The Discount Life: State of Process - Pre-Inventory Yourself

As it turned out, days turned into a week and I don’t remember much of the first 48 hours. I slept, I drank Mel’s tea, I called in to work, I slept some more. Mel and Jack went about their lives and left me in the comfort of the guest room, an initial sanctuary that quickly began to feel like a loony bin. What was I doing? And yet the answer to the question seemed very logical, very sound: you’re saving yourself. No more discounts.


Except that when I developed the concept I envisioned a world where clearing all your discounts, setting goals and following through led to a life of contentment and harmony. So far, I’d dismissed several good fashion items with the potential to come back in style, fatally exhausted my lungs only to be light years away from running a marathon, left my boyfriend of six years and my home and all the picture frames that went with it. No discounts was beginning to feel like a very convenient phrase for loser. How long was my two minute movie clip going to last? I mean really. Self-awareness should do you the favor of moving life a long at a pace that reassures you that Richard Gere is just around the corner and that all this change will pay off in the end. But my plea seemed to fall on deaf ears.

By Wednesday, I pulled myself out of bed long enough to shower and throw on some sweats. I pulled my hair back in a knot and examined my face. The remnants of puffy crying lids had been reduced to taupe circles under my eyes. My chin had birthed a couple of teenage era break outs, which could be related to stress or the fact that my comatose recluse act had kept me from washing my face for three days. And let’s not even talk about my hair. The roots were unspeakable. When had I just stopped caring about my appearance? And was that a wrinkle creasing around my left eye? If no discounts continued to wreak this much havoc on my face – I’d be a shriveled up mummy by next week.

I rested my arms on the bathroom counter, leaned over the sink and closed my eyes. I thought, momentarily, about crying again – it is indescribably hard to stop feeling sorry for yourself when you’ve given up near your entire life AND your reflection proffers a premature Betty White in the mirror; a tired one at that. But the smell of coffee hit my nostrils and something like a light bulb clicked on in my head. What time was it? I had no idea. Mel had neglected to put a clock in the guest room and my cell phone was in my purse, which was in the entryway where I had not been since Sunday when I collapsed, as fast as possible, into a Nyquil induced coma. There were black out blinds on the windows in the guest room which contributed to my days on end of sleeping but the slight etching of light coming from their corners suggested it was morning.

I cracked open the door and peered around the apartment. You could see pretty much the whole lay out from this spot. I heard no one, I saw no one and I rebuffed myself for feeling timid in Mel’s house. In times passed it was as if it was my own but now it felt foreign. Occupied – by a boy. I tip-toed toward the kitchen and relaxed as I turned the corner until a familiar voice said “good morning” from his birthday suit and his boxers. I jumped, turned and covered my eyes with my hands.

“Jack! I’m so sorry,” I tried to find the door and hit the wall instead, “ I didn’t know anyone was here,” I said, turning and hitting the kitchen chair, stubbing my toe with great force. “Damn it…”

“Chloe. It’s fine. I took a chance you weren’t joining the living yet. Miscalculation.”

“Oh. It’s okay. This is your house. My fault,” I said, standing still, my hands firmly over my eyes. There was an awkward silence enhanced by the clanging of the spoon he used to stir his coffee.

“Chloe. Stop. You’ve seen boxers before. And I’m leaving anyway. Gotta get dressed for work.” I could hear him moving. “I’m glad you’re feeling better. Have some coffee. It’ll be good for you.” He made for the kitchen door and I let down my hands and walked toward the coffee pot. “I know that tea Mel’s been making you tastes like shit.” I laughed and secretly agreed with him.  I poured myself a swimming pool sized mug of coffee, Mel liked all her mugs to be the size of soup terrains, and walked to the window. Look at that – the sun was shining. Huh.

I went to my purse and checked my phone. Two missed calls from Stanley. Eight missed calls from my parents house. One from work. And one from Judy. I put the phone down and climbed back into bed. Get Some Manners was back on the nightstand. I flipped it open to Chapter 5: Inventory Yourself. I glanced down at the coffee stain I’d had enough time to make since pouring the cup in the kitchen. Between my hair, my stain, my skin, my condition and my aloneness – inventorying myself sounded like a sure way to end up on a ledge. No thanks. Let’s skip that this morning. Instead I grabbed a magazine. 10 Ways to Show Your Mom You Can Dress Up Like a Lady, Beauty on a Budget, How to Inspire Him This Thanksgiving. I flipped through it long enough to feel my own inspiration. Retail therapy. A reason to get out of the house. A perfect reason to get out of the house.

I waited until I heard Jack say, “ By Chloe” and shut the door behind him. I took an inordinately long time getting dressed but when I checked the mirror I still felt garish. Oh Whatever.

I drove to the nearest mall and basked in the idea that inside those four walls would be the miracle drug that would get me through the next phase. I parked the car, located the directory and made a mental map of the A-listers: Anthropologie, Jcrew, Banana Republic, Urban Outfitters, Arden B – When I hit Anthropologie, instinct kicked in. I ignored the myriad full priced, very beautiful items, and went directly to the sale rack. I piled my arms high with swag of multiple colors. A rush of contentment washed over me. In the dressing room I began my personal fashion show with a ruffled top and a pair of high waisted, wide leg pants. I stood before the three way mirror and examined myself from every angle. Was it disturbing if I admitted that three days of depressive not eating had shaved off those couple of pounds that had resisted the advances of the elliptical before? My butt looked awesome! Immediately, as all women do, I began to come up with scenarios in which it would be plausible to wear this outfit. Each scenario inevitably led to meeting the love of my life and living happily ever after. I pictured Christian and before I could control the situation my brain had him ripping my pants off….Stop it Chloe. That’s ridiculous. But I bought the pants anyway.

My next foray was at Banana Republic, where I tried on a little blue dress at 40% off and stood back to admire myself. It was little too tight across the bum and a little too short if I was honest; when I moved it hiked dangerously close to my area of mystery. But the sales lady came up behind me and said “Wow, you look fantastic in that”. Half truth. I looked like an almost perfect version of a slightly slutty semi-intelligent secretary. “You know Cameron Diaz wore a dress just like that to the People’s Choice Awards and you look just like her in it. Better even”, which is the world’s worst sale’s line and could only be true if I grew a foot in ten minutes and found a male model to hang on my arm. But its having been said out loud in reference to me made me smile regardless. I bought the dress.

It was one of those times where you know you shouldn’t do it but it feels marvelous so you do anyway. Like the boy you shouldn’t have kissed but did or the box of Thin Mints you know you’ll regret but go so far as to consume an entire sleeve in one sitting and then berate yourself for the rest of the night. Purchase after purchase, I felt my anxieties calm. The cooling effect of a lifelong drug: immediate gratification. As I packed my purchases in the car, the little voice in my head said this was not the behavior of a woman in control of her new No Discounts life. And I was more than a little afraid to face Mel. As in most cases, the truth was already there: I had used one vice to compensate for a void instead of dealing with the void. Despite the fact that I was aware, I chose to briefly suspend that knowledge and indulge in what I knew would make me feel good right now. Get Some Manners said that a person who is always suspending their “truth” is doomed to repeat the very thing they wish to change – over and over. I knew this. I heard “Be true to yourself” like a record on repeat in my head. But I would wait to hear it from Mel to fully acknowledge it.

To make myself feel less guilty and more accomplished, I dialed Andrew on my way back to Mel’s. At least asking him to be my DL partner would prove I had made an attempt to adhere to the DLA. I got his voice mail and left a too lengthy message that in retrospect, truly said nothing at all but, in woman speak, gave him every detail of the last four days in babble. Mel would’ve known exactly what the whole charade meant. I ended with “call me. I’ve got a question for you” and hung up. He was probably with discount girl. Why did that bother me so much? Detach yourself from the situation. That’s what Get Some Manners said. I am detached from the discount girl. I am detached from the discount girl.  I don't care.  I don't care.  I repeated it until I got back to the apartment. By the last go round I was actually starting to believe it.

Mel greeted me at the door, a déjà vu I was happy did not end the way it did four days ago. “Successful day?” she asked. I looked down at my loot and sighed, “I know. I know,” I said mournfully. “It’s a load of discount stuff.” She didn’t say anything but raised her brows and smiled. “ Awww…crap. I’m going to have to return it all aren’t I?”

“Well, maybe not all of it. Let’s see some first”. We went inside to dissect the purchases from the floor of her walk in closet. She examined the pants, the shirts. I tried on the misguided dress. “Why’d you do this Clo?” she asked.

“You know why.” She nodded. “I wanted to feel happy and content, which I know doesn’t come from buying clothes. It comes from my intrinsic value. I am valuable even if I’m only valuable to me,” I said sarcastically, repeating word for word the mantra Get Some Manners attempted to instill in its reader from page one to my current resting spot of Chapter 5. Which still remained: Inventory yourself, and which I was still unwilling to do.

“You are valuable Clo. And you don’t need a dress and pants and a belt to prove it.”

“I know. But they’re cute right?”

“Okay you might need the pants to prove it but that dress is slutty. Take it back.”

“I will.”

My phone rang. “It’s Andrew.” Mel made a face. I made one back and I answered, “Long time no talk stranger.”

“Hey. What are you doing?”

“Trying on slutty clothes and getting yelled at by Mel. I have to return them.”

“Don’t return it all. Guys like slutty clothes sometimes. ”

“I’m keeping the pants.”

“Good call.”

“You haven’t even seen them.”

“I have a picture in my mind. It’s very clear. You should keep the pants.” Our banter felt complete again, which really only meant I didn’t feel her this time. There was a difference in his voice when she wasn’t nearby. Relief washed over me like someone who just realized they aren’t going to fall afterall. “So, you have a question for me? Shoot.”

“Oh yeah. Will you be my DLA partner? We’re doing partners for the DLA meetings on Sundays and I just thought since you helped me with my list I’d ask you?”

“Oh. Yeah sure, I guess. What about Stanley?” I was silent. Mel looked up from the floor and smiled reassuringly when she registered the panic on my face. “No discounts,” I said quietly.

“What?”

“No discounts,” I repeated with more strength this time, my heart pounding in my chest. “I’m not with Stanley anymore. I’m staying with Mel for a while and I’m not asking him. I’m asking you.” This time he was the quiet one.

“Okay,” he said, after a long pause. “I’ll be there.” I didn’t try to fight the tears that clouded my vision but I did, unsuccessfully, battle the emotion that clouded my throat. “Thank you,” I croaked.

There was a long stretch of silence and he broke it, saying, “I’m here Chloe. Whatever you need. I’m here.” He said it so softly, I thought I could crawl inside it and sleep peacefully there for life. When we hung up I wiped the threatening liquid from my eyes and turned to Mel. “I think I’m gonna wear these to cooking class tomorrow”. I faked a smile and held the pants up to my body.

“I don’t think I’m going to go,” she said.

“Why?!”

“Because you don’t really want me to.”

“I do too. I asked you, remember?”

“Yeah but that was before….” I hadn’t told her about Christian but I knew what she was going to say, “who is he Chloe?” Damn Mel for reading me like an open book all the time. Other people only hear what you tell them. But the real people in your life know more than your words. She could read between my lines. She heard everything. She saw everything. She knew everything.

“His name is Christian. He’s – amazing.”

“Do you think you guys have a shot or is this a fun thing?”

“I don’t know.” I paused. “And Mel, I really don’t care.” She nodded.

“Then you should wear the pants. You look hot in them.” We stared intensely at each other for a moment, then burst into carols of laughter.


His back was turned to me when I walked into class. God he was tall. And have I mentioned how gorgeous he is? Mmm. He turned when I said, “Hi there” and gave my outfit a once over. He was mute and shook his head as if to clear his attention. I sensed approval.

“I was wondering if you were going to make it to class tonight,” he said. “You were cuttin’ it close.”

“Worried?”

“No. Just curious.”

“Well, I’m here now,” I said. He sidled up next to me. “And I’m allowed to sit as close to you as I want.” He cocked an eyebrow.

“No Stanley?” I shook my head, no. “Does that mean that I can take you out for drinks tonight?”

“I told you. I’m a light weight. You’ll be carrying me home.”

“I’m okay with that.” Electricity pulsed through my body. My pheromones were primed.

“Alright. I’ll go for a drink. One. Drink.”

“Sounds like that’s all I’m gonna need,” he said. He grinned from ear to ear as Alex walked in saying, “Tonight we’re going to make Hot Tamale Pie. I have to warn you about the chili peppers. They’re tricky. Get too much at one time and your body will explode with heat.” I glanced at Christian. He returned the eye contact and his expression said he hadn’t missed the irony either. He brushed his finger tips against my leg under the veil of the island and I had to disagree with Alex. If anything was going to make my body explode with heat tonight, it wasn’t going to be the chili peppers.

The Discount Life: Step Four - A State of Process

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.

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.

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)