Sure.”
“Are you going to ask Stanley?” I stammered, I stuttered, “Uhh, no. I was thinking of asking Andrew. He’s already helped me so much with my goals list and Stanley hasn’t shown much interest.” And because I certainly wasn’t going to ask Christian, but I also wasn’t going to say that out loud.
“Oh.” There it was again, the one syllable word that meant surprised, not surprised and pity simultaneously. “Andrew’s been MIA lately, huh? New girlfriend and all.” Tug. Did she have to bring her up?
“Yeah I guess.” I paused. “ He’s busy too.”
“Have you met her?”
“No. Hope I don’t have to either.”
“Ohhh, territorial I see.”
“I meant, unless its serious. I hate having get to know these girls, like them and then they disappear. I just want to look at them and say – look, you won’t be around long so please excuse me for not putting forward a lot of effort.”
“Oh come on. You never like Andrew’s girlfriends.”
“That is not true. I was really nice to the last one.”
“Well sure. You’re not going to be mean to them but you don’t like them.”
“Stop saying that. I like them fine. I just wish he’d choose someone who’s up to his level. Someone up to par that I could enjoy too.”
“Half truth.” We were silent for a moment, the weight of her words hanging in the air over us. I supposed if I really thought back over it, I had felt awkward about every single one of his girlfriends. But I gave myself credit for always growing to like them. A gradual but eventual amity that ensured I had completed my duties as a friend. But something was different this time. I dreaded seeing this girl. This No Discounts girl. She was probably eight feet tall, a Victoria Secret’s model and a doctor. I couldn’t help myself. I wanted to hate her.
“Anyway…,” deflection, “What are you doing today?”
“Just hanging out. Me and Jack. Nothing much. Want to get together? Do something?”
“Yeah. I’m going to run first. I’ll come over after that? Say 3ish?”
“K. See ya then!”
I hung up the phone and glanced at the bag under the bed. It was calling me and I was ignoring its song. I dressed myself for the chilly weather and headed out for a long run, which, by the grace of God, had extended itself from one mile to three.
“I’m headed for a run,” I said to Stanley, barreling down the stairs. I found him on his usual cushion of the couch.
“Okay. How far are you going this time?”
“Three miles? I hope. If I don’t fall over from exhaustion.”
“Good luck.”
“Thanks. I’m going to need it.” And I opened and closed the door behind me as quickly as I could.
The sound of my feet hitting the pavement made a rhythm in my head. One. Two. Three – one foot in front of the other. Baby steps. And, much like life, the run began to work itself out. The first mile incised a burning in my chest. I can’t do this. I can’t do this. But one foot in front of the other and I was. I rounded the city streets. Heard their chatter, spied on its citizens from the innocent vantage point of a nameless runner. It’s funny how life, though the same for most people, can look so different when you’re in one place watching someone else in theirs. I smiled and even laughed to myself at the snippets of people's days I was privy too when they thought I wasn’t looking. They were small movie clips I catalogued in my brain for those later moments of quiet when I needed something to reflect upon.
I ran into the city park and stopped at the small lagoon. I spied on a man and boy, playing with children’s fishing rods, the plastic bobs bouncing up and down as the little boy tugged the string from left to right. From up on a hill a woman called out “smile boys” and took their picture. And I started to cry. Small, insignificant tears. They flooded the corners of my eyes until they ran down my cheeks. I picked up my run and cried, small tears, all the way home.
Stanley wasn’t there when I opened the front door. There was no note telling me where he’d gone. No indication that I should worry. Just an empty townhouse, filled with still frames of a very happy life. I went to the kitchen, opened the cupboard, retrieved a glass and poured tap water into it. But before I could take a drink, I leaned over the sink and burst into heaving sobs. Why was I still here? I heaved and heaved for several minutes, a final acknowledgment that my state of process had made me so aware of myself and my life that I could not put the blinders back on and go about the minutia. When the outburst passed, I took a slow drink of water with shaking hands. I wiped my eyes clear of the tearful epiphany and walked upstairs to grab my bag.
And this is how I left: I showered and changed as quickly as possible. I grabbed the pre-packed bag out from under the bed, picked up the copy of Get Some Manners from the nightstand and got in the car as fast as I could. I am not proud that I didn’t say goodbye to Stanley that day; in the weeks that passed I would make amends. But that day I got in the car and drove to Mel’s on auto pilot, making every turn, passing through every light without even really seeing them. In a daze I arrived on her porch. When she answered my tears welled up again.
“I can’t go home,” I said. She glanced down at my bag and didn’t say a word. Mel was good at that – knowing when you needed her to just be. “I’m unhappy there,” I said.
She stepped out onto the porch, opened her arms for a hug and said, “I know”. I buried my face in her shoulder and heaved my sobs. “It’s going to be fine,” she said. “You’ll see. It'll all work out.” And she led me inside and said, “I’ll make us some tea. You can take the guest room.”
I walked into my assigned room, threw my bag on the floor and curled up in the floral scented sheets on the bed. All the anxious energy I'd spent weeks wafting through left my body in an instant. The sheets comforted and cradled me, and fell asleep before Mel returned with the tea. I stayed, just like that, for days.
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
The Discount Life: Step Four - Awknowledge a State of Processing
At the end of class I checked my phone. It had happened. Jack had proposed. A text message from Mel, followed by a lengthy voicemail detailing the goings on, confirmed that he had, indeed, done a perfect job on his proposal. She even used the phrase All The Way to describe his perfection. The ring she detailed, a one carat diamond off set by swirls of tiny sapphires and diamond baguettes, was set in platinum, old as Alabama and just the kind of piece she’d have picked herself, a fact of which I assured Jack would be true after having viewed the picture he sent to my camera phone. She was happy and as luck would have it, so was I.
“My best friend just got engaged,” I said to Christian as we left through the double doors to the building. There was a coffee shop across the street. I pointed to it and we headed there.
“Awesome,” he said. “Congrats to her.” Our legs fell into stride, the cold air shrinking us into ourselves.
“Actually its two of my friends. Jack told me he was proposing tonight. That’s why Mel didn’t come to class. We consulted about it and I’ve kind of been waiting to hear how he did it.”
“How did he do it?” he opened the door and put a hand to the small of my back, ushering me in to an engulfing smell of warm espresso and chocolate.
“Perfectly,” I said, “no discounts.” His response was non-verbal, a quizzical scrunch of the face.
“Hold that thought,’ he said, turning to the cashier. “I’ll have a drip coffee. Black, please. Chloe?”
“I’ll have a non-fat latte please, no whip.”
“Aww, you’re taking all the fun out of it,” Christian said.
“I’m saving my thighs is what I’m doing.”
“Your thighs look good to me.” I blushed and to cover for myself, rolled my eyes at him for the second time that evening. In truth, he was always making me blush, even when it didn’t show. Around him there was a constant heat. If I could’ve unbuttoned my shirt again I would have but to do so would mean risking indecent exposure. I hid my face into task and started digging in my purse for some money. He stopped me, his hand touching my elbow; a disarmament.
“My treat,” he said, “you buy next time. And by the way, I know what you’re doing.” He turned his body mid way between myself and the cashier and paid the man with cash.
“What?”
“You’re rolling your eyes so you don’t have to accept my compliment.” He smirked and it said that I needn’t bother explaining myself. He knew he was correct.
“False compliments shouldn’t be taken,” I said.
“I don’t speak in riddles. I mean what I say. And I wanted to compliment you, so you should let me.” Why was this guy single again? Where was the flaw? He made me feel naked, exposed. Like he’d gained access to the little leather couch inside my head where I frequently sent myself for council. Like any second he would pull back the curtain and I’d have no place to hide. “You have nice thighs,” he said.
I responded, apathetically, with, “I’m going to get my coffee,” and walked to the pickup counter.
The tables were cozy, a scene for couples and snuggling. They were tiny and so close together our legs touched just by sitting. I wanted to let my knee rest on his knee all night but prudence suggested I’d have no shot at retaining his respect if I did. I shifted myself as far to the side as possible and hoped he couldn’t tell I wanted him to touch me. Something told me, he knew anyway.
“So, no discounts? What’s that mean? How did your friend propose?” I was hesitant to tell him about the Discount Life. It hadn’t gone over so well with Stanley. Or should I say that it seemed to represent something so small to Stanley, that given its epic stature in my world, his reaction to it as trivial deflated me. I wasn’t sure I could handle deflation from Christian. His role, thus far, had only made me feel more self assured. But the open earnestness on his face alleviated my fears. Falsehood or no falsehood, I was lured by his honesty.
“No discounts is a thing Mel and I have been talking a lot about lately. We’re kind of working on this project…” and I continued until I had unraveled the whole of the DL theory, including the park bench and its meeting of quasi degenerates. When I finished, the uneasy feeling that I’d disclosed too much of myself left me feeling susceptible. I started to fidget. He leaned in over the table, his shoulders rounding toward me, a stance I registered as interest and said, “I think it’s a brilliant idea. I mean, we’ve all done that in some way or another. It’s very – human.”
I smiled. Human. That’s what I had called it. “Well, so Jack called me and was terrified that his proposal wasn’t going to cut it after all that discount life talk. I gave him some pointers and he did great.” He’d asked her to meet him at her favorite book store, a place in the east end where the books were always two dollars more than Barnes & Noble but one that Mel thought had character. He’d feigned urgency and she’d called to cancel class with me. When she arrived, a sales woman approached her with a letter that read “I think you’re favorite author is trying to tell you something. Check the fiction section – Jack”. When she found Oates, Joyce Carol, in the fiction section she was met with several Post-It notes sticking out from the pages of her books. The first said, I love that you love to read more than you love anything else. Even me. The second said, I love that you never leave the bathroom without folding the toilet paper into a triangle in case a guest comes over.
I love that you can’t have anything on your plate touch before you eat it.
I love that you think you love Jim Beam but really its Jack Daniels. It doesn’t matter how many times I tell you – you never remember.
I love that you have to hit the snooze button exactly three times before you’ll get up in the morning.
I love that when my mother was in the hospital, you drove up with me in the middle of the night and didn’t ask me to talk.
I love that you steal the covers at night – actually I hate that but its you
I love the expression on your face when you find a pair of shoes you have to have even though you have a million pairs
I love that because of that expression I have no room in our closet – when we buy a house I want my own walk in
I love that every day and every night for the past three years, I have come home to a woman that has every piece of my heart.
I would love if you would be that woman for as long as we both shall live….
“The last one said, ‘I think you should open this book’ and inside he’d carved out space for the ring, so when she opened it, it was waiting for her. And then he came around the corner and said will you marry me?”
“Wow. He really did do a good job. I’m impressed. You didn’t tell him to do all that?”
“Nope. I just told him to think hard about the little things and he listened,” I sipped my coffee. “Glad to hear someone did,” I laughed. “Guess we’ll have a wedding to plan now. That’s exciting.”
“Is it?” he asked. “Do you wish it was yours?” The question startled me. Poignant questions usually warranted months, if not years, of friendship before they reached that level of introspection. His forthright speculation unarmed the standard of my evasive charm.
“No,” I said too quickly. “I’m not ready to be married.” Half truth.
“You’re not ready to be married or not you’re not ready to be married to him?” How does he do that?
“Both, I guess. If I’m not ready to be married to him, there’s no one else waiting in line. So I guess I’m not ready to be married.”
He looked me directly in the eye for several seconds before saying, “Aww, I don’t think it will take long for guys to line up for the job.” Sweet talk – to which my initial reaction was elation, followed quickly by distrust. It’s rare to find a man in life whose sweet talk didn’t fall short the second it required action. Perhaps that explains my current situation. If you set the bar low enough, disappointment is easier to stave off. But, as my presence at the coffee shop proved, not entirely. I wanted to trust him. I wanted to look into his eyes and let myself melt. Instead I said, “It doesn’t matter. This isn’t about me,” deflection, “It’s about Mel and Jack…”
He cut me off, “Let’s make it about you,” redirection,”Do you want to get married? Have kids?”
“Yes,” I answered too quickly for comfort.
“So what’s keeping you?”
“I don’t know. It’s just…” my hesitation provoked waves of guilt. Incrimination by omission. Christian raised his eyebrows questioningly. Almost mockingly. “There’s something missing I guess.”
He shook his head in concurrence. “So you’re here with me instead?” I opened my mouth to defend myself but nothing came out. The pregnant lull that followed was brutal. He stroked the rim of his coffee mug and with the demeanor of a scared school boy asked, “We have something here, huh?”
My heart jumped. “What?” I said, hating the sound of my affectation. “We’re just having coffee. Friends have coffee.”
“You’re doing it again,” he said wagging a finger at me and smiling broadly. I attemtped my defense and he put up his palm as if to say stop. He was right. I was lying to myself. I cast my eyes down. “So you like to cook,” deflection, “what else do you do?”
“I’m an office administrator for the Philadelphia Orchestra.”
“I meant, in your spare time you like to….?”
“Well, lately, I run and I play the violin and...,” I paused,” I have a goals list and I’m trying to focus on them.”
“Trying?”
“Well okay, Doctor Christian, what about you? Its your turn.”
“Me? I’m a schmuck.” Perhaps but a perfect schmuck. “I’m in marketing – online marketing for colleges and universities.” He went quiet and sipped his coffee.
“You can’t think that’s enough after all the questioning you put me through.”
“What else do you want to know?” Everything. Where are from? Where have you traveled? What’s your favorite cereal? But what popped out absent mindedly was, “What happened with Sophia?”
“Sophia, Sophia. God she was beautiful.” Ugh. Spare me. “And smart and funny too.”
“So then?”
“She was ready to grow up and I wasn’t. I mean, I’m grown up but she wanted to grow old ….we were together maybe 8 months? I knew from about month four that I wasn’t going to marry her but I stayed anyway. She was awesome and gorgeous.” If I had to hear how gorgeous she was one more time I was going to vomit in his cup. “But you know, I’ve seen it fall apart enough. And you don’t really know how it happens. Its just one day it’s a fairytale and the next its a nightmare.” Half truth. If you’re being honest with yourself you see it coming but most of us aren’t, so…. “I just didn’t feel like she got me on that level.”
“What level?”
“That level of feeling so low you don’t want to move and looking at your partner’s face and feeling like you want to claw your way back because the sad look in her eyes is unbearable. I guess, I just knew that I wouldn’t fight for her and deep down, she knew it too.”
“But why? She was beautiful and smart and apparently loads of fun…” he smiled at my sarcasm and shrugged.
“Because some people make you feel happy and totally yourself. And some people just make you feel happy. It’s not..all the way if its not both. She just made me happy, you know?” I did know. We stared at our coffees in silence. Mine was almost emptied and I thought to myself, this coffee that was clearly just coffee is clearly not just coffee and I was clearly out of my mind. “I think I should go,” I said.
“Yeah, my coffee’s gone too.” We stood and put our coats on, my heart thumping so loudly I could hear its pulsing in my ears. We walked to the double doors in silence. “It was nice talking to you Chloe. You make me think. I like that.”
“Thanks”. He leaned in for a hug just as I offered my hand for a shake.
“Oh,” he said, and pulled back.
“Sorry I...”
“No, no,” he said and put out his hand. “See you next week?”
“See you next week.” He held on a second too long to make the handshake friendly. I squeezed his fingers before I let go.
“Bye Chloe.” They might have been the saddest two words I’d ever experienced.
When I opened the door, Stanley was watching his usual line up. He didn’t move from the couch but looked up smiling and asked, “How was class?”
“It was great,” I said. “We made Eggplant Veloute and Roasted pork.”
“Sounds good.” He turned back to the television while he spoke. I hung my coat on the rack and said, “I went for coffee with a friend afterwards.” He was nodding his head in affirmation but did not turn to actually look at me. “That’s good. Was it fun?”
“I guess so. It was awkward,“ I admitted.
“Well new people can be like that.”
“Yeah. But it was fun anyway. It was nice to have someone to talk to.” He glanced at me quickly and smiled his patient smile, before looking back at the flashing images on the screen. I couldn’t shake the feeling that he should ask me who my friend was, or furthermore, that I should offer that he was male. But his complete lack of concern felt vacant, like I could’ve been out with George Clooney and he wouldn’t have been bothered. Nothing seemed to bother Stanley.
“I’m going to make myself a bath,” I said. “I brought you the left overs from class. Do you want them now or should I put them in the fridge for later?”
“Now would be great, thanks.” He stood up to take them from me and opened the lid to check the contents. “Looks delicious.” I watched him go to the kitchen and pull out some silverware. It pained me slightly, to see him exert the energy of standing up for the leftovers but not my entrance. It was the most emotion I’d seen from him since I arrived. This time, I did not try to tell myself to let it go. I no longer had the energy to maintain that all important cheer. “I’m heading upstairs.”
“Enjoy your bath,” he said and he plopped down on the couch to eat.
When the warm water of the bath engulfed my skin and the whole of the world had been blocked out by the pounding of water on water, the only voice I couldn’t shake was Christian’s. Sometimes people make you feel happy and totally yourself and sometimes people just make you feel happy…And sometimes people stop doing both only they don’t care. What then? What of the years of memories and entangled life arrangements? Do you just throw those all away? Every photo album, every framed image – means nothing? I couldn’t accept that since those pictures represented my life. Me. But if I was honest with myself, that was a half truth. Those pictures were still frames that, combined, illustrated a very happy loving world. Divide and explain them, you’d find a very different illustration. You’d see me saying Come on, smile. It’s a picture, and him saying we already have a bunch of pictures in front of trees. You’d see me saying this would be a great photo for our Christmas card and him saying Alright but don’t send too many out. We hardly speak to most of those people anyway. In fact, if you sized up most of the photos in our two story town house what you’d see is the world I had so carefully and painstakingly created. Which is not the same as the world that is. Get Some Manners said to practice non resistance to what is which is a professional way of saying stop fooling yourself and accept reality - not fiction. But fooling yourself wasn’t usually a practice you realized you preached. It was like a cake, layered upon layered until it was so high you couldn’t just go back and pick one piece from the middle and say this layer..this piece here is why. It was all the layers combined that made the cake topple over. All the small things.
But sitting in the bath acknowledging what is, was still only half way. I realized, as I got out of the bath dripping in suds, wiping them away with the towel, that I could never fully live the demands of the DLA as long as I was still resisting what is. The Discount Life dictated that I process my new knowledge and follow through. So I walked into my room and started to pack a bag. As I gathered my clothing, I saw my baby puke yellow cashmere sweater lying on the floor of my closet. I picked it up and rubbed its softness against my face. “No more discounts,” I said out loud, and I put the sweater neatly at the bottom of the bag.
“My best friend just got engaged,” I said to Christian as we left through the double doors to the building. There was a coffee shop across the street. I pointed to it and we headed there.
“Awesome,” he said. “Congrats to her.” Our legs fell into stride, the cold air shrinking us into ourselves.
“Actually its two of my friends. Jack told me he was proposing tonight. That’s why Mel didn’t come to class. We consulted about it and I’ve kind of been waiting to hear how he did it.”
“How did he do it?” he opened the door and put a hand to the small of my back, ushering me in to an engulfing smell of warm espresso and chocolate.
“Perfectly,” I said, “no discounts.” His response was non-verbal, a quizzical scrunch of the face.
“Hold that thought,’ he said, turning to the cashier. “I’ll have a drip coffee. Black, please. Chloe?”
“I’ll have a non-fat latte please, no whip.”
“Aww, you’re taking all the fun out of it,” Christian said.
“I’m saving my thighs is what I’m doing.”
“Your thighs look good to me.” I blushed and to cover for myself, rolled my eyes at him for the second time that evening. In truth, he was always making me blush, even when it didn’t show. Around him there was a constant heat. If I could’ve unbuttoned my shirt again I would have but to do so would mean risking indecent exposure. I hid my face into task and started digging in my purse for some money. He stopped me, his hand touching my elbow; a disarmament.
“My treat,” he said, “you buy next time. And by the way, I know what you’re doing.” He turned his body mid way between myself and the cashier and paid the man with cash.
“What?”
“You’re rolling your eyes so you don’t have to accept my compliment.” He smirked and it said that I needn’t bother explaining myself. He knew he was correct.
“False compliments shouldn’t be taken,” I said.
“I don’t speak in riddles. I mean what I say. And I wanted to compliment you, so you should let me.” Why was this guy single again? Where was the flaw? He made me feel naked, exposed. Like he’d gained access to the little leather couch inside my head where I frequently sent myself for council. Like any second he would pull back the curtain and I’d have no place to hide. “You have nice thighs,” he said.
I responded, apathetically, with, “I’m going to get my coffee,” and walked to the pickup counter.
The tables were cozy, a scene for couples and snuggling. They were tiny and so close together our legs touched just by sitting. I wanted to let my knee rest on his knee all night but prudence suggested I’d have no shot at retaining his respect if I did. I shifted myself as far to the side as possible and hoped he couldn’t tell I wanted him to touch me. Something told me, he knew anyway.
“So, no discounts? What’s that mean? How did your friend propose?” I was hesitant to tell him about the Discount Life. It hadn’t gone over so well with Stanley. Or should I say that it seemed to represent something so small to Stanley, that given its epic stature in my world, his reaction to it as trivial deflated me. I wasn’t sure I could handle deflation from Christian. His role, thus far, had only made me feel more self assured. But the open earnestness on his face alleviated my fears. Falsehood or no falsehood, I was lured by his honesty.
“No discounts is a thing Mel and I have been talking a lot about lately. We’re kind of working on this project…” and I continued until I had unraveled the whole of the DL theory, including the park bench and its meeting of quasi degenerates. When I finished, the uneasy feeling that I’d disclosed too much of myself left me feeling susceptible. I started to fidget. He leaned in over the table, his shoulders rounding toward me, a stance I registered as interest and said, “I think it’s a brilliant idea. I mean, we’ve all done that in some way or another. It’s very – human.”
I smiled. Human. That’s what I had called it. “Well, so Jack called me and was terrified that his proposal wasn’t going to cut it after all that discount life talk. I gave him some pointers and he did great.” He’d asked her to meet him at her favorite book store, a place in the east end where the books were always two dollars more than Barnes & Noble but one that Mel thought had character. He’d feigned urgency and she’d called to cancel class with me. When she arrived, a sales woman approached her with a letter that read “I think you’re favorite author is trying to tell you something. Check the fiction section – Jack”. When she found Oates, Joyce Carol, in the fiction section she was met with several Post-It notes sticking out from the pages of her books. The first said, I love that you love to read more than you love anything else. Even me. The second said, I love that you never leave the bathroom without folding the toilet paper into a triangle in case a guest comes over.
I love that you can’t have anything on your plate touch before you eat it.
I love that you think you love Jim Beam but really its Jack Daniels. It doesn’t matter how many times I tell you – you never remember.
I love that you have to hit the snooze button exactly three times before you’ll get up in the morning.
I love that when my mother was in the hospital, you drove up with me in the middle of the night and didn’t ask me to talk.
I love that you steal the covers at night – actually I hate that but its you
I love the expression on your face when you find a pair of shoes you have to have even though you have a million pairs
I love that because of that expression I have no room in our closet – when we buy a house I want my own walk in
I love that every day and every night for the past three years, I have come home to a woman that has every piece of my heart.
I would love if you would be that woman for as long as we both shall live….
“The last one said, ‘I think you should open this book’ and inside he’d carved out space for the ring, so when she opened it, it was waiting for her. And then he came around the corner and said will you marry me?”
“Wow. He really did do a good job. I’m impressed. You didn’t tell him to do all that?”
“Nope. I just told him to think hard about the little things and he listened,” I sipped my coffee. “Glad to hear someone did,” I laughed. “Guess we’ll have a wedding to plan now. That’s exciting.”
“Is it?” he asked. “Do you wish it was yours?” The question startled me. Poignant questions usually warranted months, if not years, of friendship before they reached that level of introspection. His forthright speculation unarmed the standard of my evasive charm.
“No,” I said too quickly. “I’m not ready to be married.” Half truth.
“You’re not ready to be married or not you’re not ready to be married to him?” How does he do that?
“Both, I guess. If I’m not ready to be married to him, there’s no one else waiting in line. So I guess I’m not ready to be married.”
He looked me directly in the eye for several seconds before saying, “Aww, I don’t think it will take long for guys to line up for the job.” Sweet talk – to which my initial reaction was elation, followed quickly by distrust. It’s rare to find a man in life whose sweet talk didn’t fall short the second it required action. Perhaps that explains my current situation. If you set the bar low enough, disappointment is easier to stave off. But, as my presence at the coffee shop proved, not entirely. I wanted to trust him. I wanted to look into his eyes and let myself melt. Instead I said, “It doesn’t matter. This isn’t about me,” deflection, “It’s about Mel and Jack…”
He cut me off, “Let’s make it about you,” redirection,”Do you want to get married? Have kids?”
“Yes,” I answered too quickly for comfort.
“So what’s keeping you?”
“I don’t know. It’s just…” my hesitation provoked waves of guilt. Incrimination by omission. Christian raised his eyebrows questioningly. Almost mockingly. “There’s something missing I guess.”
He shook his head in concurrence. “So you’re here with me instead?” I opened my mouth to defend myself but nothing came out. The pregnant lull that followed was brutal. He stroked the rim of his coffee mug and with the demeanor of a scared school boy asked, “We have something here, huh?”
My heart jumped. “What?” I said, hating the sound of my affectation. “We’re just having coffee. Friends have coffee.”
“You’re doing it again,” he said wagging a finger at me and smiling broadly. I attemtped my defense and he put up his palm as if to say stop. He was right. I was lying to myself. I cast my eyes down. “So you like to cook,” deflection, “what else do you do?”
“I’m an office administrator for the Philadelphia Orchestra.”
“I meant, in your spare time you like to….?”
“Well, lately, I run and I play the violin and...,” I paused,” I have a goals list and I’m trying to focus on them.”
“Trying?”
“Well okay, Doctor Christian, what about you? Its your turn.”
“Me? I’m a schmuck.” Perhaps but a perfect schmuck. “I’m in marketing – online marketing for colleges and universities.” He went quiet and sipped his coffee.
“You can’t think that’s enough after all the questioning you put me through.”
“What else do you want to know?” Everything. Where are from? Where have you traveled? What’s your favorite cereal? But what popped out absent mindedly was, “What happened with Sophia?”
“Sophia, Sophia. God she was beautiful.” Ugh. Spare me. “And smart and funny too.”
“So then?”
“She was ready to grow up and I wasn’t. I mean, I’m grown up but she wanted to grow old ….we were together maybe 8 months? I knew from about month four that I wasn’t going to marry her but I stayed anyway. She was awesome and gorgeous.” If I had to hear how gorgeous she was one more time I was going to vomit in his cup. “But you know, I’ve seen it fall apart enough. And you don’t really know how it happens. Its just one day it’s a fairytale and the next its a nightmare.” Half truth. If you’re being honest with yourself you see it coming but most of us aren’t, so…. “I just didn’t feel like she got me on that level.”
“What level?”
“That level of feeling so low you don’t want to move and looking at your partner’s face and feeling like you want to claw your way back because the sad look in her eyes is unbearable. I guess, I just knew that I wouldn’t fight for her and deep down, she knew it too.”
“But why? She was beautiful and smart and apparently loads of fun…” he smiled at my sarcasm and shrugged.
“Because some people make you feel happy and totally yourself. And some people just make you feel happy. It’s not..all the way if its not both. She just made me happy, you know?” I did know. We stared at our coffees in silence. Mine was almost emptied and I thought to myself, this coffee that was clearly just coffee is clearly not just coffee and I was clearly out of my mind. “I think I should go,” I said.
“Yeah, my coffee’s gone too.” We stood and put our coats on, my heart thumping so loudly I could hear its pulsing in my ears. We walked to the double doors in silence. “It was nice talking to you Chloe. You make me think. I like that.”
“Thanks”. He leaned in for a hug just as I offered my hand for a shake.
“Oh,” he said, and pulled back.
“Sorry I...”
“No, no,” he said and put out his hand. “See you next week?”
“See you next week.” He held on a second too long to make the handshake friendly. I squeezed his fingers before I let go.
“Bye Chloe.” They might have been the saddest two words I’d ever experienced.
When I opened the door, Stanley was watching his usual line up. He didn’t move from the couch but looked up smiling and asked, “How was class?”
“It was great,” I said. “We made Eggplant Veloute and Roasted pork.”
“Sounds good.” He turned back to the television while he spoke. I hung my coat on the rack and said, “I went for coffee with a friend afterwards.” He was nodding his head in affirmation but did not turn to actually look at me. “That’s good. Was it fun?”
“I guess so. It was awkward,“ I admitted.
“Well new people can be like that.”
“Yeah. But it was fun anyway. It was nice to have someone to talk to.” He glanced at me quickly and smiled his patient smile, before looking back at the flashing images on the screen. I couldn’t shake the feeling that he should ask me who my friend was, or furthermore, that I should offer that he was male. But his complete lack of concern felt vacant, like I could’ve been out with George Clooney and he wouldn’t have been bothered. Nothing seemed to bother Stanley.
“I’m going to make myself a bath,” I said. “I brought you the left overs from class. Do you want them now or should I put them in the fridge for later?”
“Now would be great, thanks.” He stood up to take them from me and opened the lid to check the contents. “Looks delicious.” I watched him go to the kitchen and pull out some silverware. It pained me slightly, to see him exert the energy of standing up for the leftovers but not my entrance. It was the most emotion I’d seen from him since I arrived. This time, I did not try to tell myself to let it go. I no longer had the energy to maintain that all important cheer. “I’m heading upstairs.”
“Enjoy your bath,” he said and he plopped down on the couch to eat.
When the warm water of the bath engulfed my skin and the whole of the world had been blocked out by the pounding of water on water, the only voice I couldn’t shake was Christian’s. Sometimes people make you feel happy and totally yourself and sometimes people just make you feel happy…And sometimes people stop doing both only they don’t care. What then? What of the years of memories and entangled life arrangements? Do you just throw those all away? Every photo album, every framed image – means nothing? I couldn’t accept that since those pictures represented my life. Me. But if I was honest with myself, that was a half truth. Those pictures were still frames that, combined, illustrated a very happy loving world. Divide and explain them, you’d find a very different illustration. You’d see me saying Come on, smile. It’s a picture, and him saying we already have a bunch of pictures in front of trees. You’d see me saying this would be a great photo for our Christmas card and him saying Alright but don’t send too many out. We hardly speak to most of those people anyway. In fact, if you sized up most of the photos in our two story town house what you’d see is the world I had so carefully and painstakingly created. Which is not the same as the world that is. Get Some Manners said to practice non resistance to what is which is a professional way of saying stop fooling yourself and accept reality - not fiction. But fooling yourself wasn’t usually a practice you realized you preached. It was like a cake, layered upon layered until it was so high you couldn’t just go back and pick one piece from the middle and say this layer..this piece here is why. It was all the layers combined that made the cake topple over. All the small things.
But sitting in the bath acknowledging what is, was still only half way. I realized, as I got out of the bath dripping in suds, wiping them away with the towel, that I could never fully live the demands of the DLA as long as I was still resisting what is. The Discount Life dictated that I process my new knowledge and follow through. So I walked into my room and started to pack a bag. As I gathered my clothing, I saw my baby puke yellow cashmere sweater lying on the floor of my closet. I picked it up and rubbed its softness against my face. “No more discounts,” I said out loud, and I put the sweater neatly at the bottom of the bag.
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
The Discount Life - Step Three and a Half: Be in The Moment
I got the call at work the following Tuesday while I was illegally viewing clothingforless.com, a sight I had sworn off, given my Discount Life discovery, but could not help but take a peak at every now and then. There were some beautiful cashmere sweaters on there. Hold your judgment. The changing of habits is a process. One can’t be expected to become an angel overnight.
That hour, my boss was out of the office and our booking agent and marketing director were out to lunch. The quiet office was mine alone. The phone rang and a familiar number lit up the caller ID screen.
“Jack! Haven’t heard from you in a while. To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“Hey Chloe. Am I interrupting anything? I know you’re at work.” I turned my head from left to right, slowly assessing the answer to his question. No bosses, no work & Get Some Manners opened to page 25. “I have a minute. What’s going on?”
Jack always had an air of coolness about him. He was polished, well spoken and thoughtful in the sense that he appraised all outcomes before saying anything out loud. But today, the Jack I had come to admire for his consistent display of refinement & culture, let it all slip out like he had suddenly developed Turrets. “I want to ask Mel to marry me. But she came home from your meeting on Sunday and ruined the plans I had with some talk I don’t understand. I need your help.”
My response was absolute silence. I was in shock. Mel had indicated that she and Jack had discussed marriage as a possibility anon. But the idea that it was about to happen sent me into a state of both elation and distress. Of course I wanted Mel to marry Jack. Their matrimony might be the most authentic union ever to exist in my life. Happiness for them was the not the issue. My distress arose at the thought that up until last week, I had been in a position to share this joy with Mel and now, post-Christian and mid self help book, I was in no position to mutually enjoy the fulfillment genuine relationships bring.
“Chloe? You there?” You must respond.
“I’m here. Sorry, you caught me off guard. But congratulations Jack! I’m so happy for you two.”
“Well there won’t be an ‘us two’ if you don’t help me get this figured out. I don’t know what to do now.”
“Wait, back up. What are you talking about?”
“She went to your meeting on Sunday and came back talking about this ‘all the way’ stuff. Some philosophical bull about getting to the truth and not settling for less. Which was fine. But then she started talking about us in the future and how she wanted our love to be like that and that she wanted me to be her partner and she knew that I was going to be great at this….I mean, what is that? Come on.”
I smiled privately to myself. Were all men afraid of really giving it their all? Even the ones who’ve earned the position amongst women as the paragon of male partners? “It sounds like she was complimenting you. I don’t think you have anything to worry about.”
“My proposal sucks,” he said, desperately, the anguish in his voice comparable to a child who had forgotten to leave cookies out for Santa. My heart swooned. Jack wasn’t worried that he would lose Mel to the challenging ideals of the DLA. He was worrying himself over how he could join her. Restored. Jack was the man I’d given him credit for after all. “I want it straight from the horse’s mouth. How can I prove to Mel that I’m an All the Way kind of guy?”
“Jack, I think she already thinks of you as an All the Way kind of guy. ”
“You should have heard her. It scared me to think that her expectations have suddenly gotten so much bigger than before. And is it life in general or just the proposal that I should be worried about. They say the way a guy proposes says a lot about how much he loves her. I don’t want to fuck this up. What should I do? Fireworks, rent out a hotel, fly her to Paris. How big does it have to get, to be all the way?” His frantic monologue touched my heart. I wondered, briefly, if Stanley would spend this much time worrying about how he would propose to me. My intuition said no. He would pop a ring in a box and hand it over like a beer he’d gotten out of the fridge – here you go, thought you might like this.
“Jack, I think you’re misunderstanding what all the way means. It doesn’t mean it has to be over the top all the time. It means it has to be real. Genuine. That’s all.” He gruffed dissatisfaction at me. “Tell me how you were going to propose to her.”
“I was going to take her to a nice restaurant. Maybe a play or something first. Then dinner. Then I was going to have the waiter put the ring in a glass of champagne and when he brought it over I was going to get on my knee and tell her I loved her and propose.” I was processing the scene. My first thought was: common, although sweet. “What? You hate it, see. Tell me what to do Chloe.”
“It’s not bad Jack. Really. It’s very sweet and she would be perfectly happy with it.”
“But?”
“Buuuut…..,” I drew it out dramatically. “It’s a relatively common proposal. Lot’s of girls get it. And lots of girls get fireworks and lots of girls get Paris. And its not really what we want. I mean, don’t get me wrong – Paris is great- but it’s actually like using someone else’s idea. It only counts if you put some original thought in to it.”
“So, I’m off the hook with the fireworks?”
“Look, the secret is, all girls want to know that you have thought them through one hundred percent. That’s the biggest, best thing you could ever do for her. A proposal shouldn’t just be a display. She knows you love her. She wants to know that you understand her at a level no else does.”
“And Paris doesn’t say that?”
“It can. It depends on how you do it. In Mel’s case, Paris itself does not say I’ve thought about you. That’s what a proposal should focus on. The tiny little things that make her- her. Not the fireworks.” I heard a small sigh of relief on the other end and realized I forgot one important thing, “and the ring. The ring is important. What kind of ring did you get?”
“It’s antique. I bought it from this vintage store she took me in once. She wanted to buy this pin for a friend, some orange thing with woman’s face on it, and I looked over and saw this ring and I thought that would be good for when I ask her to marry me. I really hadn’t been thinking about proposing but then I saw this ring. And after that, I couldn’t stop thinking about it. So I bought it.” I hate to be a downer here – the story is endearing and in the beginning, its retelling will bring her hours of sentimental nostalgia. But practicality says, ten years from now when the kids are puking and he’s late coming home from work…again, the story is going to matter much less then the way it looks.
“What does it look like?” His description, in typical Jack fashion, used every six syllable adjective in the dictionary and still managed to reduce the visual image of the ring to a piece of crinkled tin with a diamond in it. “Why don’t you just send me a picture of it.”
“I will. But you still haven’t helped me plan the proposal. I need you on this Chloe.”
“Jack, I’m not going to plan your proposal for you for two reasons. One: An all the way guy shows his love by doing the work himself. A good consultant doesn’t hurt but you have to put in your own sweat. And two: You love Mel so much, I know if you think about this you’ll do it perfectly. You can’t get too cheesy. Go rent a Meg Ryan movie and force yourself to watch it until the end. Just remember, any guy with money can do the big things. It all comes down to the small things - how much you think and the small things,” I stopped. “And the ring.”
“Can I pass it by you if I feel like I need to?”
“Of course. And, by the way, when are you planning this small but perfect proposal?”
“I was going to do it Thursday night. Should I wait?” Thursday was Mel and Jack’s date night until my cooking class had forced them to be flexible and make date night Wednesdays. But, in all sincerity, another evening alone, with Mr. Handsome, sounded far superior to sharing him with Mel. “You should do it.”
“Alright. I’ll call you later.” When we hung up I was filled to the brim. Where earlier I had felt such degradation toward the idea of watching my friend be truly loved in a way that I was not, now I felt excited by the notion that I had helped a genuine love grow stronger.
I was surprised, as well, that our DLA meeting had had such an effect on Mel. It was nothing to speak of, no grand epiphanies. In fact, the first official meeting of the DLA took place on the park bench where I first met Tucker. There were four people in attendance: myself, Mel, Tucker and Tucker’s sponsor from AA, Lizzie. “He asked me to sponsor him in this new organization he was trying out,” she’d said. “I figured, why not, right? You can always learn something about yourself.” Our meeting was less official than the sheriff in the Ronald McDonald gang. It had been more of a chat. I had yet to come up with a Step Four, given that the Step Three process of working on goals was so perpetual it hardly left room for more discovery, and in lieu of official business we sat for an hour and talked about the goals we’d set.
“My first goal is to find a real place to sleep,” Tucker had said. And my first instinct was to jump in and say he could stay with me. But Get Some Manners made it clear that rescuing people kept them from taking control of their own lives; people have to save themselves. Attempted savings only prolong their true recovery and your own self-sacrifice. Assess what it is to save someone versus what it is to help someone. Heeding the advice of my page shrink I said, “Why don’t you look into a shelter? There’s one a couple of blocks from here.”
“He’d have to stop drinking,” Lizzie said, throwing Tucker an expression that said we’ve discussed this a hundred times.
“Well, that’s a goal too. Find a place to sleep and stop drinking,” he said.
“Both good,” Mel added.
“Both good if you’re going to go all the way with them,” I said. “If you’re not going discount yourself, then you’re going to have to give in all the way. Be like Nike, just do it.”
“You have no idea what that takes little lady,” he said.
“You’re right. I don’t. But I know that every time you choose not to follow through, you choose to discount yourself. And before you were just you…”
“And me and AA,” Lizzie chimed in.
“Okay but now you’re you plus the DLA and AA. I think you’re running out of room for excuses.” He laughed and slapped my knee with his dirty hand.
“Alright. I’ll look into the shelter. No promises though.”
“The promises you make aren’t to us,” Mel said. “They’re to yourself. That’s the point of all this.” She raised her eyes to me as if to ask right? I nodded to her and smiled to myself. The core of it was all the same and, much like I had told Jack about the proposal, it was the small things that made it different. “Just be truthful with yourself Tucker,” I said. “Keep working on it. That’s all you can do.”
“True. True. And how about you?” he asked, “Do we have a step four yet?”
“It’s coming,” I said. “But no. It’s like once you set your goals and challenge yourself to really working on them, what step do you have after that? It could take years to finish these goals. Where do we go now?”
“Maybe you should try just being in the moment,” Lizzie said. “You’re processing right now. That’s a step in and of itself.”
“Yeah and 12 steps is a lot,” Mel said. “You might not need all 12 slots.”
“Or you might,” Lizzie retorted. “But this whole thing is a practice. It’s not a given. It’s a process. You’re willing to allow Tucker that. Allow yourself that.” I wanted to say but Tucker is a homeless alcoholic. He needs a bit more processing room than your average short sticker. But instead I said, “I’ll think about that.”
In the end, the DLA was like a therapy session for the latently self-observant. Four people on the road to a better life and when the closing hour descended and we’d stood to make our good byes, Lizzie said, “here” and handed me a miniature AA handbook. “I want you to have this. You might find it applicable, if you take out the alcoholic stuff.” I accepted, thanked her and put it directly at the bottom of my purse. The last thing I needed was for people to think I was going crazy and that I was an alcoholic. But having Lizzie there had sparked an idea: What if, like AA sponsors, we chose DLA partners? We closed the meeting by agreeing to meet three weeks later on the same park bench, at the same time, only we’d each bring another person.
As the week drew on, I intended to make my focus finding a DL partner but I found my attention drifting constantly to my cooking partner instead. Tuesday turned into Wednesday and I ran and played the violin. Wednesday turned into Thursday and I sat, impatiently through work, until finally it was time. I would be alone with Mr. Handsome …again, and Mel would have a ring on her finger. The anticipation of a great evening was almost more than I could bare.
In class we were making Eggplant Velouté and Roast Pork Loin with Cinnamon Apple Glaze. The eggplant we were asked to do alone, an instruction to which my body had a physical reaction. I wanted everything in this class to involve Mr. Handsome when possible. The pork we were told to complete together, to which my body reacted much more positively.
The first hour of class was a relative drag, made mildly better by the mischievous facial expressions tossed at me from Christian when he turned around to check on my progress.
“Don’t fall behind,” he said, “I want to get to that pork as soon as possible.” I feigned indifference and rolled my eyes. “Oh, bad mood?” he said, making a deeply exaggerated frowning face.
“No,” I said firmly. “I just have a lot on my mind and I’d like to get my eggplant finished, thank you very much.” My intention was to be curt, but my scoff could not belie my emotions. I was apprehensive to encourage him too much. I would lose my dignity if he thought I was that into him. And what little I had left I intended to keep.
The clock ticked on and Alex announced we could take a quick break before beginning our pork. I debated whether or not I should go to the restroom; a moment missed with Christian was a moment I would lament. But he surprised me, leaned over my island and asked, “You want to get drinks with me after this? You seem like you’ve got some stuff to talk out.” How should I respond to this? Is it kindness? A man, interested in a woman’s thoughts because she seems bothered. Or is it mischief? A man ,interested in a woman, using her troubles as a vehicle for extra time together. My instinct said both and I felt my pheromones spike again. I unbuttoned the next button on my shirt to keep from overheating. Or so I told myself.
“Maybe coffee instead? I’m a bit of a light weight. You’d have to carry me home if we did drinks.” He raised his eyebrows and tipped his head as if to say I wouldn’t mind that, but responded with, “Coffee it is.”
I went to the bathroom, secure in the knowledge that I would have plenty more time with Mr. Handsome before the night was over. As I walked away from him I faught the sway of my hips and mentally acknowledged that I did not know what I was doing and that I had no exact plan but that I was, subsequently, in a state of processing. That small affirmation was a minor miracle and I said to myself, “Be in the moment” before I let my focus slowly drift into fantasy.
Step Four: Awknowledge Your State of Processing
At the end of class I checked my phone. It had happened. Jack had proposed. A text message from Mel, followed by a lengthy voicemail detailing the goings on, confirmed that he had, indeed, done a perfect job on his proposal.......(next week: a proposal, a date? and a higher power)
That hour, my boss was out of the office and our booking agent and marketing director were out to lunch. The quiet office was mine alone. The phone rang and a familiar number lit up the caller ID screen.
“Jack! Haven’t heard from you in a while. To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“Hey Chloe. Am I interrupting anything? I know you’re at work.” I turned my head from left to right, slowly assessing the answer to his question. No bosses, no work & Get Some Manners opened to page 25. “I have a minute. What’s going on?”
Jack always had an air of coolness about him. He was polished, well spoken and thoughtful in the sense that he appraised all outcomes before saying anything out loud. But today, the Jack I had come to admire for his consistent display of refinement & culture, let it all slip out like he had suddenly developed Turrets. “I want to ask Mel to marry me. But she came home from your meeting on Sunday and ruined the plans I had with some talk I don’t understand. I need your help.”
My response was absolute silence. I was in shock. Mel had indicated that she and Jack had discussed marriage as a possibility anon. But the idea that it was about to happen sent me into a state of both elation and distress. Of course I wanted Mel to marry Jack. Their matrimony might be the most authentic union ever to exist in my life. Happiness for them was the not the issue. My distress arose at the thought that up until last week, I had been in a position to share this joy with Mel and now, post-Christian and mid self help book, I was in no position to mutually enjoy the fulfillment genuine relationships bring.
“Chloe? You there?” You must respond.
“I’m here. Sorry, you caught me off guard. But congratulations Jack! I’m so happy for you two.”
“Well there won’t be an ‘us two’ if you don’t help me get this figured out. I don’t know what to do now.”
“Wait, back up. What are you talking about?”
“She went to your meeting on Sunday and came back talking about this ‘all the way’ stuff. Some philosophical bull about getting to the truth and not settling for less. Which was fine. But then she started talking about us in the future and how she wanted our love to be like that and that she wanted me to be her partner and she knew that I was going to be great at this….I mean, what is that? Come on.”
I smiled privately to myself. Were all men afraid of really giving it their all? Even the ones who’ve earned the position amongst women as the paragon of male partners? “It sounds like she was complimenting you. I don’t think you have anything to worry about.”
“My proposal sucks,” he said, desperately, the anguish in his voice comparable to a child who had forgotten to leave cookies out for Santa. My heart swooned. Jack wasn’t worried that he would lose Mel to the challenging ideals of the DLA. He was worrying himself over how he could join her. Restored. Jack was the man I’d given him credit for after all. “I want it straight from the horse’s mouth. How can I prove to Mel that I’m an All the Way kind of guy?”
“Jack, I think she already thinks of you as an All the Way kind of guy. ”
“You should have heard her. It scared me to think that her expectations have suddenly gotten so much bigger than before. And is it life in general or just the proposal that I should be worried about. They say the way a guy proposes says a lot about how much he loves her. I don’t want to fuck this up. What should I do? Fireworks, rent out a hotel, fly her to Paris. How big does it have to get, to be all the way?” His frantic monologue touched my heart. I wondered, briefly, if Stanley would spend this much time worrying about how he would propose to me. My intuition said no. He would pop a ring in a box and hand it over like a beer he’d gotten out of the fridge – here you go, thought you might like this.
“Jack, I think you’re misunderstanding what all the way means. It doesn’t mean it has to be over the top all the time. It means it has to be real. Genuine. That’s all.” He gruffed dissatisfaction at me. “Tell me how you were going to propose to her.”
“I was going to take her to a nice restaurant. Maybe a play or something first. Then dinner. Then I was going to have the waiter put the ring in a glass of champagne and when he brought it over I was going to get on my knee and tell her I loved her and propose.” I was processing the scene. My first thought was: common, although sweet. “What? You hate it, see. Tell me what to do Chloe.”
“It’s not bad Jack. Really. It’s very sweet and she would be perfectly happy with it.”
“But?”
“Buuuut…..,” I drew it out dramatically. “It’s a relatively common proposal. Lot’s of girls get it. And lots of girls get fireworks and lots of girls get Paris. And its not really what we want. I mean, don’t get me wrong – Paris is great- but it’s actually like using someone else’s idea. It only counts if you put some original thought in to it.”
“So, I’m off the hook with the fireworks?”
“Look, the secret is, all girls want to know that you have thought them through one hundred percent. That’s the biggest, best thing you could ever do for her. A proposal shouldn’t just be a display. She knows you love her. She wants to know that you understand her at a level no else does.”
“And Paris doesn’t say that?”
“It can. It depends on how you do it. In Mel’s case, Paris itself does not say I’ve thought about you. That’s what a proposal should focus on. The tiny little things that make her- her. Not the fireworks.” I heard a small sigh of relief on the other end and realized I forgot one important thing, “and the ring. The ring is important. What kind of ring did you get?”
“It’s antique. I bought it from this vintage store she took me in once. She wanted to buy this pin for a friend, some orange thing with woman’s face on it, and I looked over and saw this ring and I thought that would be good for when I ask her to marry me. I really hadn’t been thinking about proposing but then I saw this ring. And after that, I couldn’t stop thinking about it. So I bought it.” I hate to be a downer here – the story is endearing and in the beginning, its retelling will bring her hours of sentimental nostalgia. But practicality says, ten years from now when the kids are puking and he’s late coming home from work…again, the story is going to matter much less then the way it looks.
“What does it look like?” His description, in typical Jack fashion, used every six syllable adjective in the dictionary and still managed to reduce the visual image of the ring to a piece of crinkled tin with a diamond in it. “Why don’t you just send me a picture of it.”
“I will. But you still haven’t helped me plan the proposal. I need you on this Chloe.”
“Jack, I’m not going to plan your proposal for you for two reasons. One: An all the way guy shows his love by doing the work himself. A good consultant doesn’t hurt but you have to put in your own sweat. And two: You love Mel so much, I know if you think about this you’ll do it perfectly. You can’t get too cheesy. Go rent a Meg Ryan movie and force yourself to watch it until the end. Just remember, any guy with money can do the big things. It all comes down to the small things - how much you think and the small things,” I stopped. “And the ring.”
“Can I pass it by you if I feel like I need to?”
“Of course. And, by the way, when are you planning this small but perfect proposal?”
“I was going to do it Thursday night. Should I wait?” Thursday was Mel and Jack’s date night until my cooking class had forced them to be flexible and make date night Wednesdays. But, in all sincerity, another evening alone, with Mr. Handsome, sounded far superior to sharing him with Mel. “You should do it.”
“Alright. I’ll call you later.” When we hung up I was filled to the brim. Where earlier I had felt such degradation toward the idea of watching my friend be truly loved in a way that I was not, now I felt excited by the notion that I had helped a genuine love grow stronger.
I was surprised, as well, that our DLA meeting had had such an effect on Mel. It was nothing to speak of, no grand epiphanies. In fact, the first official meeting of the DLA took place on the park bench where I first met Tucker. There were four people in attendance: myself, Mel, Tucker and Tucker’s sponsor from AA, Lizzie. “He asked me to sponsor him in this new organization he was trying out,” she’d said. “I figured, why not, right? You can always learn something about yourself.” Our meeting was less official than the sheriff in the Ronald McDonald gang. It had been more of a chat. I had yet to come up with a Step Four, given that the Step Three process of working on goals was so perpetual it hardly left room for more discovery, and in lieu of official business we sat for an hour and talked about the goals we’d set.
“My first goal is to find a real place to sleep,” Tucker had said. And my first instinct was to jump in and say he could stay with me. But Get Some Manners made it clear that rescuing people kept them from taking control of their own lives; people have to save themselves. Attempted savings only prolong their true recovery and your own self-sacrifice. Assess what it is to save someone versus what it is to help someone. Heeding the advice of my page shrink I said, “Why don’t you look into a shelter? There’s one a couple of blocks from here.”
“He’d have to stop drinking,” Lizzie said, throwing Tucker an expression that said we’ve discussed this a hundred times.
“Well, that’s a goal too. Find a place to sleep and stop drinking,” he said.
“Both good,” Mel added.
“Both good if you’re going to go all the way with them,” I said. “If you’re not going discount yourself, then you’re going to have to give in all the way. Be like Nike, just do it.”
“You have no idea what that takes little lady,” he said.
“You’re right. I don’t. But I know that every time you choose not to follow through, you choose to discount yourself. And before you were just you…”
“And me and AA,” Lizzie chimed in.
“Okay but now you’re you plus the DLA and AA. I think you’re running out of room for excuses.” He laughed and slapped my knee with his dirty hand.
“Alright. I’ll look into the shelter. No promises though.”
“The promises you make aren’t to us,” Mel said. “They’re to yourself. That’s the point of all this.” She raised her eyes to me as if to ask right? I nodded to her and smiled to myself. The core of it was all the same and, much like I had told Jack about the proposal, it was the small things that made it different. “Just be truthful with yourself Tucker,” I said. “Keep working on it. That’s all you can do.”
“True. True. And how about you?” he asked, “Do we have a step four yet?”
“It’s coming,” I said. “But no. It’s like once you set your goals and challenge yourself to really working on them, what step do you have after that? It could take years to finish these goals. Where do we go now?”
“Maybe you should try just being in the moment,” Lizzie said. “You’re processing right now. That’s a step in and of itself.”
“Yeah and 12 steps is a lot,” Mel said. “You might not need all 12 slots.”
“Or you might,” Lizzie retorted. “But this whole thing is a practice. It’s not a given. It’s a process. You’re willing to allow Tucker that. Allow yourself that.” I wanted to say but Tucker is a homeless alcoholic. He needs a bit more processing room than your average short sticker. But instead I said, “I’ll think about that.”
In the end, the DLA was like a therapy session for the latently self-observant. Four people on the road to a better life and when the closing hour descended and we’d stood to make our good byes, Lizzie said, “here” and handed me a miniature AA handbook. “I want you to have this. You might find it applicable, if you take out the alcoholic stuff.” I accepted, thanked her and put it directly at the bottom of my purse. The last thing I needed was for people to think I was going crazy and that I was an alcoholic. But having Lizzie there had sparked an idea: What if, like AA sponsors, we chose DLA partners? We closed the meeting by agreeing to meet three weeks later on the same park bench, at the same time, only we’d each bring another person.
As the week drew on, I intended to make my focus finding a DL partner but I found my attention drifting constantly to my cooking partner instead. Tuesday turned into Wednesday and I ran and played the violin. Wednesday turned into Thursday and I sat, impatiently through work, until finally it was time. I would be alone with Mr. Handsome …again, and Mel would have a ring on her finger. The anticipation of a great evening was almost more than I could bare.
In class we were making Eggplant Velouté and Roast Pork Loin with Cinnamon Apple Glaze. The eggplant we were asked to do alone, an instruction to which my body had a physical reaction. I wanted everything in this class to involve Mr. Handsome when possible. The pork we were told to complete together, to which my body reacted much more positively.
The first hour of class was a relative drag, made mildly better by the mischievous facial expressions tossed at me from Christian when he turned around to check on my progress.
“Don’t fall behind,” he said, “I want to get to that pork as soon as possible.” I feigned indifference and rolled my eyes. “Oh, bad mood?” he said, making a deeply exaggerated frowning face.
“No,” I said firmly. “I just have a lot on my mind and I’d like to get my eggplant finished, thank you very much.” My intention was to be curt, but my scoff could not belie my emotions. I was apprehensive to encourage him too much. I would lose my dignity if he thought I was that into him. And what little I had left I intended to keep.
The clock ticked on and Alex announced we could take a quick break before beginning our pork. I debated whether or not I should go to the restroom; a moment missed with Christian was a moment I would lament. But he surprised me, leaned over my island and asked, “You want to get drinks with me after this? You seem like you’ve got some stuff to talk out.” How should I respond to this? Is it kindness? A man, interested in a woman’s thoughts because she seems bothered. Or is it mischief? A man ,interested in a woman, using her troubles as a vehicle for extra time together. My instinct said both and I felt my pheromones spike again. I unbuttoned the next button on my shirt to keep from overheating. Or so I told myself.
“Maybe coffee instead? I’m a bit of a light weight. You’d have to carry me home if we did drinks.” He raised his eyebrows and tipped his head as if to say I wouldn’t mind that, but responded with, “Coffee it is.”
I went to the bathroom, secure in the knowledge that I would have plenty more time with Mr. Handsome before the night was over. As I walked away from him I faught the sway of my hips and mentally acknowledged that I did not know what I was doing and that I had no exact plan but that I was, subsequently, in a state of processing. That small affirmation was a minor miracle and I said to myself, “Be in the moment” before I let my focus slowly drift into fantasy.
Step Four: Awknowledge Your State of Processing
At the end of class I checked my phone. It had happened. Jack had proposed. A text message from Mel, followed by a lengthy voicemail detailing the goings on, confirmed that he had, indeed, done a perfect job on his proposal.......(next week: a proposal, a date? and a higher power)
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
The Discount Life: Step Three Cont'd
Oh My God. This just in: he’s gorgeous. There is a man sitting at the island in front of me and he’s tall, dark and handsome, which in and of itself is not that uncommon in the greater metropolitan area of Philadelphia. But usually in the wake of a beautiful man at the supermarket, there is a beautiful woman, dashing all your hopes that he is secretly searching for you instead of a good zucchini. But this man was tall, dark, handsome and suspiciously alone. I watched the minute hand tick by on the giant clock at the front of the room. Tick after tick, he remained solo. He had a boyish look about him. Too put together to have picked his gray sweater and jeans off the top of the pile, too disheveled to have put more than five minutes into the overall appeal of the look. His hair was messy. His chin had a bit of scruff, which made up for the bit that receded. He had a very good watch on (I’m a sucker for anything shiny). In other words: he was perfect. He was so appealing I wouldn’t have been surprised if it was a man that walked in to join him.
The minute hand finally hit 7pm and a sprite, tiny sprig of a woman walked in and closed the door behind her. You would hardly guess she ate at all, let alone cooked. She began to make her way to the front of the room where a giant island stood waiting as her podium. Her presence quieted my nerves- mystery man was still alone and he was smiling at me.
“Looks like we’re on our own.” His teeth were very white. I got nervous and squished my lips together into an awkward smile. Say something Chloe. Say something.
“Yeah.” Stupid.
“Good evening class. Welcome to Cooking to the Next Level. I’m Alex & I’ll be guiding you through eight classes of culinary fun.” She blathered on for a couple of minutes about what we could expect to learn in the coming classes. I focused my eyes on her but behind their trained gaze my brain was busy lamenting that my response to a gorgeous man’s one liner was “yeah”. And by the prolific commentary flowing from our teacher, it seemed it would be ages before I’d get the chance to redeem myself.
“We’re going to learn how to take your basic sautéing, stocks and sauces and turn them into practical but gourmet dishes….” He was facing forward and paying attention to Alex as she spoke. Was he actually, of his own accord, interested in this? I was impressed.
“We’re even this week, perfect,” Alex said. I glanced around. The number of people in the class, save my missing partner, was a perfect eight. “Let’s pair up.” She walked around the room and pointed at the people she was putting together. “You two together,” she said pointing to Mr. Handsome and me. Of course I loved Alex from the beginning. She was an excellent judge of pairing, which, I can only assume, is a skill that lends itself to cooking as well. And, just between you and me, I didn’t care if Mel never came to this class.
Mr. Handsome collected his things and came around to my island smiling. “Hi. I’m Christian.” He set his stuff down and offered a handshake. I took it. “Chloe.”
“Nice to meet you Chloe.” He surveyed the room. “I don’t come to these types of things often,” he said. “Well, not alone I mean. “ Damn. His supermarket wife is around here somewhere. I knew it.
“Me neither. I’m doing it with a friend but she couldn’t make it tonight.” He smiled and nodded his head amiably. Alex was explaining how the use of the room was going to work….we all have to be responsible for the condition of the room before we leave tonight… and much like the school of my younger years, I tuned out the minute she mentioned cleaning up. I leaned in to my partner and said quietly, “If you don’t really cook, why are you here?”
“I bought this as a gift for my girlfriend. We were gonna do it together but she bailed.”
“Aww. “ Lucky me. “She’ll come next week, I’m sure”, which I was positive of because my luck could only stretch so far.
“No. I mean we broke up.” And the bright shining light of happiness cast a spotlight on me once again. “But I figured I paid for the class, so I might as well come. You never know.”
“I’m so sorry.” Blatant lie. Of course his singleness elated me. “I’m impressed that you thought of this though. It was nice of you.”
“Don’t be. It was my hairdresser’s idea. She said it would show that I was creative and interested and putting in effort for together time. Sophia said it was a dollar short and a day too late.”
“Well, it might work out to be fun anyways.”
He smiled at me. “I think so.” I was vaguely aware of Alex, mid room, encouraging the class to open our recipes to the second page but I chose to let my focus detour on Christian’s pearly whites. His smile was not just beautiful because he was last year’s Jcrew model. It was beautiful because it was genuine. He was not just tolerating this discussion. He was enjoying it.
“I just want to warn you,” he whispered, leaning into me and looking intently at Alex, “ I’m knew to this. I may be a bad partner.” Stop. Here’s the thing: life has a way of giving you the answer long before you’re ready to acknowledge it. I read somewhere that your body can sense what is good and bad way before your brain actually reaches the same conclusion. You’re body heats up in response to that which it senses is going to result in a negative outcome. What a shame we don’t pay attention to our heat sensors. We could save ourselves a great deal of time. But heat can be read two ways: 1) foreshadowing and 2) lust. I chose the latter and said, “I’m a pretty good cook. I can carry some weight.”
“Not too much, I hope. I like to think I carry most of my own weight.” Even better.
“For those of you who’ve already made this dish, I think you’ll be surprised what a difference a little added spice and texture can do to the stuffing.” Alex was at her podium. We had talked right through her entire lecture and landed unpreparedly at “Let’s begin.”
“I think we’re on page two. That means we’re making stuffed peppers, asparagus with squash aioli and French endive salad,” I said.
“With added spices and texture,” he said.
“With added spices,” I concurred with a giggle.
“You want to take the asparagus, I’ll take the salad and we’ll do the peppers together?”
“Sounds good,” I said. He walked across the room to the communal refrigerator and retrieved the ingredients we would need. When he came back to the island he said, “I was worried about this class but it’s turning out to be really fun.”
“It is,” I confirmed. We shared a smirk. The kind that embodies more than our spare words had allowed; a knowingness. I broke contact and glanced around the room to check the progress of our classmates. “I see boiling water and chopped veggies going on. I’m pretty sure we’re on the right track,” I said.
“We better be. I’m trusting you to keep us on the straight and narrow. I wouldn’t want to head down a dangerous path on the first day of class. If the teacher hates me already it’ll be like high school all over again.”
“Were you a trouble maker in high school?”
“No but I was easily led.” He met my eyes before looking away and saying, “Beautiful women can do that to me.” I blushed immediately. Was he referring to me? Panic. What do I say? This was the part I was so bad at. Instead of letting a perfectly fun, sexy statement roll by like I deserved it, I inevitably retort with something cutting like don’t be juvenile or, “I don’t see any of those here.”
“Well I see two for sure.” I raised an eye to his face but refused to look entirely at him. “You,” he said matter of factly, then made a dramatic stretch to look around behind me and said, “And that red head over there.” My head swiveled, perhaps a beat too fast. She was akin to a ginger haired Gisele Bundchen. Her Amazonian display dwarfed my 5’5 frame and my freshly highlighted hair felt extra Sandy with a bit too much root next to her flowing red locks. Should I have put more make up on? Chloe, your insecurity is showing. Shut up. I slapped his shoulder. “She’s Oh-kay”.
“She’s hot.” He emphasized hot with such force you’d think he’d just picked up a pan at 400 degrees with no gloves on. In response, I chopped my onions with equal, if not more vehement, force. “She’s pretty,” I said flatly.
“Don’t feel threatened,” he grinned,” I said you were beautiful first.” Can the pleasure of successful flirtation even be described? The clashing banter of wit and sex resulting in high wave frequencies that take a regular evening from passive to frenzy, have not a name to aptly depict the hypnotic passion they inspire. Making matters more intense, he was gorgeous. I could practically heat this entire Philadelphia block with the spike in my pheromones. What the hell was wrong with me?
“Besides,” he said, “She came with someone. She’s taken. And you’re here with me.”
“Love the one your with? Gee thanks.”
“No. Love the one who’s beautiful AND single.” Single. Wait. I wasn’t single. No, I had Stanley. Shit. My pheromones had just been shot down with metaphoric Tommy guns made of dry humor and lead weight.
“I’m actually not single,” I said with less enthusiasm than any comment I’d made all night.
“Oh,” he said in that way men do where, unlike women, they can’t hide their disappointment behind buoyancy and with one word make clear their regret at the turning tide of events. “How come the lucky guy isn’t doing this too? You said you had a girlfriend coming to take the class with you.”
“His hairdresser didn’t tell him to,” I shot at him. My venom was well aimed. I regretted it the second I watched his head droop.
“Touché,” he said. I stopped my chopping and raised a hand to his shoulder, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for that to sound so mean.”
“No no. It’s true. I’m here alone because I was a lousy boyfriend.” He ripped his freshly washed lettuce and placed it in the bowl Alex assigned for everyone’s endive salad. “So how long you been with him?”
“Six years.” I paused. “But it hasn’t been going well for a while.” In general, I consider myself expert at deflection. But when I said this I couldn’t remove my own despondence. Why? Why did I just put that information out into the world? I hadn’t said that out loud….ever.
“I’m sorry to hear that.” He said it softly and I got the feeling he meant it much more than when I made the same reply to his break up. I shrugged and said nothing in response. “You going to do something about that?” I shrugged again. Speechless. I could not meet his eye. “Well, it doesn’t matter. I’ll be your cooking partner even with….what’s his name?”
“Stanley,” I said.
“Stanley,” he repeated, a half sigh accompanying the name. “I’ll be your cooking partner even though you have Stanley. We just can’t have sex now.” He laughed and right then, I knew. I didn’t want to have Stanley. I knew it like you know that someone is about to deliver bad news. I knew it like you know lightening is going to strike after an ear cracking slap of thunder. I didn’t love him. I was going to fall in love with the devilishly wonderful man before me and there was nothing I could do about it. Half truth. There was nothing I was going to do about it because he saw me – All the Way. And for the first time, in a long time, I felt the remembrance of the pieces of me I had so pragmatically instructed myself to view as superfluous and let go of.
When my two minute self-growth movie clip rolled by and my new Julia Robert’s self looked back at this moment, I would know that the core of relationship failure comes down to this: You cannot be in love with a person who doesn’t see you - doesn’t hear you even though they’re listening - doesn’t understand you even though you’ve explained yourself in detail. Toleration is a coping skill and, in excess, cannot happily be a replacement for love. Thus, my relationship was deteriorating long before the JCrew model chopped a pepper next to my abnormally heated body.
But I wouldn’t know all this until later, when a bittersweet parting that night sent me on a confused detour to the Barnes & Noble self-help section. “Get Some Manners”, a book I shyly plucked from the bookshelf and thrust under an InStyle magazine to discourage witnesses from believing I was the kind of woman who actually needed therapy, was the true beginning of the DLA. It cracked open the façade and gave me the strength to realize the life I wanted. All the Way is a small term for such a large definition. In the end, the petite phrase stands as a paradigm for truth, value and what’s real. But right then, all it really meant was my life was going to fall apart. You know that saying, it’ll get worse before it gets better? All The Way kind of works like that. A systematic destruction of a very strong Discount Life before the dawn of a solid rebuild. But when I left Christian that night, each of us turning the keys to our own cars, no infractions committed despite the yearning, all I was really thinking was that I was crazy. That I was alive and vibrant and tingling and absolutely, no holds bars – Crazy. And, that logic aside, next Thursday couldn’t come soon enough.
The minute hand finally hit 7pm and a sprite, tiny sprig of a woman walked in and closed the door behind her. You would hardly guess she ate at all, let alone cooked. She began to make her way to the front of the room where a giant island stood waiting as her podium. Her presence quieted my nerves- mystery man was still alone and he was smiling at me.
“Looks like we’re on our own.” His teeth were very white. I got nervous and squished my lips together into an awkward smile. Say something Chloe. Say something.
“Yeah.” Stupid.
“Good evening class. Welcome to Cooking to the Next Level. I’m Alex & I’ll be guiding you through eight classes of culinary fun.” She blathered on for a couple of minutes about what we could expect to learn in the coming classes. I focused my eyes on her but behind their trained gaze my brain was busy lamenting that my response to a gorgeous man’s one liner was “yeah”. And by the prolific commentary flowing from our teacher, it seemed it would be ages before I’d get the chance to redeem myself.
“We’re going to learn how to take your basic sautéing, stocks and sauces and turn them into practical but gourmet dishes….” He was facing forward and paying attention to Alex as she spoke. Was he actually, of his own accord, interested in this? I was impressed.
“We’re even this week, perfect,” Alex said. I glanced around. The number of people in the class, save my missing partner, was a perfect eight. “Let’s pair up.” She walked around the room and pointed at the people she was putting together. “You two together,” she said pointing to Mr. Handsome and me. Of course I loved Alex from the beginning. She was an excellent judge of pairing, which, I can only assume, is a skill that lends itself to cooking as well. And, just between you and me, I didn’t care if Mel never came to this class.
Mr. Handsome collected his things and came around to my island smiling. “Hi. I’m Christian.” He set his stuff down and offered a handshake. I took it. “Chloe.”
“Nice to meet you Chloe.” He surveyed the room. “I don’t come to these types of things often,” he said. “Well, not alone I mean. “ Damn. His supermarket wife is around here somewhere. I knew it.
“Me neither. I’m doing it with a friend but she couldn’t make it tonight.” He smiled and nodded his head amiably. Alex was explaining how the use of the room was going to work….we all have to be responsible for the condition of the room before we leave tonight… and much like the school of my younger years, I tuned out the minute she mentioned cleaning up. I leaned in to my partner and said quietly, “If you don’t really cook, why are you here?”
“I bought this as a gift for my girlfriend. We were gonna do it together but she bailed.”
“Aww. “ Lucky me. “She’ll come next week, I’m sure”, which I was positive of because my luck could only stretch so far.
“No. I mean we broke up.” And the bright shining light of happiness cast a spotlight on me once again. “But I figured I paid for the class, so I might as well come. You never know.”
“I’m so sorry.” Blatant lie. Of course his singleness elated me. “I’m impressed that you thought of this though. It was nice of you.”
“Don’t be. It was my hairdresser’s idea. She said it would show that I was creative and interested and putting in effort for together time. Sophia said it was a dollar short and a day too late.”
“Well, it might work out to be fun anyways.”
He smiled at me. “I think so.” I was vaguely aware of Alex, mid room, encouraging the class to open our recipes to the second page but I chose to let my focus detour on Christian’s pearly whites. His smile was not just beautiful because he was last year’s Jcrew model. It was beautiful because it was genuine. He was not just tolerating this discussion. He was enjoying it.
“I just want to warn you,” he whispered, leaning into me and looking intently at Alex, “ I’m knew to this. I may be a bad partner.” Stop. Here’s the thing: life has a way of giving you the answer long before you’re ready to acknowledge it. I read somewhere that your body can sense what is good and bad way before your brain actually reaches the same conclusion. You’re body heats up in response to that which it senses is going to result in a negative outcome. What a shame we don’t pay attention to our heat sensors. We could save ourselves a great deal of time. But heat can be read two ways: 1) foreshadowing and 2) lust. I chose the latter and said, “I’m a pretty good cook. I can carry some weight.”
“Not too much, I hope. I like to think I carry most of my own weight.” Even better.
“For those of you who’ve already made this dish, I think you’ll be surprised what a difference a little added spice and texture can do to the stuffing.” Alex was at her podium. We had talked right through her entire lecture and landed unpreparedly at “Let’s begin.”
“I think we’re on page two. That means we’re making stuffed peppers, asparagus with squash aioli and French endive salad,” I said.
“With added spices and texture,” he said.
“With added spices,” I concurred with a giggle.
“You want to take the asparagus, I’ll take the salad and we’ll do the peppers together?”
“Sounds good,” I said. He walked across the room to the communal refrigerator and retrieved the ingredients we would need. When he came back to the island he said, “I was worried about this class but it’s turning out to be really fun.”
“It is,” I confirmed. We shared a smirk. The kind that embodies more than our spare words had allowed; a knowingness. I broke contact and glanced around the room to check the progress of our classmates. “I see boiling water and chopped veggies going on. I’m pretty sure we’re on the right track,” I said.
“We better be. I’m trusting you to keep us on the straight and narrow. I wouldn’t want to head down a dangerous path on the first day of class. If the teacher hates me already it’ll be like high school all over again.”
“Were you a trouble maker in high school?”
“No but I was easily led.” He met my eyes before looking away and saying, “Beautiful women can do that to me.” I blushed immediately. Was he referring to me? Panic. What do I say? This was the part I was so bad at. Instead of letting a perfectly fun, sexy statement roll by like I deserved it, I inevitably retort with something cutting like don’t be juvenile or, “I don’t see any of those here.”
“Well I see two for sure.” I raised an eye to his face but refused to look entirely at him. “You,” he said matter of factly, then made a dramatic stretch to look around behind me and said, “And that red head over there.” My head swiveled, perhaps a beat too fast. She was akin to a ginger haired Gisele Bundchen. Her Amazonian display dwarfed my 5’5 frame and my freshly highlighted hair felt extra Sandy with a bit too much root next to her flowing red locks. Should I have put more make up on? Chloe, your insecurity is showing. Shut up. I slapped his shoulder. “She’s Oh-kay”.
“She’s hot.” He emphasized hot with such force you’d think he’d just picked up a pan at 400 degrees with no gloves on. In response, I chopped my onions with equal, if not more vehement, force. “She’s pretty,” I said flatly.
“Don’t feel threatened,” he grinned,” I said you were beautiful first.” Can the pleasure of successful flirtation even be described? The clashing banter of wit and sex resulting in high wave frequencies that take a regular evening from passive to frenzy, have not a name to aptly depict the hypnotic passion they inspire. Making matters more intense, he was gorgeous. I could practically heat this entire Philadelphia block with the spike in my pheromones. What the hell was wrong with me?
“Besides,” he said, “She came with someone. She’s taken. And you’re here with me.”
“Love the one your with? Gee thanks.”
“No. Love the one who’s beautiful AND single.” Single. Wait. I wasn’t single. No, I had Stanley. Shit. My pheromones had just been shot down with metaphoric Tommy guns made of dry humor and lead weight.
“I’m actually not single,” I said with less enthusiasm than any comment I’d made all night.
“Oh,” he said in that way men do where, unlike women, they can’t hide their disappointment behind buoyancy and with one word make clear their regret at the turning tide of events. “How come the lucky guy isn’t doing this too? You said you had a girlfriend coming to take the class with you.”
“His hairdresser didn’t tell him to,” I shot at him. My venom was well aimed. I regretted it the second I watched his head droop.
“Touché,” he said. I stopped my chopping and raised a hand to his shoulder, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for that to sound so mean.”
“No no. It’s true. I’m here alone because I was a lousy boyfriend.” He ripped his freshly washed lettuce and placed it in the bowl Alex assigned for everyone’s endive salad. “So how long you been with him?”
“Six years.” I paused. “But it hasn’t been going well for a while.” In general, I consider myself expert at deflection. But when I said this I couldn’t remove my own despondence. Why? Why did I just put that information out into the world? I hadn’t said that out loud….ever.
“I’m sorry to hear that.” He said it softly and I got the feeling he meant it much more than when I made the same reply to his break up. I shrugged and said nothing in response. “You going to do something about that?” I shrugged again. Speechless. I could not meet his eye. “Well, it doesn’t matter. I’ll be your cooking partner even with….what’s his name?”
“Stanley,” I said.
“Stanley,” he repeated, a half sigh accompanying the name. “I’ll be your cooking partner even though you have Stanley. We just can’t have sex now.” He laughed and right then, I knew. I didn’t want to have Stanley. I knew it like you know that someone is about to deliver bad news. I knew it like you know lightening is going to strike after an ear cracking slap of thunder. I didn’t love him. I was going to fall in love with the devilishly wonderful man before me and there was nothing I could do about it. Half truth. There was nothing I was going to do about it because he saw me – All the Way. And for the first time, in a long time, I felt the remembrance of the pieces of me I had so pragmatically instructed myself to view as superfluous and let go of.
When my two minute self-growth movie clip rolled by and my new Julia Robert’s self looked back at this moment, I would know that the core of relationship failure comes down to this: You cannot be in love with a person who doesn’t see you - doesn’t hear you even though they’re listening - doesn’t understand you even though you’ve explained yourself in detail. Toleration is a coping skill and, in excess, cannot happily be a replacement for love. Thus, my relationship was deteriorating long before the JCrew model chopped a pepper next to my abnormally heated body.
But I wouldn’t know all this until later, when a bittersweet parting that night sent me on a confused detour to the Barnes & Noble self-help section. “Get Some Manners”, a book I shyly plucked from the bookshelf and thrust under an InStyle magazine to discourage witnesses from believing I was the kind of woman who actually needed therapy, was the true beginning of the DLA. It cracked open the façade and gave me the strength to realize the life I wanted. All the Way is a small term for such a large definition. In the end, the petite phrase stands as a paradigm for truth, value and what’s real. But right then, all it really meant was my life was going to fall apart. You know that saying, it’ll get worse before it gets better? All The Way kind of works like that. A systematic destruction of a very strong Discount Life before the dawn of a solid rebuild. But when I left Christian that night, each of us turning the keys to our own cars, no infractions committed despite the yearning, all I was really thinking was that I was crazy. That I was alive and vibrant and tingling and absolutely, no holds bars – Crazy. And, that logic aside, next Thursday couldn’t come soon enough.
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
Mr. Mouse
There’s a mouse in my house
He’s a terrible louse
A varmint, a vagrant
A foe in my stead
He nibbles the trash bags and winds up my thread
Mr. Mouse, as he’s called,
Does not want a cookie
He likes peanut butter on sticks and dog food made sticky
‘Twas the night before Tuesday and lo’ and behold
The whole house was sleeping and Mr. Mouse felt quite bold
He skittered, he scampered
He dove from nook to nook
He stole from the tea jar
A regular crook
To scare and confuse you, he comes from the cupboard
But the piano’s his home
His safe Mother Hubbard
When his belly is full, thick with sugar and sweets
He gather’s his scraps and heads back to the keys
He thinks I don’t notice the tiny marks he’s left
But the C and the E keys have paw prints like clefts
I beg you, BE GONE!, Mr. Mouse from my house
You’re frightening, you’re furry
You give cause for shouts!
You wake me at night from the pleasantest dreams
You lurk in the shadows and bite all my things
This cannot go on, we cannot be friends
If you stay, I declare, my sanity won’t mend
Please listen, please see, curl up somewhere else
The world is quite open, a big pot that melts
Mr. Mouse, leave my house
It’s my one solemn plea
Best wishes , bon voyage
And please, leave the key.
He’s a terrible louse
A varmint, a vagrant
A foe in my stead
He nibbles the trash bags and winds up my thread
Mr. Mouse, as he’s called,
Does not want a cookie
He likes peanut butter on sticks and dog food made sticky
‘Twas the night before Tuesday and lo’ and behold
The whole house was sleeping and Mr. Mouse felt quite bold
He skittered, he scampered
He dove from nook to nook
He stole from the tea jar
A regular crook
To scare and confuse you, he comes from the cupboard
But the piano’s his home
His safe Mother Hubbard
When his belly is full, thick with sugar and sweets
He gather’s his scraps and heads back to the keys
He thinks I don’t notice the tiny marks he’s left
But the C and the E keys have paw prints like clefts
I beg you, BE GONE!, Mr. Mouse from my house
You’re frightening, you’re furry
You give cause for shouts!
You wake me at night from the pleasantest dreams
You lurk in the shadows and bite all my things
This cannot go on, we cannot be friends
If you stay, I declare, my sanity won’t mend
Please listen, please see, curl up somewhere else
The world is quite open, a big pot that melts
Mr. Mouse, leave my house
It’s my one solemn plea
Best wishes , bon voyage
And please, leave the key.
The Discount Life: Step Three (cont'd)
On Wednesday night the weather was officially cool. The whole of the house carried a nip that sent me running for my coziest sweater. Outside, people burned fireplaces and the air smelled of pastimes and cinder. I left the kitchen window open, the chill grazing my skin, a reminder that my favorite season was here. In the spirit of the DLA I was planning a meal to rival my fondest memories: chilly fall evenings, opening the front door to a warm home, the smells of something delicious wafting up to greet your nose. I’d kill two birds with one stone: I’d be working on Step #3 and Stanley would be pleased to come home to something warm and wafting. After a half hour of carefully combing the myriad cookbooks that typically went unopened on my shelves (when you make the same dishes over and over there’s hardly a need for cookbooks) I settled on Chicken Pot Pie. I was even going to make the crusts. A real chef would; Judy would never rely on Pillsbury for her masterpiece. Besides, like tomatoes, vegetables and chocolate chip cookies, food was better when it was fresh and not stored, shipped and packaged for consumption thousands of miles away.
It was 5:30 when I spread my ingredients out on the counter, placing the glass and silver bowls next to their corresponding counterparts, and stood back to admire my pre-cooking display. Martha Stewart, move over. I applauded my own organized, artfully displayed cooking preparations. Judy herself probably couldn’t lay it out better. The recipe said the pie took 35 minutes to prepare but a half hour into the pie crust making – I had the feeling they lied. What they should have said was 35 minutes to prepare- post dough. I timed it all perfectly for 35 minutes: the chicken was boiling in the pot, the gravy and vegetables sautéed and simmering in the dutch oven. The pie dish was glazed, floured and ready for assembly. But the damned pie crust was crumbling under my fingers and the rolling pin kept smooshing it into the counter top. Southern Living said “spread a thin layer of flour on the area in which you plan to roll your dough”. A thin layer? What a crock. I had used a half a bag at least to roll two pies and my organized Martha Stewart kitchen, previously of magazine quality, was now covered in flour and gravy, the spoon handles dripping on everything beneath us as we danced from pot to pot. I tried not to care. I was having fun. So what if the chicken was drained, ready and getting cold and the gravy was solidifying into a pudding-y layer at the top? I had made pie crust, hadn’t I? It was messy but it was all the way.
It was 6:30 when Stanley opened the front door and said, “Mmmmm, what’s that smell?” He sounded pleased and I was surprised to feel my heart leap with a modicum joy in response to his preemptive praise. My dreams of greeting him at the door with a short glass of brandy, a pie in the oven and a spotlessly cleaned kitchen were dashed but June Cleaver put too much pressure on us anyway. I had still managed to make a delicious, home cooked meal and Stanley wouldn’t know the difference.
I was placing the pie dough in the plate when he came in to pour himself his brandy. “Smells great. What are you making?”
“The Ultimate Southern Chicken Pot Pie.” I smiled. “That’s what the recipe calls it. I think I’m going to call it my Discount Life pie.”
“What?” He kissed me, a graze across the cheek, closed lipped and fast, then took a drink of the brandy in his hand.
“My Discount Life pie.” He looked at me quizzically. “Remember the violin? The running? My theory?”
“I don’t think you fully explained a theory to me. You just said you wanted to play the violin.” Half truth. That was not the whole of our violin conversation but I chose not to harp on the issue. I hadn’t fully explained the theory, he was right.
“Well its all part of this theory I’ve developed. The Discount Life. Selling yourself short because its easier. Not having goals or not working on them because you’ve already accepted to less. So learning to cook is a goal too and I’m making a pot pie from scratch. A whole pie, not a half assed pie. Maybe that’s what I’ll call it – Not a Half Assed Chicken Pot Pie.”
He nodded his head and said, “Can’t wait.” He walked over to the stove and stirred the gravy pot. “This stuff’s been ready for a while, huh?” His toned was raised, it sounded light and not exceptionally accusatory but it didn’t seem to matter. My brain registered first, his disapproval, and second the tonality of his statement. I instructed myself to let it go and respond lightly.
“Yeah. I got the timing off. That’s part of my “Learn to Cook Better process: Get. Timing. Right.” I took the gravy spoon from his hand, picked up the pot and emptied it into the dutch oven, stirring until the innards of my glorious pot pie emerged.
“This better be good. You’ve ruined your sweater for it.” I looked down. He was right. My chocolate brown wrap around was covered in white flour.
“It will be,” I said, ladling the pot pie mixture into the pie plate and covering it with a second layer of pie dough. “All that matters is that it tastes good.”
“Of course it’ll taste good. You cook fine.”
“I want to get better though, you know? Not just fine. But really good. And try something new. I like the challenge.” He was quiet as he observed the counter from left to right. I calculated the cynicism on his face. If the mess I had made of this kitchen was indicative of the cooking challenges expected ahead, his face said he wasn’t certain it would last long. “I signed up for a cooking class at Philly Cooks. It’s downtown. I signed you up too. Thought we could do it together.” I put the pie in the oven and set the timer for thirty minutes.
“Downtown is kind of far from my work.” Isn’t it funny how a small statement, timed just right, can mean nothing at all or the difference between happiness and heartbreak?
“Well, it doesn’t start until 7. You’re off at 6. You could make it.”
“It’ll be tight.” He sipped his brandy.
“It’s only one night a week.” He sipped again.
“What kind of cooking class is it? Like a couples class?”
“No but I thought if we did it together it kind of would be.” Noose. Neck. Pull. Come on Stanley, get on board with this. "It’s called “Cooking to the Next Level: From Beginner to Intermediate.”
“I don’t know that I can even cook beginner.”
“But I can. I could help you.” He was pensive for a moment, his mouth pursing. The tiny leap I’d felt when he’d walked through the door earlier had evaporated, reflexively, to his indirect aversion to my idea. The homeless man was right. Stanley didn’t want to cook. That was my thing. I was pushing him and that wasn’t fair. “I mean, you don’t have to do it. It was just an idea. I could easily go by myself and we could do something else.” I put the pot and utensils in the sink to soak and began wiping the counters and stove. Stanley stood on the opposite side of the kitchen table, arms folded across his chest save his brandy hand. He was stoically processing my offer. I waited. He took a little longer than necessary.
“Really, its not a big deal to cancel your registration. I should have talked to you about it before I made the plans anyway. I can go myself.”
“I just don’t really care about cooking like you.” I nodded, holding my gaze steady. Clearly, wiping flour from every surface in my kitchen required an intense, unbroken stare. I wanted to say but I care and you should care that I care. But I didn’t want to have to explain how love works, so I scrubbed the counter and said, “I understand.”
“We could do something else. I’ll look into something,” he said. His smile was so big his optimism almost masked his guilt.
“Okay, ” I said, tossing the rag in the sink. The kitchen was clean, the pots were soaking and the pie was rising beautifully.
“Okay. Perfect.” Perfect, I thought silently, but if you’d heard it out loud you’d have thought I intended to maim him. He walked over and patted my shoulder again, pecked my cheek and said, “I can’t wait to taste this Discount Life pot pie.” He emphasized the Discount Life as if it were funny. “When’s it going to be ready?”
“Dinner will be ready in 20 minutes,” I said, backing away from him. “I’m going to go change my clothes. You’re right – I made a mess of my sweater.”
“We’ll have to get you an apron.” I winked my eye and pointed a finger at him. “We’ll have to do that. Smart thinking.” He smiled, pleased with himself, and I went upstairs to change.
“So did it taste good?” asked Mel. I called her immediately following dinner. It was never actually said that I needed chat therapy but her careful inquisitiveness suggested she understood it inherently.
“Yeah. It did. But you know? Pillsbury dough tastes good too and it’s a lot less work.”
“But you did it. That’s all that matters.”
“True. I did it. And I’m proud of myself. I just might choose to make my discount life pie with Pillsbury next time.” She laughed. “And that’s not Discount Life behavior because now that I’ve done the real thing I know, in this case, I’m satisfied with less.”
She laughed again. “Did it inspire Stanley? Is he excited about your cooking class?”
“Uh – No. No, he decided he would rather do something else together.”
She said, “Oh”, in that way that women do where the one word expresses all of surprise, judgment and pity simultaneously. “What did he suggest?”
“Nothing yet. He said he’d look into something.”
“Has he looked into Ireland yet?”
“No but its only been a couple of months and Ireland is different. It’s a big deal and we don’t really have the money. This will be easier.” I wanted to add, I hope but didn’t.
“Of course. Yeah. Hey, maybe he’ll make a big night of it – go all out. Take you to the symphony, a gourmet dinner…the works.”
“That would be fantastic. You should tell him,” I giggled. “We haven’t done that in a while.”
“Jack did that for me last week...”. I listened to her story about how Jack took her to a lecture of her favorite author, Joyce Carol Oates. Mel was a literary enthusiast and Jack, quite the opposite. But he saw a poster advertising the author’s coming on his bulletin board at work. Afterward he took her for a quiet dinner, not the most expensive of restaurants but one that someone told him had the best Lemon Meringue Pie. Mel’s favorite dessert. I felt a pang that might have been considered jealousy if it wasn’t being applied to my best friend. I could never be ugly envious of Mel but I could admit to wanting what she had in her relationship. “It was simple, I know but I really had a good time.”
“I’m so glad. That was thoughtful of Jack.”
“He wins a few points every now and then,” she said wryly. It was meant as a joke but if you listened carefully you could hear satisfaction in her voice. No underlying statements masked by clever words or put on exuberance. She was content.
“So hey, not to change the subject, but I’m going to. I told Stanley I could get the registration for his portion of the cooking class back but I can’t. I just didn’t want to make him feel bad. So I have this extra spot. You wouldn’t want to do it, would you?”
“What night is it?”
“Thursday nights at 7. It’s downtown.”
“Yeah, that would be great. I’d love to. Jack will be so happy I’m learning to cook something else besides spaghetti.”
“Are you sure? Don’t feel obligated. I know its kind of far away from your house.” I myself, felt obligated to say this since Stanley had made the very point an issue earlier.
“Don’t be silly. I don’t mind driving to do something fun. It’ll be great. When does it start?”
“Tomorrow.”
“Oooo, no can do tomorrow. I have plans I can’t get out of. Next week though?”
“Sure. And I’m meeting that homeless guy on Sunday, if he shows up. My first Discount Life Anonymous meeting.”
“Can I come? I want to meet the homeless man. “
“His name is Tucker and absolutely. I don’t know what we’ll talk about but you can come, certainly.”
“You could talk about your pie dough lesson,” she said brightly. “ How you discovered that discount life is different for different people. Pillsbury’s fine for you but not Judy…” she trailed off.
“We’ll see,” I said. “See you Sunday.” We finished the conversation with the usual goodbyes. When I hung up the phone Stanley called up the stairs, "Who's that?"
"It was Mel," I answered. "She's going to take the cooking class with me."
"Perfect," he said. Perfect, I thought again.
Oh My God. This just in: he’s gorgeous. There is a man sitting at the island in front of me and he’s tall, dark and handsome...(* stay tuned for the next enstallment: Chloe meets Mr. Handsome & Tucker brings a friend...)
It was 5:30 when I spread my ingredients out on the counter, placing the glass and silver bowls next to their corresponding counterparts, and stood back to admire my pre-cooking display. Martha Stewart, move over. I applauded my own organized, artfully displayed cooking preparations. Judy herself probably couldn’t lay it out better. The recipe said the pie took 35 minutes to prepare but a half hour into the pie crust making – I had the feeling they lied. What they should have said was 35 minutes to prepare- post dough. I timed it all perfectly for 35 minutes: the chicken was boiling in the pot, the gravy and vegetables sautéed and simmering in the dutch oven. The pie dish was glazed, floured and ready for assembly. But the damned pie crust was crumbling under my fingers and the rolling pin kept smooshing it into the counter top. Southern Living said “spread a thin layer of flour on the area in which you plan to roll your dough”. A thin layer? What a crock. I had used a half a bag at least to roll two pies and my organized Martha Stewart kitchen, previously of magazine quality, was now covered in flour and gravy, the spoon handles dripping on everything beneath us as we danced from pot to pot. I tried not to care. I was having fun. So what if the chicken was drained, ready and getting cold and the gravy was solidifying into a pudding-y layer at the top? I had made pie crust, hadn’t I? It was messy but it was all the way.
It was 6:30 when Stanley opened the front door and said, “Mmmmm, what’s that smell?” He sounded pleased and I was surprised to feel my heart leap with a modicum joy in response to his preemptive praise. My dreams of greeting him at the door with a short glass of brandy, a pie in the oven and a spotlessly cleaned kitchen were dashed but June Cleaver put too much pressure on us anyway. I had still managed to make a delicious, home cooked meal and Stanley wouldn’t know the difference.
I was placing the pie dough in the plate when he came in to pour himself his brandy. “Smells great. What are you making?”
“The Ultimate Southern Chicken Pot Pie.” I smiled. “That’s what the recipe calls it. I think I’m going to call it my Discount Life pie.”
“What?” He kissed me, a graze across the cheek, closed lipped and fast, then took a drink of the brandy in his hand.
“My Discount Life pie.” He looked at me quizzically. “Remember the violin? The running? My theory?”
“I don’t think you fully explained a theory to me. You just said you wanted to play the violin.” Half truth. That was not the whole of our violin conversation but I chose not to harp on the issue. I hadn’t fully explained the theory, he was right.
“Well its all part of this theory I’ve developed. The Discount Life. Selling yourself short because its easier. Not having goals or not working on them because you’ve already accepted to less. So learning to cook is a goal too and I’m making a pot pie from scratch. A whole pie, not a half assed pie. Maybe that’s what I’ll call it – Not a Half Assed Chicken Pot Pie.”
He nodded his head and said, “Can’t wait.” He walked over to the stove and stirred the gravy pot. “This stuff’s been ready for a while, huh?” His toned was raised, it sounded light and not exceptionally accusatory but it didn’t seem to matter. My brain registered first, his disapproval, and second the tonality of his statement. I instructed myself to let it go and respond lightly.
“Yeah. I got the timing off. That’s part of my “Learn to Cook Better process: Get. Timing. Right.” I took the gravy spoon from his hand, picked up the pot and emptied it into the dutch oven, stirring until the innards of my glorious pot pie emerged.
“This better be good. You’ve ruined your sweater for it.” I looked down. He was right. My chocolate brown wrap around was covered in white flour.
“It will be,” I said, ladling the pot pie mixture into the pie plate and covering it with a second layer of pie dough. “All that matters is that it tastes good.”
“Of course it’ll taste good. You cook fine.”
“I want to get better though, you know? Not just fine. But really good. And try something new. I like the challenge.” He was quiet as he observed the counter from left to right. I calculated the cynicism on his face. If the mess I had made of this kitchen was indicative of the cooking challenges expected ahead, his face said he wasn’t certain it would last long. “I signed up for a cooking class at Philly Cooks. It’s downtown. I signed you up too. Thought we could do it together.” I put the pie in the oven and set the timer for thirty minutes.
“Downtown is kind of far from my work.” Isn’t it funny how a small statement, timed just right, can mean nothing at all or the difference between happiness and heartbreak?
“Well, it doesn’t start until 7. You’re off at 6. You could make it.”
“It’ll be tight.” He sipped his brandy.
“It’s only one night a week.” He sipped again.
“What kind of cooking class is it? Like a couples class?”
“No but I thought if we did it together it kind of would be.” Noose. Neck. Pull. Come on Stanley, get on board with this. "It’s called “Cooking to the Next Level: From Beginner to Intermediate.”
“I don’t know that I can even cook beginner.”
“But I can. I could help you.” He was pensive for a moment, his mouth pursing. The tiny leap I’d felt when he’d walked through the door earlier had evaporated, reflexively, to his indirect aversion to my idea. The homeless man was right. Stanley didn’t want to cook. That was my thing. I was pushing him and that wasn’t fair. “I mean, you don’t have to do it. It was just an idea. I could easily go by myself and we could do something else.” I put the pot and utensils in the sink to soak and began wiping the counters and stove. Stanley stood on the opposite side of the kitchen table, arms folded across his chest save his brandy hand. He was stoically processing my offer. I waited. He took a little longer than necessary.
“Really, its not a big deal to cancel your registration. I should have talked to you about it before I made the plans anyway. I can go myself.”
“I just don’t really care about cooking like you.” I nodded, holding my gaze steady. Clearly, wiping flour from every surface in my kitchen required an intense, unbroken stare. I wanted to say but I care and you should care that I care. But I didn’t want to have to explain how love works, so I scrubbed the counter and said, “I understand.”
“We could do something else. I’ll look into something,” he said. His smile was so big his optimism almost masked his guilt.
“Okay, ” I said, tossing the rag in the sink. The kitchen was clean, the pots were soaking and the pie was rising beautifully.
“Okay. Perfect.” Perfect, I thought silently, but if you’d heard it out loud you’d have thought I intended to maim him. He walked over and patted my shoulder again, pecked my cheek and said, “I can’t wait to taste this Discount Life pot pie.” He emphasized the Discount Life as if it were funny. “When’s it going to be ready?”
“Dinner will be ready in 20 minutes,” I said, backing away from him. “I’m going to go change my clothes. You’re right – I made a mess of my sweater.”
“We’ll have to get you an apron.” I winked my eye and pointed a finger at him. “We’ll have to do that. Smart thinking.” He smiled, pleased with himself, and I went upstairs to change.
“So did it taste good?” asked Mel. I called her immediately following dinner. It was never actually said that I needed chat therapy but her careful inquisitiveness suggested she understood it inherently.
“Yeah. It did. But you know? Pillsbury dough tastes good too and it’s a lot less work.”
“But you did it. That’s all that matters.”
“True. I did it. And I’m proud of myself. I just might choose to make my discount life pie with Pillsbury next time.” She laughed. “And that’s not Discount Life behavior because now that I’ve done the real thing I know, in this case, I’m satisfied with less.”
She laughed again. “Did it inspire Stanley? Is he excited about your cooking class?”
“Uh – No. No, he decided he would rather do something else together.”
She said, “Oh”, in that way that women do where the one word expresses all of surprise, judgment and pity simultaneously. “What did he suggest?”
“Nothing yet. He said he’d look into something.”
“Has he looked into Ireland yet?”
“No but its only been a couple of months and Ireland is different. It’s a big deal and we don’t really have the money. This will be easier.” I wanted to add, I hope but didn’t.
“Of course. Yeah. Hey, maybe he’ll make a big night of it – go all out. Take you to the symphony, a gourmet dinner…the works.”
“That would be fantastic. You should tell him,” I giggled. “We haven’t done that in a while.”
“Jack did that for me last week...”. I listened to her story about how Jack took her to a lecture of her favorite author, Joyce Carol Oates. Mel was a literary enthusiast and Jack, quite the opposite. But he saw a poster advertising the author’s coming on his bulletin board at work. Afterward he took her for a quiet dinner, not the most expensive of restaurants but one that someone told him had the best Lemon Meringue Pie. Mel’s favorite dessert. I felt a pang that might have been considered jealousy if it wasn’t being applied to my best friend. I could never be ugly envious of Mel but I could admit to wanting what she had in her relationship. “It was simple, I know but I really had a good time.”
“I’m so glad. That was thoughtful of Jack.”
“He wins a few points every now and then,” she said wryly. It was meant as a joke but if you listened carefully you could hear satisfaction in her voice. No underlying statements masked by clever words or put on exuberance. She was content.
“So hey, not to change the subject, but I’m going to. I told Stanley I could get the registration for his portion of the cooking class back but I can’t. I just didn’t want to make him feel bad. So I have this extra spot. You wouldn’t want to do it, would you?”
“What night is it?”
“Thursday nights at 7. It’s downtown.”
“Yeah, that would be great. I’d love to. Jack will be so happy I’m learning to cook something else besides spaghetti.”
“Are you sure? Don’t feel obligated. I know its kind of far away from your house.” I myself, felt obligated to say this since Stanley had made the very point an issue earlier.
“Don’t be silly. I don’t mind driving to do something fun. It’ll be great. When does it start?”
“Tomorrow.”
“Oooo, no can do tomorrow. I have plans I can’t get out of. Next week though?”
“Sure. And I’m meeting that homeless guy on Sunday, if he shows up. My first Discount Life Anonymous meeting.”
“Can I come? I want to meet the homeless man. “
“His name is Tucker and absolutely. I don’t know what we’ll talk about but you can come, certainly.”
“You could talk about your pie dough lesson,” she said brightly. “ How you discovered that discount life is different for different people. Pillsbury’s fine for you but not Judy…” she trailed off.
“We’ll see,” I said. “See you Sunday.” We finished the conversation with the usual goodbyes. When I hung up the phone Stanley called up the stairs, "Who's that?"
"It was Mel," I answered. "She's going to take the cooking class with me."
"Perfect," he said. Perfect, I thought again.
Oh My God. This just in: he’s gorgeous. There is a man sitting at the island in front of me and he’s tall, dark and handsome...(* stay tuned for the next enstallment: Chloe meets Mr. Handsome & Tucker brings a friend...)
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
The Discount Life: Step Three Cont'd
Two days later I got out the running shoes. You know, the ones meant for that marathon I saved them for, and decided to take a run. Given that my previous running experience was limited to that Lowman’s sale to beat an ugly woman trying to steal my Cindy Crawford heels…I told you about those…amazing, I decided to start out small. Three miles. Nothing I couldn’t handle. The girl on the cover of Runner’s World does three miles in her sleep. If nothing else, I have made a job out of doing everything girls in magazines do. This would be easy.
Six blocks later. Running was not easy. I stopped, bent over, heaving like I’d just run an hour for my life. I checked my watch. You have got to be kidding me. It had only been five minutes. Five. Was the Runner’s World girl on crack? I had to do better than that. Otherwise owning the shoes was a complete disgrace. I jogged for 10 more minutes (I may have stopped for a breather once or twice but the same people weren’t around so it didn’t matter) and then copped a squat on a bench in front of the courthouse steps. Rocky had climbed those steps in victory. I was passively inclined to sit and stare at them.
“You thinking about Rocky?” asked a scruffy looking man at the opposite end of the bench.
“Doesn’t everyone who sits here?”
“Most folks try to run them. So they can say they done it.” His coat was reminiscent of army green but appeared brown from caked dirt. His beard was long and grey. His eyes were rimmed and heavy.
“I’ll never be Rocky. So no need to run the steps. And that would be cheesy.”
“A little bit of cheesy is sometimes good, right? Reminds you to have fun.” He smiled. He was missing a tooth on the bottom left of his mouth. He scooted down toward me and held out his hand, “Tucker Whitfield. Nice to meet you.” He had on those gloves without finger tips even though the weather was just starting to cool. “Chloe. Nice to meet you too.” I couldn’t help but flinch a little when I accepted his grasp.
“You run often?”
“First day. See how I’m sitting on this bench? I’m dying out there.”
“You’ll get better. Just keep on it. You’ll be running one of those marathons before you know it.”
I smiled. “It’s a goal.” A someday goal by the looks of it.
“Goals are good. I had goals once,” he ran his hand up and down the outline of his body like Vanna White gestures to the lit up letters on Wheel of Fortune,” its pretty easy to put them aside. Don’t do it.” He was homeless, I guessed. I had never really talked with a homeless person short of do you have change and my saying only a dollar, which is a complete lie but, I suppose, a dollar was all they were worth to me.
“What happened to your goals?” I asked.
“I’m an alcoholic.” I chuckled. A completely inappropriate response brought on my truth and nerves. He laughed back and said, “You laughing because it’s funny or because its true?”
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be laughing. It’s just that you always hear that homeless people aren’t necessarily homeless because they have a drinking problem. That they… fell on hard times and all that. And here you are saying your homeless because you’re an alcoholic. I just find it comical.”
“I never said I was homeless.” My heart stopped in my chest. Oh God. He was right. He never had.
“I, I…uh…well,”. It would be great if the cement in front of me would morph into a black abyss and come to swallow me whole, saving me from my entitled, assuming blunder. God if life could be that easy.
“I’m just putting you on the spot. Of course I’m homeless. Look at me.” He laughed again and I smiled cautiously. “I’m a drunk and it ruined my life and now I’m homeless. That’s all.”
“What did you do before you were …homeless?” I made being homeless sound like an occupation. Like a choice rather than an unfortunate. The whole of the conversation so far felt like a B movie where every line out of my mouth drove me farther and farther into disgrace.
“Nothing great. I worked in music stores. Sold pianos, drums, guitars. Played some myself. A few night bars. Then the drinking got the better of me.” He paused. “How about you? What do you do?”
“I’m a violinist.” The white lie danced on my tongue like the after taste of sugar. It was saccharine and delicious. I was a violinist but that was a half truth. I couldn’t leave it like that. The Discount Life wouldn’t permit it. “I’m a violinist but right now I work as a receptionist for the Philadelphia Orchestra.”
“Sticking around music. That’s good.”
“I’ve got this theory that says it’s not all that good.”
“I’m all ears.”
“It’s called the Discount Life,” I stopped. Why would I subject a man with obvious extensive troubles to my minor under achieving life gripes? “It’s not that great, I don’t know why I brought it up.”
“Just tell me and let me decide if it’s great or not.” I hesitated and then I told him. “My friend sees it like a twelve step program. He calls it the Discount Life Anonymous. Says I should start an organization.”
“I’d join. Sounds like it could be a real experience. Might be fun.” He smiled and the vacancy from his missing tooth glared at me. The old Chloe would never have shaken hands with a man as dirty as this but the new Chloe found something endearing in him. He was listening to me.
“Well so far I’ve given up ten very good pairs of shoes, played a very sloppy violin and almost died on my first day’s run. The fun hasn’t exactly started yet. But it’s an interesting challenge.”
“I think it’s good of you for thinking outside your box. What step are you on?”
“Step three: Work on Goals.”
“What’s step four?”
“I don’t know. I’m kind of making them up as I go along.”
“Want some company?” It was odd but I felt a strange kinship to this man. It wasn’t just that we occupied the same bench but that somehow, despite our separate worldly paths, life had derailed us, sending us here, at this moment, to the very same place, on the common ground of giving ourselves the short end of the stick. Two souls united by a bench and the ubiquitous Discount life.
“Sure,” I said. “I’d love some.”
“Okay. So what’s step one?”
“Clear out your life.”
“Done,” he laughed. “I’ve got nothing.”
“You don’t have a cart somewhere?” I slapped his shoulder playfully and hoped he’d take it as a joke.
“No cart. I have a box over on 10th street but I’m perfectly happy to give that up. It’s got nothing but rags and dirty magazines in it.” I glanced at him with raised eyebrows. “Awww come on. Homeless men have needs too!” He threw his hands up in the air. “What’s the second step?”
“Create goals. And the third is, of course, get to work on goals.”
“Ok. So what did you do?”
“What do you mean?”
“Step One, step two. What happened?”
“I cleared out my life. Twice. The first time I wasn’t being very honest with myself, which is classic Discount Life behavior. The second time I cleared out my closet and got rid of all the stuff I’d felt attached too that wasn’t really helping me be who I want to be. Stanley says it doesn’t look any different but I see a difference.”
“Who’s Stanley?”
“My partner. We’ve been together for six years. We live together.”
“Well girls do tend to have too much stuff.”
“I did. I did. But I got honest and got rid of a lot. And then I wrote down my goals. Well, Andrew helped me write them actually and now I’m working on them,” I said cheerily. “I played the violin, I took a run, I signed us up for a cooking class –“
“Who’s us?” he cut me off.
“Me and Stanley.”
“Oh. I wasn’t sure if you meant you and Stanley or you and Andrew.”
“No. No. Me and Stanley. His idea of cooking is to open a box of Hamburger Helper. The cooking class should be good for both of us.”
“But learning to cook sounds like your goal.”
“Right…” I said it like a question, drawn out so as to express so what?
“I’m just saying….”he trailed off. “But I’m sure you know him well enough to know.”
His insight struck me like a fist. I knew my goals but what were Stanley’s? I shook it off. “Guess I’ll have to ask him for his goals.”
“And me for mine. I’ve got some thinking to do. When should we meet again?” He really wanted to do this with me. I was touched and, if I let myself think it, amazed by the power of humanity. The sameness that we all carried within our differences.
“How about next Sunday morning?” I said. A week from today if he decided to show.
“Done deal.”
“Alright then. It’s a DL date.” I stood up, preparing myself for departure and proffered a hand shake.
“Looking forward to it.” He shook my hand and pointed to the stairs. “You gonna run ‘em?”
“Not today. We’ll make it a someday goal.” I smirked at my own Judy-ism.
He laughed. “Okay. See you Sunday.” I jogged off in perfect formation until I rounded the corner of 1st street and knew I was out of his sightline. Baby steps, right? I walked the rest of the way home.
Six blocks later. Running was not easy. I stopped, bent over, heaving like I’d just run an hour for my life. I checked my watch. You have got to be kidding me. It had only been five minutes. Five. Was the Runner’s World girl on crack? I had to do better than that. Otherwise owning the shoes was a complete disgrace. I jogged for 10 more minutes (I may have stopped for a breather once or twice but the same people weren’t around so it didn’t matter) and then copped a squat on a bench in front of the courthouse steps. Rocky had climbed those steps in victory. I was passively inclined to sit and stare at them.
“You thinking about Rocky?” asked a scruffy looking man at the opposite end of the bench.
“Doesn’t everyone who sits here?”
“Most folks try to run them. So they can say they done it.” His coat was reminiscent of army green but appeared brown from caked dirt. His beard was long and grey. His eyes were rimmed and heavy.
“I’ll never be Rocky. So no need to run the steps. And that would be cheesy.”
“A little bit of cheesy is sometimes good, right? Reminds you to have fun.” He smiled. He was missing a tooth on the bottom left of his mouth. He scooted down toward me and held out his hand, “Tucker Whitfield. Nice to meet you.” He had on those gloves without finger tips even though the weather was just starting to cool. “Chloe. Nice to meet you too.” I couldn’t help but flinch a little when I accepted his grasp.
“You run often?”
“First day. See how I’m sitting on this bench? I’m dying out there.”
“You’ll get better. Just keep on it. You’ll be running one of those marathons before you know it.”
I smiled. “It’s a goal.” A someday goal by the looks of it.
“Goals are good. I had goals once,” he ran his hand up and down the outline of his body like Vanna White gestures to the lit up letters on Wheel of Fortune,” its pretty easy to put them aside. Don’t do it.” He was homeless, I guessed. I had never really talked with a homeless person short of do you have change and my saying only a dollar, which is a complete lie but, I suppose, a dollar was all they were worth to me.
“What happened to your goals?” I asked.
“I’m an alcoholic.” I chuckled. A completely inappropriate response brought on my truth and nerves. He laughed back and said, “You laughing because it’s funny or because its true?”
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be laughing. It’s just that you always hear that homeless people aren’t necessarily homeless because they have a drinking problem. That they… fell on hard times and all that. And here you are saying your homeless because you’re an alcoholic. I just find it comical.”
“I never said I was homeless.” My heart stopped in my chest. Oh God. He was right. He never had.
“I, I…uh…well,”. It would be great if the cement in front of me would morph into a black abyss and come to swallow me whole, saving me from my entitled, assuming blunder. God if life could be that easy.
“I’m just putting you on the spot. Of course I’m homeless. Look at me.” He laughed again and I smiled cautiously. “I’m a drunk and it ruined my life and now I’m homeless. That’s all.”
“What did you do before you were …homeless?” I made being homeless sound like an occupation. Like a choice rather than an unfortunate. The whole of the conversation so far felt like a B movie where every line out of my mouth drove me farther and farther into disgrace.
“Nothing great. I worked in music stores. Sold pianos, drums, guitars. Played some myself. A few night bars. Then the drinking got the better of me.” He paused. “How about you? What do you do?”
“I’m a violinist.” The white lie danced on my tongue like the after taste of sugar. It was saccharine and delicious. I was a violinist but that was a half truth. I couldn’t leave it like that. The Discount Life wouldn’t permit it. “I’m a violinist but right now I work as a receptionist for the Philadelphia Orchestra.”
“Sticking around music. That’s good.”
“I’ve got this theory that says it’s not all that good.”
“I’m all ears.”
“It’s called the Discount Life,” I stopped. Why would I subject a man with obvious extensive troubles to my minor under achieving life gripes? “It’s not that great, I don’t know why I brought it up.”
“Just tell me and let me decide if it’s great or not.” I hesitated and then I told him. “My friend sees it like a twelve step program. He calls it the Discount Life Anonymous. Says I should start an organization.”
“I’d join. Sounds like it could be a real experience. Might be fun.” He smiled and the vacancy from his missing tooth glared at me. The old Chloe would never have shaken hands with a man as dirty as this but the new Chloe found something endearing in him. He was listening to me.
“Well so far I’ve given up ten very good pairs of shoes, played a very sloppy violin and almost died on my first day’s run. The fun hasn’t exactly started yet. But it’s an interesting challenge.”
“I think it’s good of you for thinking outside your box. What step are you on?”
“Step three: Work on Goals.”
“What’s step four?”
“I don’t know. I’m kind of making them up as I go along.”
“Want some company?” It was odd but I felt a strange kinship to this man. It wasn’t just that we occupied the same bench but that somehow, despite our separate worldly paths, life had derailed us, sending us here, at this moment, to the very same place, on the common ground of giving ourselves the short end of the stick. Two souls united by a bench and the ubiquitous Discount life.
“Sure,” I said. “I’d love some.”
“Okay. So what’s step one?”
“Clear out your life.”
“Done,” he laughed. “I’ve got nothing.”
“You don’t have a cart somewhere?” I slapped his shoulder playfully and hoped he’d take it as a joke.
“No cart. I have a box over on 10th street but I’m perfectly happy to give that up. It’s got nothing but rags and dirty magazines in it.” I glanced at him with raised eyebrows. “Awww come on. Homeless men have needs too!” He threw his hands up in the air. “What’s the second step?”
“Create goals. And the third is, of course, get to work on goals.”
“Ok. So what did you do?”
“What do you mean?”
“Step One, step two. What happened?”
“I cleared out my life. Twice. The first time I wasn’t being very honest with myself, which is classic Discount Life behavior. The second time I cleared out my closet and got rid of all the stuff I’d felt attached too that wasn’t really helping me be who I want to be. Stanley says it doesn’t look any different but I see a difference.”
“Who’s Stanley?”
“My partner. We’ve been together for six years. We live together.”
“Well girls do tend to have too much stuff.”
“I did. I did. But I got honest and got rid of a lot. And then I wrote down my goals. Well, Andrew helped me write them actually and now I’m working on them,” I said cheerily. “I played the violin, I took a run, I signed us up for a cooking class –“
“Who’s us?” he cut me off.
“Me and Stanley.”
“Oh. I wasn’t sure if you meant you and Stanley or you and Andrew.”
“No. No. Me and Stanley. His idea of cooking is to open a box of Hamburger Helper. The cooking class should be good for both of us.”
“But learning to cook sounds like your goal.”
“Right…” I said it like a question, drawn out so as to express so what?
“I’m just saying….”he trailed off. “But I’m sure you know him well enough to know.”
His insight struck me like a fist. I knew my goals but what were Stanley’s? I shook it off. “Guess I’ll have to ask him for his goals.”
“And me for mine. I’ve got some thinking to do. When should we meet again?” He really wanted to do this with me. I was touched and, if I let myself think it, amazed by the power of humanity. The sameness that we all carried within our differences.
“How about next Sunday morning?” I said. A week from today if he decided to show.
“Done deal.”
“Alright then. It’s a DL date.” I stood up, preparing myself for departure and proffered a hand shake.
“Looking forward to it.” He shook my hand and pointed to the stairs. “You gonna run ‘em?”
“Not today. We’ll make it a someday goal.” I smirked at my own Judy-ism.
He laughed. “Okay. See you Sunday.” I jogged off in perfect formation until I rounded the corner of 1st street and knew I was out of his sightline. Baby steps, right? I walked the rest of the way home.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
