The Discount Life: The closing of a Two Minute Movie Clip

You remember the Julia Robert’s two minute movie clip? The one where our beloved Julia spends two minutes running, walking, packing, generally cleaning up her life and becoming who she wants to be. And at the end Richard Gere overcomes his fears and climbs up the fire escape to - Get. His. Woman. Or Julia gets down on bended knee and hands over her running shoes. Either way they end, happily ever after, in a fairy tale. Much as I have dreamed of living this scenario, I would like to submit that the abstraction has royally interfered with our concept of reality.


The problem with the movies is the camera stops rolling right after “I love you” or “I do”. Richard Gere says, “I promise at some point one or both of us will want out...”. But we never see the fight that tests that proclamation. You never see that heartbreaking moment where Julia’s eyes fill with tears or Richard swats papers off the dining room table because he’s so mad he can’t stand it. No one wants to watch that movie. It’s too close to real life. Romantic comedies are experts at ending their scripts on the cusp of reality. They tell you there’s no such thing as perfection, then they lead to you believe it anyway.

I’ll do you a favor and tell you up front, so as not to mislead you: Peter Stone would no more turn out to be perfect than Oprah would turn out to be thin. They’ve both come close a few times but no dice. Starting with, he turned out to be incredibly stubborn. He always eats food off of your plate and for the life of him can’t seem to get the dishes from the sink to the dishwasher. But he rinses them before he walks away. That’s his saving grace. He makes me laugh and on more than one occasion has made me cry. But Peter Stone, with all his imperfections, gave me one gift no one else had managed: balance. He knew when to push and when to be gentle. He knew when to laugh and when to be silent. He made a practice of reading me. He saw me too, only not like Christian – not as a prize he wanted so badly to win but wasn’t sure he deserved. He saw me more as something he appreciated. Something he’d like to join the study of. He was passionate but practical and the two sides of him surrounded me like weight scales on my left and right hands and taught me to learn not only myself, but the balance of life. In this way he was perfect and because of this I overlooked his propensity to say ‘Actually’, finger pointed at subject, whenever he was about to join a conversation or the way he always drives the speed limit, even when we are incredibly late. Peter Stone’s endearing quality is not a Ken and Barbie look or his Prince Charming countenance but instead that he came close and he was real. IS real. He is a teacher every bit as much as he is a loving partner. I am constantly amazed by him.

And that is where my two minute movie clip begins to wrap. For all the struggles I had undergone during the Discount Life, I was about to learn love. Real love. The kind you can wrap yourself up in forever and not hide, and not pretend and still not get lost in. The kind you don’t mind sitting across from, legs touching under a tiny table top in a coffee shop, and still waking up next to every morning. The kind that doesn’t ask you to be different than who you are but tests you every day to accept the same of your mate. The kind that helps you finally understand the saying “love is patient, love is kind” and still let’s you have some fun in that occasional dark alleyway somewhere. My two minute movie clip was ending and that means the rest of my life was just beginning. Love is funny that way. It makes you, one way or another.

But I’ve gotten ahead of myself. I pulled a romantic comedy on you and left off where I returned Peter Stone’s phone call and then I cut off your movie clip. He did not show up to my violin concert at the Metropolitan Museum that Thursday night. That was Andrew, sans Marie, who came gallivanting down the corridors, his dress shoes slapping the marble floor like webbed feet on cement, and engulfed me with his big bear hug.

“You did so great. You really did it. Look at you.” He crushed my ribs. I didn’t mind. I always felt at home hooked under Andrews’s arms. Hugging as tightly as he preferred, never mind my discomfort. That was Andrew’s way and always would be – to have you under his terms.

“Thanks. Thank you. I feel good.” It was an absolute truth. We played in the atrium of the Italian gardens. Philadelphia’s elite drank champagne and nibbled on miniature delights wrapped in bacon (even the Richie rich prefer something wrapped in bacon to something not wrapped in bacon). The night sky descended and exposed the sparkling stars. We were covered by a glass ceiling that left us feeling we were playing under God.

I asked, “Where’s Marie?” but Andrew did not have time to answer. Eloise came approaching. She said, “She’s great isn’t she?” to Andrew and patted my shoulder with her slender hands.

“She’s pretty amazing,” he said. “The whole concert was great.”

“Andrew, this is Eloise.” They exchanged their hello’s and were interrupted by the joyful eruption of Mel, who ran up to me with open arms, exclaiming, “You were soooo great. I’m so proud of you!”. Jack and Tucker followed closely behind her, their hands in their pockets until they reached me. Their hugs were gentle, one armed affairs. Slight and well intentioned.

“These must be the friends I’ve heard so much about,” Eloise said. I smiled, introduced them and couldn’t help but be inspired by this tall, elegant woman. She had the grace of a Siamese cat, tall and slender, and she carried herself like no thing could ever be big enough to shake her. Something told me that kind of confidence took years to build.

“You were great up there. So natural looking. I forgot it’s been ages since you really did this,” Mel said. “Everyone sounded amazing,” she said, turning toward Eloise. “I’m really impressed by you all.”

“Thank you, “ Eloise said. “I’m impressed by you also. Something makes me think your friend did so well because she had you all there behind her. ” Everyone gave an uncomfortable laugh. Eloise’s philosophical remarks had taken the air to another level. She made her pleasantries and excused herself shortly thereafter, leaving behind an aura of wisdom, as if to say my work here is done. We were momentarily quiet in her wake. Then Tucker broke the spell saying, “Interesting lady”, followed by, “is there any food in this joint? I’m hungry.”

We ended the evening with drinks and bar food at one of those pubs you can’t remember the name of that serves great fries and bad salad and is floor to ceiling with mahogany wood and old alcohol advertisements. Tucker had iced tea. He wore his new jeans. He’d cut his hair. Sitting across from him, I would never have known he’d been homeless seven months ago. He had come so far. To be clean, with cash and drinking iced tea. It was like watching an infant morph into an adult. He was in control of his life. I felt a swoon of pride at the thought that my little theory had had something to do with that. And Andrew, who later would explain to me that the last DLA meeting had gotten him thinking about his relationship with Marie, sat next to me with his hand on my leg and said, “You’ve really come full circle you know that? Remember sitting on my front porch, drinking that sangria and making that goals list? And now look at you. Crossing off one after another.”

“I’m proud of myself,” I said, “but I couldn’t have done it without you guys. I might not have had the strength.”

“You’re wrong, “ he said picking up his beer glass, “you always had the strength. You just wanted our reassurance.” He took a long slow drink of golden beer and then said, “You gave us the strength. Look at how our lives have changed since we’ve all started this thing. I just made the decision to end a relationship because I didn’t feel enough. That should tell you something. The old me would have stayed with Marie until I found the next girl. The new me let her go because he was thinking enough to realize that he was being complacent. That’s a lot of big thoughts for me.”

“I never would have thought it was possible,” I said, punching his arm and picking up a French fry.

“Me neither. That’s what I’m saying. You think we gave you the strength but really, Chloe, you taught us. Challenging us to live all the way is hard. And I fuck it up all the time but at least now I think about it. It’s been awesome. You’re awesome.” He looked in my eyes for a long time and I returned the stare. Then out of nowhere he said, “I love you Chloe.” And the sound of it sent shock waves through my body. In all our years of friendship he had never said that. He delivered it with a smile and a serious undertone. He didn’t laugh or make a sly comment to diminish its potency. He left it hanging in mid air and returned to his burger, no tomato and hold the lettuce. I hadn’t expected this from him and I couldn’t be sure how he meant it. I heard “I love you” and I knew without a shadow of a doubt that this would always be true but somewhere in the recesses of my heart, I heard Agnes’s voice. So I said “I love you too,” but I didn’t stay on it for long, and followed up with,” the real question is why didn’t you love Marie?” He crinkled his eyebrows and made a face that said come on, you know why.

“She wasn’t all the way. She was my way. Whatever I wanted. Whatever pleased me. It’s great. Really it is. To have someone that into you. You can do no wrong . But I was getting bored. I was working too hard at having a “relationship” instead of really loving her. Appreciating her. She’s great but for me, she was a discount. Discount girlfriend. So I broke it off.”

I bit into my hamburger at just the right moment. With a mouthful of cow, I did not have to respond to Andrew. I shook my head in concurrence with his dialogue and let it go at that. I was rid of Marie. Andrew had returned. This was the place I loved us the most. But the truth was there. It was there in things he didn’t do. He had said I love you but when I redirected the conversation he followed. He didn’t say - No, Chloe. I love you. Did you hear me? He didn’t say I mean it. He took the switch bait and went passively back to conversation. And somewhere in between I love you and the details on Marie, I think I knew, even if I didn’t admit it to myself right then, that though our love was forever and maybe it held traces of romance, it was not the kind you chase. A chase would kill it. Crush all the subtleties that made it so profound. And maybe consciously and maybe subconsciously, I followed the flow of conversation away from romance and said, “I have a date,” chomping through the last bits of my burger bite. “The realtor. He finally called. We’re going out next week.” I said it nonchalantly but in truth, I meant it as a test. He responded with “Good” but I saw his eyes dart down to his plate. I almost thought he caught his breath but I didn’t want to kid myself.

“What did you say to upset Andrew over there?” Tucker asked. There was a long pause, neither one of us answering, neither one of use sure of what had just transpired.

“We were talking about Agnes, “I lied. Andrew smiled ever slightly – so slight it was undetectable if you weren’t looking.

“Damn shame,” Tucker said, “and no change in her yet. I’d I’ve thought she’d be kickin’ herself out by now.” The conversation grew dim and gloomy until Jack bought a round to toast to Agnes and then me, saying “To Chloe for making it one step closer to all the way.”

When the night was over Andrew said, “I’ll walk you to your car…” This was not unusual. Andrew and I had spent plenty of time walking from place to place alone. But the energy in the air was different. Electric. The kind of jolt that put you on edge. The kind you might mistake for chemistry. And before the night was over he kissed me. He thought about it, I could tell. You could see him thinking, should I do this, just before he grabbed my waist, pulled me to him and kissed me softly on the mouth. I kissed him back. And something in it felt good and solid. Something in it felt like the quench of a red, white and blue popsicle on the fourth of July – a match that made you nostalgic and brought you back to all the memories that sustain you. When he pulled back and looked into my eyes, I searched his for a reaction. Then I kissed him back. We did this for what seemed like a long time, up against my car, his hands feeling my torso. The platonic body he had always known. The same curves he had held a hundred times before - at a dance in college or picked up after a victory during a game of touch football. But this was different. This time it was giving for him under his touch. I can’t say this was bad. It was wonderful. His mouth on my mouth, knew each other with such depth we hardly felt the space between us. But I also couldn’t help but feel that something between us was closing. All this time we had been exploring the what if?  plausibility. Now, every kiss felt first tantalizing and then like a confirmation; a goodbye. There was a place between the carnality against my car and sitting on the front porch with a glass of sangria, that Andrew and I existed best. It took me a while- that night, the next day, the weekend, to dissect all the emotion down to this one last thought: that spot between romance and brotherhood was where we belonged.

I didn’t hear from Andrew again for a few weeks, which was not entirely surprising, considering his tendency to disappear when things were left undefined. But this time it felt different. This time there was actually something to digest. I called him. I sent him a note: “Don’t be a jackass. Call me back. “ and signed it “still your friend – Chloe”. He didn’t respond. I wouldn’t see him until my marathon. Until after my first date with Peter. Until after my second date with Peter. I hiked Grandfather Mountain – with Peter. By the time I saw Andrew again, silence had made the transition for us. We were like brand new people learning each other all over again. Today our friendship is solid. But the weeks in between felt like a slow and untimely death of something that had meant more to me than any romance I’d ever had.

(Next:  a bridal shower, a date, a marathon.....leads Chloe one step further to the close of the DLA)

The Hedonist Within

Consider this: Valentine’s Day is a holiday named after a Saint who, upon refusal to renounce his faith and stop performing secret marriages, was beaten with clubs and then beheaded on February 14th. We commemorate his death, a decidedly romantic affair, with chocolates and roses and hearts because beheadings and brutal attacks are the universal mark of love (perfect logic?). Doesn’t it seem that pain of this nature coincides more fluently with the plight of single people? Macabre death scenes forebode a certain doomsday quality if you ask me but then we live in a world where horror films gross twice as much as art films. They are, in fact, a favorite date excursion. In this case, love and death are linked, begging the question: On Valentine’s Day, will you or will you not survive, heart intake?

For Agnes the question was answered literally. Valentine’s Day, by the grace of God, had fallen on a Sunday this year. I managed to escape people in general and with the exception of a long run, had almost made it an entire day without a plan, without shame and without the comment there’s someone great out there for you…wait ‘til next year! But it hadn’t even been a year, need I remind the placating mouths of my well intentioned cause holders. There was no rush.

The DLA had decided to postpone their meeting for another week so that everyone could spend the day of the patron saint of love snuggling, cuddling and copulating with their significant others. I spent the day running and had almost made it through a long hot shower before I got the call from Lizzie. I peeked out from the shower and decided to ignore her for the moment. I’d run 16 miles and deserved the hot water running down my back. It wasn’t until I’d showered, changed and poured a glass of red wine that I hit play on the voicemail button.

“Chloe, its Lizzie. Listen. Agnes is in the hospital. Heart attack I think. I’m picking up Tucker and we’re headed to St. Vincent’s hospital. Meet us there if you want to. Otherwise, we’ll call you when we know more.” She hung up without saying goodbye. I thought that only happened in the movies.

I hadn’t spoken to Agnes since the last DL meeting where we got into a fight over love versus self-exploration. I was mad. Half truth. I was embarrassed that what she’d said contained some merit and that fact made me look pathetic. She had me doubting the veracity of the Discount Life and therefore, perhaps myself. But saying I was mad sounded a lot better than saying I was pathetic. I was almost relieved when we canceled this week’s meeting just because I hadn’t quite gotten over it. But the news that Agnes was hospitalized left me in disbelief. Agnes couldn’t die. She’s the token pot stirrer. She’s the standard mirror image character of our group – the devil’s advocate. The character who said all the wrong things, made a thousand bad judgment calls, smoked, drank and cursed and was still going to live to be 100 just to prove a point. Without her, the balance would be off. Haven’t the fates seen the Breakfast Club?

I was in the car when I called Lizzie. She answered, “You coming down here?”

“Yes,” I said. “How is she?”

“She’s in a coma – induced I think but they really aren’t saying much to us. It doesn’t sound great.” A number beeped in the middle of our conversation – one I didn’t recognize. I kept talking. “James said she was making herself a drink and the next thing you know she was vomiting and sweating and getting sick. And then she fell to the floor. “  So the infamous Mr. Coburn was with her.

“Is he there now?”

“Yeah. He’s in the room with her.” The voicemail indicator beeped to tell me I had a message.

“Okay, well. I’ll be there soon.”

“Okay. Hurry. Bye.” I hung up and inspected the number again. Unfamiliar. I checked the voicemail and was surprised to hear the sound of Peter Stone’s voice.

“Hi Chloe. This is Peter Stone. You’re probably out doing something for Valentine’s Day . I hope it’s not too late to call. Anyway, I just wanted to see if you’d like to …uh…grab dinner sometime. Or drinks. Or whatever. I…uh…I’ll wear a rain coat to protect my clothes and maybe we can have some wine.” He’d sounded nervous until he made the joke, during which his confidence surged. “So, yeah, just give me a call and we’ll set up a date. Talk to you soon.” He left his number and signed off. Should I call back? I debated this internally and decided to wait. After all, when someone texted you, you never text right back. There was that appropriate amount of lag time necessary to prove you are busy and not at all desperately waiting beside the phone. The same goes for phone calls. It was nice though, to have someone think ahead. I found myself smiling about Peter Stone.

The hospital rose before me like the twin towers. For me, they carried an almost equal sense of foreboding. I found Lizzie and Tucker in the waiting room. Tucker flipped through a magazine. Lizzie stood by the vending machines, cup of hospital coffee in hand. She turned to me and waved gently when she saw me. I approached her cautiously, the tension in the air suggested we might all explode if we let ourselves show one ounce too much emotion.

“Any news?” I asked quietly.

“Not really. She’s hooked up to a bunch of machines and sleeping. She looks awful.” She pointed down a long hallway. “She’s down there. Third door on the right. James is with her.” I made my way down the corridor, the blue-ish gray tile inflicting me with psychosomatic symptoms: I felt sick myself, like we were all in a mortuary. I stopped before I reached the door to Agnes’s room and peered inside the glass. I could see her lying prone, her face placid but for the angry looking tubes protruding from her mouth. The man I assumed to be James Coburn was sitting in a chair next to her bed. He was holding her hand. Staring at her. Something about the way he concentrated on her made me feel like I was interrupting. I turned to walk back to Lizzie and Tucker but his eye caught mine. He smiled and held my gaze, like an invitation I felt I had to accept. I entered the room and whispered, “Hi. I’m Chloe. A friend of Agnes.”

He stood to shake my hand. “James. The same.” He looked down at her and then back up at me. “She was fine one minute and sick the next. It was the weirdest thing.” He towered over me. He was tall and broad and had big fluffy gray hair. His look was disheveled but his eyes were simple. Easy to read: expressive. He sat down again and took her hand. “So you’re the ring leader,” he said.

“The ring leader?”

“Agnes calls you the ring leader cause of that DLA thing.”

I smiled. “Maybe I am.”

“She says you two fought over me.” He chuckled and used one hand to massage his chin, like a cowboy in a western right before he says something profound and sticks up one eyebrow. “I’m hardly used to one woman fighting over me, let alone two.” Okay, not that profound.  But still I stayed quiet. “It’s okay. She wasn’t really mad, you know.”

“It wasn’t really about you,” I said. “It was more about us. You were just the topic that ignited the fight.”

“You don’t think I should marry her, huh?” I wanted to say put me on the spot there buddy. It was one thing to tell Agnes that. It was another to tell James to his face. I was aware that I was moving my mouth but no sound came out. “It’s okay. Given her track record I’m sure it would be stupid.” He stole the words right from my mouth. “But I’m thinking of doing it anyway.” He said this with such tenderness I felt something in my heart shift. “It’s crazy but sometimes crazy is good. I mean look at her. You don’t know what’s going to happen. Alive one minute. Dead the next. You can plan all you want but ….man proposes, God disposes. Life’s going to happen: with you or around you. Shouldn’t we choose what makes us happy? Let the rest iron itself out.”

“Sounds like a proposal to me,” I said. He smiled.

“I guess maybe it is. Agnes, will you marry me?” He stroked her hair. Her machine beeped back at him in response.

“I might ask again tomorrow, “ I said. “If you’d like her to remember.”

“I’ll ask her again. When she’s ready.” He leaned back in his chair and ran his hands through his hair. He looked exhausted and suddenly I felt that my presence was crowding him.

“You know, I think I’m going to grab a coffee. Can I get you something?”

“Nah,” was all he said. I watched him looking at her for a beat longer and backed out of the room.

In the waiting room Lizzie & Ticker asked how Agnes was. “Same,” I said.

“I can’t believe it,” Tucker said. “She won’t be in here long. It’s Agnes. She wouldn’t give the doctors the satisfaction.”

Lizzie said, “At least we know if she goes…she’s going happy.” We were silent, our expressions questioning. “Well I mean, she made it pretty clear that she was content with her life. I think she’d be satisfied.”

We sat in the waiting room for another hour before I thought about calling Peter Stone back. When I reached from the phone I came up empty handed. “I think I left my phone in the car,” I said out loud to no one in particular.

“Actually, I was thinking of heading out, “Lizzie said. “They’ll keep us posted and we’re not doing any good here.”

“I’ll go tell James,” Tucker volunteered. As he walked away I noticed he was wearing a new pair of jeans and a certain satisfaction came over me. The DLA hadn’t provided all the answers but it had helped. Six months ago Tucker was ages from a new pair of jeans. Then I reprimanded myself for thinking about denim when one of our friends was laid out in the hospital.

I thought through what James had said walking back to the car. Life is short and you could get hit by a bus tomorrow. Shouldn’t we be happy? But if we were all hedonists, thinking only of ourselves and our pleasure first, the world would be a cruel place; immediate gratification alone doesn’t result in peace of mind. The truth was that despite flying solo on Valentine’s Day – I was contented too. We had our first performance for the orchestra that Thursday and I was finally playing the violin out loud. I was living securely and pleasantly in my own apartment. I had achieved the goals set on my list and despite what Agnes said about the Discount Life having ulterior love seeking motives, I had to submit that whatever truth existed in that statement didn’t diminish the validity that it was also about learning yourself. I was there. Six months and counting and I was living life without discounts. All the Way. I thanked Agnes silently for giving me that perspective and grieved as I opened the car door, sliding behind the wheel, that I might not have the chance to tell her. To clean the air between us.

I reached for my phone, the decision to call Peter Stone a done deal in my mind. But the call never happened. When I picked up the phone I had a text message. From Christian: Maudlin…was all it said. Despite myself – I broke into a huge smile and drove home feeling that after all my dissemination, James was right.



Further investigation of “Maudlin” led to the following definition: Foolishly sentimental. At this, my heart swooned. Should it have? I didn’t know. And I certainly didn’t care. All perspective was lost. All red flags were down. But when I texted him “thinking about you too” – I got no response. Red flag ONE. I chose to ignore it.

I waited two days before I did anything. 48 hours of time to reminisce and replay every last interaction we’d shared. By Tuesday afternoon, Christian was perfect again. He was smart, charming, inquisitive – that faint smell of vanilla I’d noticed? Just his everyday scent. I closed Get Some Manners and put its long term peace of mind pedantics out of my view. Then I texted him: coffee?

He responded, an hour later, with: can’t tonight. Tonight? Did that mean another night? I dissected this comment, studying it for all its implications and then decided to get up and get moving before I drove myself crazy. Something in my gut told me I shouldn’t respond to him. Looking back, I suppose it was the Red flags that, despite my best attempt at denial, were struggling hard to raise themselves.

So I busied myself. I busied myself practicing the violin for the performance on Thursday. I played through my part two, three times before it became clear that I was not focusing. I needed to focus. I needed to run.

And like the months before where I ran and ran to clarity, I ran and ran until I found it. And maybe by design or maybe by sub conscious, I ended up by the coffee shop where Christian and I had our first real moment. I was feeling quite maudlin myself, all those red flags submitting defeat, until I rounded the corner and saw him through the glass window, sitting at a table with a woman. I stopped involuntarily. I was across the street from the shop, he would have to look purposely to see me, which he hadn’t done.

My first thought was maybe they were friends. Then: of course he’s dating – I could hardly expect him to be home alone. Mourning. But something I couldn’t put my finger on hurt more than that, like a slap to the face. And then I realized I had seen that woman before. In the picture frames in a box in his closet, unbeknownst to him. The woman, with her dark locks and toothy smile was Sophia. The ex. There were so many pictures of them in the box: them at a picnic, at the beach, in a field, at a birthday party, on the couch. So many pictures it was as if they were trying to document their happiness.  To remind themselves later of what they had shared. As if the memories in the snapshots would ground them and say See?  We were happy. I have been there.  I have done that.  I recognize that habit.  And the pictures, I told myself, were there because he was too indifferent to toss them. Half Truth. He wasn't indifferent, he was undecided.

Watching them felt like a betrayal – an unfair melodramatic response to be sure; Christian was of course free to date whomever he pleased. But we’d spent intimate hours in the dark reveling over her and why she wasn’t right for him. We’d spent hours dissecting our psyche’s – exposing our vulnerable selves to each other and all in this barren, honest way he claimed not to be able to do with her. I realized that all along I’d expected him to find someone. But I had not expected him to find her. Again. Somehow the choice made all the tenderness and vulnerability he’d shared – an insult. I was his confidant at my own expense. I thought I had set him free. How stupid. He had been free all along.

I blinked my eyes and quite suddenly emerged from my analytic daze. I was still standing, motionless, staring at the two of them. They hadn’t seen me and I chose to use that opportunity to pretend I’d never seen them. I ran home replying James’s words: Life is going to happen with you or around you. Be Happy. Get Some Manners, along the same plain, said: that you could choose to let pain and hurt guide your actions but that wasn’t really goal directive. If you wanted to be happy you had to choose the letting go of pain and hurt. Long term peace was developed, consciously, by people choosing healthy self talk and positive reacting. That was goal directive. You would be happy when you were living truth guided by truth. I could choose the hurt and be angry at Christian (and let’s get serious – of course I wanted to do that – I was a woman in pain – I wanted to kick his ass) but that wouldn’t ultimately help me achieve the long term peace of mind I’d been working so hard at achieving – alone. That was after all, the point in setting Christian free. Red flags and vanilla were there all along – I had been the one to ignore them. Observe and correct. Observe and correct. And be happy. But now I knew that part of me had expected this all along. The emotions, no less real despite our anticlimactic end, had run away with us. Too hot to touch for too long, my mother had said, and she was right. We were retreating to level ground. In my heart I knew that choosing Sophia was the wrong choice for him but he was not asking me for my opinion and my opinion was not going to salvage him. You cannot save people. They have to save themselves. So I ran home, dropping pieces of my hurt and anger with every pounding foot step, with every mile until I reached my front door – heart fully intact. Peaceful.

When I’d showered and changed, I picked up the phone and called Peter Stone. He answered, on the first ring, with “Hey Chloe, I’m glad you called”. No mixed signals. No red flags. No drama but happiness at the notion that I had called. Confirmation: eternal or temporary, I had made a step away from chaos and toward long term peace of mind.  I chose goal directive over immediate gradification.  It would turn out to be the wisest decision of my life.

Sometimes I'm A Writer

You might’ve heard – sometimes I’m a writer. When I have the guts, I tell a story in the written word. When I have the strength: I tell the truth. I process differently. You might say the night was nice. I say it was pregnant with the smell of wood burning- the sounds of a happy throng gathered round an outdoor game- the sight of truth walking by, beer in hand, pausing to stop and touch you. You say it in one word. I say it in thirty- four; a blessing and a curse. But my soul mate said keep writing.



I love words. I spend an inordinate amount of time studying them. Its part of my job but it’s also my love. Words, like tone, are loaded. Their differences allow for impact. To glance is not the same as to look and to see is different than to view. You can call something beautiful or you can say it’s pulchritudinous. One is general and one is exact but both are a matter of opinion really, since beauty is a matter of perspective – which is not the same as, but similar to, to see - only broader. See?


They say language accounts for 70% of all human communication. Which means that 70% of your life can be found in a dictionary. I have a fondness for my dictionary, a fact, which up until recently has remained a secret. I shared it with someone once but as is often the case with shared secrets – you cannot get them back. And if they were never fully appreciated to begin with, you’ve lost a piece of something special. Secrets have a propensity to fester and rot. So I’m writing my secret out loud, so that that someone no longer carries the burden of being the sole being to share my dictionary secret. So here it is: I pick a word every night and make a note about it in my dictionary. If 70% of our life can be found in Webster’s I’ve gone ahead and turned this word catalog into a journal. Example: nefarious – one of my first big words, kismet – a song from the 40’s my grandfather used to sing, kith – I learned from a friend; a forever friend. If you could read my dictionary – I might be embarrassed. There’s so much hidden meaning in my words. But the point is: you know. So it’s not a secret anymore – this variorum is no longer so special. The burden is lifted.


And really, that’s the point of writing all together isn’t it: to get the secrets out. And we can write a piece of fiction and still write a piece of truth. And we can write ourselves in words until the black ink makes us feel complete. I did this when I was lost. I wrote every week until the black ink and the pages compiled a story and I felt found. Recently my soul mate gave me a present and reminded me to keep writing. Because where once I wrote to be found, now I can write for pleasure. You might appear in my fiction but I am no longer processing you. And that makes all the difference.


Feast of Love says: “Happy [people] are all alike, it’s the unhappy ones who write the stories.” Well you might have heard, sometimes I’m a writer and I will write you. I promise I will see you. I promise I will not dismiss you. But now, with my secrets out and my dictionary public – I no longer have to write. “I am no longer a story….Happiness has made me fade into real life……..” And you? Concupiscence, Impenitence. Recrudescence. Supervene. Maudlin. Adumbration. Vexation. Patience. Veracity. Kith. You journeyed with me here. Priceless – that, in a word, is unmatched.

Swim. Bike. Run.

Don’t panic. Remember. In your heart, you know what to do. Pull with your arms, kick with your legs. This water will not consume you. You’re scared but not as scared as then. Remember then? When you almost flipped on your back and waved your hand as a signal to be rescued from your life? Remember when you almost drowned?



But something saved you then. You. You taught yourself to Swim. Bike. and Run. You taught yourself that there is no limit to a mind with strength and will and heart. And you learned then, what you know now: nothing will ever have the power to sink you again.


So don’t panic. Think it through. Don’t fight the wave, roll with it. Pull and glide, then breathe after. Stop, scope, are you headed in the right direction? Maybe you can’t throw a ball but you can do this.


When you bike, remember. Lance Armstrong would tell you it ‘Ain’t About the Bike’. This is just like life. When you think you’re done – dig deeper. When you think you can’t, remember: you’ve survived much worse. This is just a bike ride.


And by the run you’re tired. You won’t know it until mile 3.5 but you’re exhausted. And you’re not finished. The truth is you’re never finished. Life lesson number two: the run will end but the challenge will not. Every day there is something that will test you but you exhibit vicissitude undaunted. There are many triathlons left to concur. Loftier goals yet to hit. Tuck in, head up, eyes focused – and step by lead weight step – you’ll get there. And remember, there’s a group waiting for you at the end. Their arms outstretched. Their pride audible. Today is an Olympic Triathlon. Tomorrow – there’s no telling. Swim. Bike. Run. and you’ll find that strength makes possibilities limitless.

The Discount Life: Slit Worthy

Of course the skirt was not hard to find. This is America. Evidence of the success of Baywatch demonstrates that we, as a nation, value ass and legs. There was a plethora of slitted skirt options on floors one, two and three of Bloomingdale’s. Level of taste was more the question. Did I want to look reality tv whorish or just you’re regular, run of the mill European sexy? I tried on both. But let’s get serious – you can’t sit down in realtiy tv whorish skirts. Britnety Spears tried it, and we all remember how that turned out. So after several minutes spent spinning my bum back and forth in front of the three way mirror, I satisfied goal number nine and bought an above the knee pencil skirt with a slit just high enough to say sexy librarian seeks professional with a brain, a heart and a personality – but I’m not coming home with you tonight.


“So have you worn it yet?” Mel asked. It was a Thursday night. A night in weeks past, I would have been spending with Christian but now spent at orchestra practice and then watching the Thursday night line up with a bowl of vanilla ice cream that started with just one scoop but inevitably ended up the carrier for a triple scoop special. This had to stop or the slitted skirt was going to be less a positive attraction and more freak show attraction.

“No. Not yet. I’m looking for a reason. I don’t have to have one every time but for the first time, the occasion has to be slit worthy.”

“Mmm, a slit worthy soiree. Maybe we should throw you one? A celebration of your new life…in a slitted skirt.”

“No. Not like that. I’ll find the right time. Besides, you’re the one we’ll be throwing things for in the next few months.” Mel and Jack were due to be married on June 12th. As the maid of honor, it was my job to through the string of parties that would soon be attached to their association: bridal shower, bachelorette party, pre-wedding gathering. I was finally looking forward to what, for so long, had seemed a constant reminder that someone else had and I had not. But this Chloe: the one with the running and the violin and the slitted skirt, felt enormous satisfaction in watching two of her favorite people plan their all the way life together.

“I’m looking forward to it,” she said. In truth, I had already spoken to the other women in our group and set the parties for April and May respectively but I pretended to Mel as if nothing had been established.

“I’ll have to get on that,” I said. Mel didn’t respond but instead giggled nervously and changed the subject.

“So, how’s orchestra been going?”

“It’s great actually. We’re practicing some Verdi & Vivaldi. I’ve met quite a lot of new people.” I told her about the conductor, a man named Herbert who was white haired, petite and stood on his platform like a Yoda to his Jetti. And middle aged Maury, a cellist who’s wife recently left him for an older man who also happened to be their financial advisor and close friend; Maury, despite his loss, kept a happy disposition and laughed off his story, saying things like Can you blame her? He still has all his hair. “And then there’s Eloise,” I said.

“Who’s that?”

“Eloise is the woman I hope to be someday.” Twice my age and height, it was impossible that I would ever be as tall and willowy as her, but Eloise radiated vivacity and serenity. She was married, with two children and had been playing the violin for nearly three decades. She’d played briefly for THE Philadelphia Orchestra in her twenties but when I asked her why she’d stopped she said, “that’s a long story but it’s just like that musical says When God closes a door, somewhere he opens a window. “The thing about Eloise is that she seems perfect but not like Judy. She’s not showy about it. Does that make sense?”

“Yeah. More real?”

“I guess they’re both real but I get the feeling that Eloise has worked through some things to achieve her life. I can’t explain it but I hope I can be like her.”

“Is she a runner?”

“Not that I know of but she’s enviably thin.”

“Of course. Anybody who is thin is enviably thin. That’s the sad part about being a woman…almost nothing is too thin, even when you know it should be. Maybe I should run a marathon before the wedding. If I don’t eat anything, I can be a waif by June.” There was humor in her tone but I could tell that, as is so often the case, there was a spot of truth in that triste hope. “I’m just kidding Chloe. Don’t get scared.”

“I know. I wasn’t really worried.”

“Speaking of running, when is your Marathon?” Too soon, I wanted to say. There was a slim chance in heaven that I’d really finish.

“End of April,” I said. “I’m terrified. And its only a week after the orchestra’s big spring performance. High stress week.”

“How far have you gone so far?”

“10 miles. That’s it. And its agonizing by the end of mile 9. I don’t know how I’ll get through 26 miles.”

“Well its only February. That’s almost three months away.” Three months to prove that some goals are better left to others perhaps. “Just don’t focus on it yet. Think of all the fun stuff first. My parties, Andrew’s Birthday weekend, Valentine’s…” and she stopped herself. Valentine’s Day: the 24 hour conundrum. For many couples, Stanley and I included, Valentine’s Day was a non-issue. A fabricated holiday made by greeting card companies for a reason to get you out and spending money at the risk of looking like a huge schmuck if you don’t. Despite the cynicism, Stanley always did come home with a card. It’s funny how easily something can be blown off when it’s a given: I don’t have to go out on a Friday night because at home there’s someone waiting. Even in not having a plan, the existence of said someone, by rights, means you have a plan. Valentine’s Day is much the same. When you know there will be a card, the holiday is easy to toss off. But when you don’t know there will be a card it is a 24 hour branding that reads: Don’t judge me, I’m single, and is simply something to get through.

“You can say Valentine’s Day Mel. I won’t fall apart.”

“Maybe you’ll have a hot date for it.”

“Maybe…”

“Well that’s days away anyway. First you have to come to my first dress fitting with me. It’s next week.” Mel had found the dress with myself, her mother and Jack’s sister a month after their engagement. It was beautiful, of course, but in the salon had been four sizes too big for Mel and had had to be pinned closed.

“Done. I’ll be there.”

“You should wear your slitted skirt. I think it’s a slit worthy occasion. And there will be champagne” she lifted her tone as if her voice alone could entice me.

“Done. Done and done. “

“And Chloe?”

“Yeah?”

“I think you’re a lot more like Eloise than you think.” At that I had to smile. Quietly I marveled at the strength that could be drawn from the support of true friendship.


“The pencil skirt must’ve been designed by the French, “ I said as we walked into the bridal salon.

“Sexy but not overt. I agree – tres French,” Mel said. The bridal salon was located in a shopping center designed to look like an Italian Piazza. The salon itself was draped in shades of pink, recalling to mind the infamous move line My colors are blush and bashful. I said it out loud with a deeply put on drawl.

“You’re colors are pink and pink,” Mel said back.

“Steel Magnolias!” the woman behind the counter exclaimed in that way that women do where their voices go up three octaves and they absolutely must put their palms together as if to clap but not. The overall message of the expletive is: I know that too. We’re one. United by Julia…again. “I love that movie.” She was southern, with a dripping lilt that lasted for seconds. Her name tag said Jaime-Lynn. “I’m from Louisiana you know.”

Mel glanced at me questioningly and with judgment written all over her face. “Well we’re from here and we’d like to try on my wedding dress,” she said with an extra ounce of enthusiasm. She may have been making fun of Jamie-Lynn but Mel’s excitement was palpable.

“Well that is far more important then my jibber jabber. Come on over to the fitting rooms. Let’s get you set up. Your name?” She walked away in a hurry, with a sachet that suggested she’d spent her life in high heels and a country club with Daddy. Her energy, like thinness, was enviable and she had Mel in her dress in no time.

The dress was as all wedding dresses were meant to be- a representation of the woman who wore it at her finest. It was an off the shoulder duchess satin that criss-crossed over the bust and rouched down the waistline. The skirt was fitted through the thigh and flared ever so slightly in sheets of organza and lace from the dropped waist. Watching Mel twirl in it made my heart ache. Not in sadness but in the knowledge that this was something special. A moment of pure joy: a rarity in life. I felt lucky to be its witness.

“Well, it still needs to be hemmed but was this slit worthy?”Mel asked.   I laughed.

“Absolutely! But it would’ve been worthy no matter what I wore.” Mel smiled at me with such tenderness I thought I might cry. But the softness was broken by the sound of robust southern voice saying “Picture, Picture!”. Jaime-Lynn came brandishing a giant camera like a magic wand. Glinda the Good, here to make sure we found our way home to Kanasas. She herded Mel and I together and we stood, arm and arm, champagne flutes to the air and smiled our biggest smiles. But she didn’t take the picture. Frozen, I glanced at Mel with an expression that said, “What the….”

“Hold on," she said,"just waiting for it." Waiting for what? Unless a team of makeup and hair artists came through we weren’t getting any prettier. Seconds passed.

“Uh, Jamie-Lynn, we’re not getting any younger here…” Mel said.

“Just hush,” she peeked her head out from around the camera. “I’m waiting for it.”

“For what?” I said pointedly.

“The magic.” I lifted my eyebrows and turned to Mel. The expression on her face said What. In. the. World. She’s crazy and we both burst out laughing. I heard the camera snap in the middle of our outburst and we both looked at Jamie-Lynn. She snapped again.

We left the shop with two black and white photos: portraits of two friends laughing at the camera in a wedding dress and pencil skirt. It was beautiful the way the still frame captured our veracity, no words attached. Jamie-Lynn was right.  She’d found magic.

“I feel kind of bad for making so much fun of her in my head,” Mel said. “She kind of knew what she was doing.” We were walking across the center’s courtyard , our coats draped over our arms in a rare pre-spring evening; the warmth sure to disappear in this weekend’s called for snow.

“She was a character though. You can’t blame us,” I said, my eye on the restaurant in front of us. I was starving.

“No, I know. Its just…” Mel was cut off.

“Chloe?” The voice was familiar. I was nervous before I even turned around but I did and there was Peter Stone.

“I thought that was you,” he said walking over to us from the restaurant’s front doors.

“Hi Peter,” I offered my hand and he took it. A firm hand shake, then the familiar gesture of running his hands up the back of his neck and tousling his hair. For a second I wished that he were Christian but the moment passed when he said, “I’ve been meaning to call you. But I’ve been kind of busy buying new shirts.” I smiled.

“You should’ve only needed one, “ I said. “Don’t try to make me feel too guilty.”

“Well you inspired me to get a new wardrobe.” I glanced at my pencil skirt and thought, if you only knew I was thinking the same thing. Mel shifted and cleared her throat just as Peter asked “So everything okay at the apartment?” he stopped nervously and turned to her. “I’m sorry. Peter Stone. Nice to meet you.” He offered his hand to her and she accepted saying “Mel. Chloe’s best friend who she doesn’t think needs to be introduced.” I shot her a look of embarrassment and annoyance.

“Sorry about that. Mel, Peter. Peter, Mel. And the apartment is fine. Thanks for asking. No robber’s yet.”

“Good. Good. Well I was on my way to something but uh….” he paused, “we’ll keep in touch.” Keeping in touch is man code for when and if I feel like it, I will but maybe not, so don’t get excited. I wanted to roll my eyes but Christian’s voice stopped me. You never know when someone is being sincere and a roll of the eyes is not a sign of strength but a shut down. I hated that his voice was a guide of reason for me.

“We’ll see,” I said. He turned to walk away and then stopped himself. A half turn back he said, “You look good,” directing his hand in an up and down motion that covered my body from head to toe. Then he smiled and walked away.

I wanted to call Andrew and thank him immediately for encouraging me to put’ buy a skirt with a slit in it’ on the goal’s list. Instead I turned to Mel and said, “Thanks for convincing me to wear my slitted skirt.”

She laughed. “No problem. And he’s cute. Now let’s eat!” We walked into the restaurant all bubbly and teenager like. It’s true what they say about living life to the fullest. As it turns out, you never know when a moment might just turn out to be slit worthy.

The Discount Life: Expectation

It stands to reason that even after you’ve humbled yourself to public growth & enlightenment, you’ll still do something to show the world that despite all your learning and despite all your self-growth you still, unfortunately, share an IQ with Forrest Gump.


When I retold the story of Peter and the wine spilling to the DLA it didn’t sound nearly as mortifying as it had felt. Here’s how it happened: I lost my balance in gorgeous shoes, I spilled my wine down the front of his shirt, I cursed like a sailor and then repeatedly apologized for 1) cursing like a sailor and 2) spilling wine down the front of his white shirt.  He then replied, politely, with “It’s no big deal. Really”, and disappeared into the downstairs bathroom.

“Did he come back?” Mel asked, gripping her coffee with both hands. Mid-January had turned us all into icicles. She sat with her back to the coffee shop window, the world behind her covered in white snow.

“Eventually,” I said. “But it took him a while to get cleaned up. George gave him a shirt to wear. The rest of the night he was mismatched.” My company smirked and I pretended not to notice. Out of the corner of my eye I could see Agnes empty the contents of a silver flask into her coffee cup. I couldn’t help but smile at the irony of her discounting herself at a Discount Life meeting.

“Did he ask you out?” asked Lizzie, taking a bite out of her now customary DL bagel. She had cut her brown hair short and had started to wear contacts. I could see that she was beginning to transform herself, slowly, into a fashionable woman. She chewed her bagel like it was a symbol of her new found audacity.

“He said he would call to check up on me sometime.”

“And…”

I shook my head. No. “No call.”

“You terrified the man,” Tucker said, a giant grin spread across his cleanly shaven face. “You attacked him with red wine.” He was joking, it was obvious, but experience taught me his jokes were almost always a half truth. Still with a new job at the public library and a rather permanent place at the 17th Street shelter, Tucker seemed to be half truthing a lot less these days. He’d been officially sober since before Christmas.

“No matter, no matter. There’s always more where that came from,” said Agnes, reaching for her coffee cup. “I myself am thinking of adding husband number four to the litter. And if I can do it, so can a pretty thing like Chloe.” She drank from her cup like a swig and hit it on the table like a shot glass. “His names Coburn. James Coburn.”

We were all silent. It’s never fair to assume that someone is making a discount for themselves right off. If its true that truth is different for everyone, then perhaps Agnes was not discounting herself. But when you’re talking about a woman thriced divorced with a drinking problem and a propensity toward immediate gratification, its hard to ignore the gut instinct that tells you she is, most likely, discounting herself.

“Is he…is he really the one?” Mel asked, carefully, stirring her coffee with a spoon and avoiding Agnes’s eyes.

“Were any of them? No, probably not. But he’s a fine fella and its always nicer to share with someone than to be all alone.” Immediately, I pictured Christian. A piece of my heart sank at the thought of sitting on his couch, recounting the details of our day. His arm outstretched just enough for his hand to touch my leg. I missed him and then I reminded myself that I had did only what I had to do.  Missing him was natural.

“That’s bullshit,” Tucker said. “I’m alone. I’m fine.”

“You look at girly magazines every chance you get,” Agnes retorted.

“Maybe but I’m not marrying every Jane that crosses my path so I don’t have to be alone. And there’s plenty of ‘em. Trust me.” Agnes rolled her eyes. “I’m just saying you’d have a better chance of not discounting yourself if you’d wait for the actual right guy.”

“You’re always assuming that I’m discounting myself. How many times have I to tell you, I’m happy with my vices?” she asked.

“Then what the hell are you here for?” Tucker said.

“To play the devil’s advocate,” she replied. “My best form is no position. Besides my life isn’t bad. I’m happy. I’m rich. I have a nice man. Look at this one,” she lifted her hand toward me, “She’s alone. She’s the one that started this whole thing and she’s completely alone. So is it working?” The room went quiet. I noticed that Agnes’s cup was almost empty. I tried to temper my hurt with the acceptance that she was drinking. Her inhibitions and etiquette down. No one said a word.

“I don’t have to be alone,” I said, breaking the awkward silence for everyone. Mel smiled at me:  the proud smile of a person who walked side by side with you. My second set of footprints in the sand. “There was someone and he was amazing. But there’s just some stuff I still have to work out and I…”

“Did you run?” Agnes’s voice was short. Accusing. Harsh in a way I wasn’t used to from her.

“I mean…no. I just didn’t want to get too tangled up in him only to find out that I wasn’t ready.”

“So's you’re saying, you were afraid to have an expectation. What if he didn’t meet it and then you’d get hurt.”

“What?! No. What I’m saying is the Discount Life is not all about love and romance. It’s about finding yourself. Knowing yourself. Making sure that when you’re alone, you’re happy with who you are. Dysfunction attracts dysfunction. This whole thing is about observe and correct. Observe and correct until you’re functional and content and have your own worth regardless of others around you. Our goals lists?  They’re just small steps that help us get to greater happiness but if you’re always avoiding the work and filling yourself with immediate gratification you’ll never give yourself the chance to get to that place.”

“And does it say somewhere in that book of yours that you have to do it alone? Is everything that makes you happy immediate gratification?” Her lilting accent, normally cute and colloquial, was annoying me.

“No but…”

“And if you find something you like, really like, and then you pull away from it, isn’t that a discount in and of itself?”

“Depends on how “real” really is. I mean do you really love James Coburn or are you just afraid to be alone, cause that’s a major discount. I really care about this man and I don’t want to ruin things because I’m going through this searching…”

“What you mean is, it 'ed be too scary to expect something from him. To let him in all the way," she made quotation marks with her fingers as she said this,"...given the chance that he’ll get to know the real you and then decide to cut 'n run. What you mean is, you want to be the one in control.  The one to cut it off before it has a chance to bite you in the ass," which of course came out sounding like arse.

“Whoa there girls. Calm down now. Let’s not get ugly,” Tucker said, reaching his arm across the table and putting his hand on Agnes’s hand as if to say… Back off of her. You’re getting too close.

“I don’t know where you’re getting this…” I said.   But I didn’t say it with any strength. The room was quiet. The DL meeting had turned into a fight between me and Agnes, our company reduced to fidgeting with their hands and examining the wall paper for safety.

“I might marry every Tom, Dick and Steve that comes my way but I’m unafraid of love. I can get hurt and move on without crumblin’. I don’t have to be in control of my emotions every minute of the day. You’re running from the right one and chasing the wrong one because at least you know what you can expect from the wrong ones. At least you know how they’ll react and what they’ll do and you’ll be able to protect your wee bit of heart from being hurt by someone that really matters. You’ll also never have the chance to love all the way if you’re always choosin’ to protect yourself with less than your equal.”

“Pot calling kettle black!” I said more forcefully than I intended. “ You do?....Tom, Dick and Steve..they show you all the way love? And further more why is this whole thing becoming about love. What about all those goals we set for ourselves. When was the last time you inventoried yourself and even thought to touch one of those goals. You’re no better off just because you’re comfortable with wearing your heart on your sleeve.”

“Well that all depends now doesn’t it lovey? I once heard the greatest thing you’ll ever learn is just to love and be loved in return. I rather liked that. If it’s true, then the Discount Life really does come down to love. All those goals are just a way to help you, find you so you can find it and be happy.” I sighed heavily. Agnes should have been a lawyer. I was about to retort with my own 'but you have to give long term gratification a chance too' argument when the doors to the coffee shop opened and Andrew walked in.

“Perfect timing,” Agnes said, turning her body away from the door and facing me. She whispered, with some indignation I might add,“ I know you won’t be runnin’ from that one. Don’t need to, now do ya?”

“Sorry I’m late,” Andrew said, walking over to me and offering a hug. “Better late than never though, huh?” He pulled up a chair and squeezed between myself and Lizzie.

“Ahh, no. We wouldn’t expect any less,” Agnes said, smiling knowingly at me as she finished the last of her poisoned coffee.

“Yeah well, I thought I’d actually show up since I’ve been saying I would be around more.” He looked at me and smiled, tenderly, as if he had something to say but the timing wasn’t right.

The old familiar comfort of Andrew warmed my body and I said, “Thanks for making good on that promise.” But even as I said it Agnes’s words haunted me. Her performance as the devil’s advocate raised the bar on the DL to a whole new level.



Later, I curled up in bed and checked my goal’s list. In five short months I had done quite a lot. I’d started training for my first marathon. I’d taken cooking classes and learned to make some new dishes. I’d landed a place in a community orchestra where I played violin on a regular basis and I called my Mom and Dad every week, as stated. That was making progress on four of the ten goals on my list. Not bad, if I did say so myself. And I liked to think that the goals list was more than just a way to find true love. But - if Agnes’s rant held any truth, and I was pretty sure despite myself it did, then the whole of love and philosophy was connected. The human condition ever present. Had I made a mistake with Christian? Did I run or was I being smart? How esoteric that the answer to that question lies entirely in my own truth. Maybe there was no answer to be had.

But there was the fact that aside from some friendly text messaging we’d barely spoken since before the holidays. There was the fact that his skin once smelled faintly of vanilla, a scent I never wore. There was the fact that he was confident, exuberant and almost never alone. That without me he still had plenty of resources. And all that meant that he had the potential to see me all the way and leave me standing in my own shadow just the same. There was the fact that I could be severely hurt in the end. The outcome was not in my control. It was in his. So I had removed myself entirely from the circumstance instead of allowing myself to explore real emotions. And though it pained me I had to admit: Agnes was right. She was my opposite - running into love instead of away from it but essentially for all the same reasons. To avoid hurt. To avoid loss of control.  Maybe knowing and awknowledging all that - was the answer.

I scoured the list. I still had 'a trip to Scotland, a hike at Grandfather mountain [or sky diving], practicing new types of wellness and buying a skirt with a slit' to accomplish. The day had presented so much to think about. So much I could not resolve in one evening. But one look at that list reminded me there was something I could accomplish. A mini goal to redirect me toward goal oriented behavior:  Buy a skirt with a slit.

I packed my purse, grabbed my keys and headed for the nearest shopping mall.  Thankfully, more often than not, Bloomingdale’s -  Did. Hold. Answers. 

The Discount Life: Who's version of the Truth?

Why do mother’s always have their own version of the truth? You tell them you scored during the game – they’ll tell their friends you won the game. You tell them you’re running two miles, they tell their friends you’re running a marathon. I told my mother I managed to secure a second chair position in the Philadelphia Community Orchestra and she told the world I was second chair in THE Philadelphia orchestra.


“Chloe’s a violinist for the orchestra, you know” she had snagged Uncle Sal at the family Christmas party.

“Really? Which one?”

“The Philadelphia one,” which, to my mother, was entirely true.

“No mom,” I corrected, “It’s not the Philadelphia Orchestra. That’s a top five. I’m second chair for the Philadelphia Community Orchestra. It’s a much smaller operation.” This is an embarrassing moment. It’s like when your friends were told you played Carnegie Hall only to find out that you played next door to Carnegie Hall. All the triumphant enthusiasm you were previously allowed to exude is now fundamentally diminished to nothing.

“But honey,” she said, alarmed, as if my next response would be entirely responsible for her credence, “ You are involved with the orchestra, right?”

“Yeah, Uncle Sal – I work for the Philadelphia Orchestra and I play for the Philadelphia Community Orchestra.”

“Got it honey. I know what you’re trying to say…” Uncle Sal was always good at cutting my mother off. I suppose it came from years of doing it. But he was right. I had clarified. I was representing the truth and that’s all that I could do.

I was forced to repeat this mantra regularly these days, as it was the infamous “Holiday Season”. A time of miracles and mirth. The time when anything is possible and everything is wonderful. Except when it’s not been, up until now, and you, the ravished Mary Magdalene of yuletide, must stand confidently with your glass of red wine and reassure the barrage of fair weather friends that , Yes, you’ve had a rough year and Yes, you are in fact fine. One. Must. Maintain. Cheer.

And through it all, it wasn’t the family party at Aunt Betty’s that scared me. Or my office party. Or the two Christmas events that Mel and Jack dragged me too as their permanently well dressed third wheel ( a fact it seemed was no longer even of note; We had been so tied together of late it was as if we three were an item…We 3 Kings of orient are..baring gifts we traveled by car…). No, the party I dreaded with so much apprehension I felt like taking to the bed with a month long illness was Judy’s. The Party. The event of the season. The place to display your yearly list of accomplishments or stand in the back corner with your champagne like a loser at a high school reunion who’s life simply had not gotten any better. And despite that fact that my life was definitely beginning to feel better, it was not, to the untrained eye, beginning to look any better. Representative of this was that of all the events that holiday season, Judy’s was the only one I would be attending alone.

“It can’t be any worse than Andrew’s party,” Mel said during one of our nightly chats. We had resorted to phone conversations in lieu of climbing into bed next to each other and reeling off the happenings of the day before Jack came in to drag us back into adulthood. Not living together had its downside. I missed Mel. “That was awkward,” she said. She was referring to the semi-painful experience of watching Marie demonstrate her “wifely” potential. Running around Andrew’s apartment refilling food platters and wiping counter tops, all with a smile as big as the sun. I knew that smile. I had given that smile once upon a time. It was insecurity masked as Betty Crocker bliss. She was terrified: of us. Of him. And more than anything, of not pleasing him enough to keep him. For a moment I felt a kinship with Marie. That whole act is exhausting.

“That was a little hard to watch, “ I said. Half Truth. The horrible, complicated creature inside of me gleaned some piece of satisfaction from that party. Even the bad bits. By the end of the night, easy going, blank faced Marie flipped out on Andrew. From behind the closed doors of his bedroom she exploded at him with everything she had been trying to keep in: I’ve barely seen you all night. You’ve paid more attention to every girl here than me and all your friends too. And I’m doing all this work for you. You’re so drunk I feel like I have to watch you. And I’m the one you love. Andrew was flabbergasted and offended, the way he always was when someone inconveniently decided to call him on his latent trust issues; manifested, of course, in his poor treatment of the women trying to love him. His world was at its best when the women he’d trained to be laid back and accepting behaved en suit. He came apart at the seams when they decided to step outside the lines he drew and actually expect something from him. But his behaviors, however hard they were to watch, were reassuring. At least I knew him.

“But Judy’s party will be different, " I said.  "I don’t really know her people. They’re not my friends so if its gets weird there’s no one to turn to". I stood in front of the mirror examining myself. I’d chosen a little black dress. Sexy but safe. It was made of satine and threw a garnet cast when I shifted in the light. I borrowed a pair of Mel’s famous Christian Louboutins (an ebay purchase we do not consider a discount – everyone wants a pair of Louboutins) and pulled my hair half up on one side like a 40’s pin up girl.

“Well, it’ll be a new experience,” Mel said. “You’re used to us. You’re used to Andrew and his women,” she finished with its time to get used to new people but I was too stuck on Andrew’s “women” to fully absorb her point. At the end of the evening Andrew and Marie had made up. We all returned to the kitchen when we could hear them cooing at each other. He pulled out his usual charm – the part of Andrew that erased his bad treatment and made you forget that he said he wouldn’t disappear and did. From a friendly point of view, it was something to be accepted. Loved even. From a relationship stand point , the seed had been planted. It was only a matter of time before Marie figured out she only had half his heart and made him choose. A little voice inside reminded me to be prepared for the day he finally did.

“You’re right," I said to Mel. “It’s time to get used to new people.”

George and Judy’s house was draped in icicle lights. Their giant Oaks boasted thick branches glowing in creamy white lights. She had urns filled with Christmas trees flanking the front door which held an elegant wreath of twisted bay leaves and ribbons. I hadn’t even made it inside and already I felt my Cinderella gown transform into rags.

George answered the door with his usual “Chloe!” and the too strong bear hug. “So glad you could make it. Judy’s in the kitchen and there’s food and drinks in the dining room. Can I take your coat?”

“Sure.” I handed him the coat and surveyed the land. I went straight for the wine – I didn’t think I could do this entirely sober. On my way I caught a glimpse of Judy. Her hair was swept up and she wore a form fitting shift. She was reaching over the stove, her back turned to me. When she turned around I couldn’t help but notice that she was a little pudgy from the front. Bad as it is that this was my first thought, I must admit I once again felt a twinge satisfaction that the women at whom I set all my standards had taken one of hers down a notch. Super model, perfect Judy - was just a little bit fat.

At the drinks table there was wine, beer, a pomegranate cocktail and the quintessential drunk man hanging around the punch bowl. At Andrew’s party, this man would have been Andrew and I would’ve cracked a joke. But at Judy’s party, I did not know this man and I felt tension in every trace of his eyes as looked me up and down.

“Beautiful,” he said. “The party can finally begin.” He was balding around his hairline but otherwise was fairly handsome in a suit coat and trousers. He was smiling but there was no comfort there. I tensed up, smiled awkwardly and laughed as if he had been rude.

“I’m sure your evening starts over again each time one of these women walks through the door.” I said it sarcastically. Christian would’ve bantered with me. Andrew would’ve slammed it with a joke. But this man looked confused. Defeated. He shrugged his shoulder’s and retreated into his glass. I was reminded of the night when Christian said I rolled my eyes to protect myself from being seen. Standing in the awkwardness beside the balding man, I told myself I would have to work on this. “Thank you, though,” I said. “I appreciate it.” He smiled again and I took the moment to break away, saving him the trouble of trying to regain our ground.

The first 10 minutes of any party that doesn’t include your best friends is like torture. A slow walk around the food. You take your time examining every inch of the delectables, as if cubes of cheese and deli meats are some of the most fascinating things you’ll see all evening. Several eyes meet yours, several half smiles are transferred: each person feeling each other out for strengths and weaknesses. Each of us trying to find the humans in the room with the same level of confidence and insecurity as to make them compatible for conversation around the platter of dip and a glass of gin and tonic. I found two such women , both single, both attractive but not any more so then me, both chatty and willing to take the bait when I cracked the first joke. Their names were Tina and Shannon and I was not the least bit intimidated by them. We stood in the safety of each other making dull chatter for at least an hour. It was clear that these women had been single for a long time. They were good at it. They could point out the single men, the married men, the single but taken men and the married men who wanted to be single again. They were unabashed in their flirtations with any male that so much as broached our direction. I was quieter than usual. I could feel myself locking up. My flirtations polite at best. As I observed them I realized how much of a game the whole thing was. The last time I stood in this house I had a place card attached to my name. I was grounded, secure. Now, with no place card, I felt like I was flying in a wind storm. Where will I land? No one can tell.

Oddly enough, it was Judy who came to save me. “Chloe, come meet my friend Jan….”. She whisked me away to introduce me to her entourage. I watched her move with ease from one group to another – firmly aware of her place. Happy. Even a little bit chubby, she had a beautiful home, a gorgeous husband who made lots of money at a job no one understood and a career to envy. Watching her made me long for the place where I felt that same permanence. At Andrew’s party, Marie was The Judy, but I had my place. Above her, if we’re honest. Marie was the temporary – I was the constant. It was Marie he charmed back into submission and me he turned to as his equal and said, “I’m proud of you for hitting those goals we set.”

I smiled, sheepishly tracing the rim of my wine glass. “I can’t exactly cross them off the list but I’m working on them.”

“And I’m really proud of you for it," he said," Happy for you too. Let’s plan that hike soon, okay? I promise I’ll be around more. I’m sorry.” I nodded and he hugged me. The secure, engulfing hug that squeezed a little too tightly around my ribs. The hug that redeemed our friendship over and over and over. The hug that said it all even when we never said a word.

I realized in observing Judy in her finest hour and reflecting on Andrew in his less then finest hour, that while I had so easily fallen for Christian because he truly saw me, that perhaps for these key players in my life, I was the one who truly saw them. Their safe haven to just – be. The thought both made me smile and pained me. It was a tough spot to be in – to know more about the person than they’re willing to acknowledge for themselves and still be understanding of them when they disappoint you can be a lonely place. But it was every bit the place I chose to be. I loved them. All of them.

“Chloe, how are you doing?” It was Judy. Bringing me back to the present. We were in the kitchen – her domain. She looked perfect in it.

“I’m really great. Thanks so much for asking.”

“I heard about you and Stanley. We don’t have to talk about it. But I wanted to say I’m here.” I so loved and hated Judy. She was that creature, that friend, that you only hated because she was so wonderful that you loved her. In the end, I always ended up hating myself for disliking her benign perfection.

“Thanks, “ I said. “I’m really doing alright. Things are coming together. Sometimes I feel like I’m wearing it all on my sleeve but I’ve learned a lot. It’s not so bad, being un-perfect.” I laughed in my head at the pun on the Judy-ism I’d created.

“I know how you feel,” she said, pointing at her stomach. I made a confused face as if to say, I had no idea you were getting fat. Which is, as I’ve mentioned, a very big half truth.

“I’m pregnant,” she whispered with great enthusiasm. Of course. Judy would never have just eaten one too many Oreos. She was just a little bit fat because she was just a little bit pregnant.

“Oh my gosh! Congratulations!” I leaned in for a hug.

She said, “I know right now everyone just thinks I’m getting fat.” I looked away from her as I said, “No, no. You look great. How far along are you?”

“Three months,” she said. “We’re getting really excited now that we can tell people.”

“I bet. So what’s the plan? Do you think you’ll still work or stay home?” I had always pictured Judy at home, making giant gourmet meals for her naturally blonde family.

“Oh no,” she brushed her hand through the air and laughed a little, “George is going to stay home. I make all the money anyway so he said he’d love to. Can’t you see it? George at home with an apron on..” she glanced across the room at him, beaming.

“To be honest, not really, “ I said. “I always pictured George as a big business man at Capital One. I thought…” I stopped myself. I thought he brought home the bacon and paid for the granite counter tops.

“George works as the head of maintenance for Capital One. He was never the big business type. Doesn’t have the drive. “ My head was spinning. What! My whole conception of “the perfect” couple was floundering. I had developed my notions on the basis of the big strong man that cared for Judy so that she could go on and pursue all her passions and live a care free life. “Yeah, no, its my career that pays for all of this really, “ she said,” but I don’t mind it. He’s great at taking care of the house and stuff. He’ll be a great stay at home dad.” Usually when women say this I think it’s a giant crock to cover for the fact that they really want a provider but don’t have one and can’t say it out loud. But from Judy, I actually believed it.

“We’re very happy,” she said. And I did not, for one second, doubt her. I reeled over the misconceptions I’d had of George and Judy. The outcome was that Judy was even more perfect than the perfect she had been before. Now, she not only did everything but she also paid for everything. She was amazing – like this creature in the Amazon at which I had to stare but would never fully understand. But something in the way she talked about George and the baby instantly relaxed the inferiority complex she instilled in me and every other woman around her. Her perfection, as it turns out, was perfect for her. Despite appearances, her marriage and her life was not the fairy tale version of the truth. It was simply the George and Judy version of the truth.

Judy didn’t live a discount life because she wasn’t putting her own standards against anyone else’s. She was only living according to her own. It was a reminder for me, that its all about what you can take. What works for one might work beautifully and then not work for you. There is no right or wrong. Only your version of the truth.

As the party raged on and the guests got a little more drunk, I began, finally, to make conversations with people I didn’t know and feel like the best version of myself. My jokes were well timed but not meant to hide anything. My flirtations relaxed and I felt I might actually be getting the hang of this single thing. Mid way between discussions on politics with Mr. Future Senator and gardening techniques with Mr. Green Thumb, I excused myself to the drinks table to refill my wine glass. And just as I felt content and confident I heard a familiar voice say, “So…any strange noises in the night you need us to come check on?” I turned, too quickly in my borrowed Christian Louboutin’s, to see the smiling face of Peter Stone the realtor. I had just enough time to say, “Nope. I’m fine….” Before losing my balance and spilling my red Mary Magdalene wine all over his crisp white shirt…….