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…….

The Discount Life: cont'd

The events of the weeks that passed flew by like a series of images. Images, so at once piercing and cloudy, it seemed plausible they might belong to someone else’s life. A movie reel of shots that flashed by in blinks and threw me into forward motion until at last it stopped at my next challenge and left me to heal. I sat outside the audition room door and grieved but for what I could not name. There were so many possibilities it was hard to nail it down to one element. More complicated still was that it seemed that sadness was not the culprit. It was the settling – the Unknown crawling from out of its distant hiding place and setting up camp, indefinitely, in my stomach. The ties were cut and I was climbing the list of goals Andrew and I had set for me on his porch that day in September. It was real. Not a movie reel. Real.

As I listened through the door to my competition my hands began to shake. Third chair violin was certainly not the most prestigious chair but it was, after all, a spot in an orchestra. My orchestra. I would still have to keep my job as a receptionist (my apartment, bars and all, would not pay for itself) but I would have reached a goal. And I was learning, through the DLA and our newest topic of self inventory, that mini-goals were just one greater step toward inner peace. Mini –goals accomplished, equated contentment for the curious.

At the last DLA meeting I told everyone about my new apartment. About packing boxes at Stanley’s. About the waiting for him on the bottom step of the stairs so I could make my last amends. The key, as we had determined before, was to own it. And I wanted to lock the door and leave so badly I almost caved and left with my illusions intact. But then everything I would have done from then on would be just that – illusions. Of a self I wanted to be but had not allowed myself to be because I’d run from the part where you have stand up and own it.

When he came in, I could see his face light up and immediately fall. He said nothing and stood stone still. I didn’t get up. Couldn’t move really. But I twisted my fingers and said, “I haven’t heard from you since Thanksgiving.” He said nothing and my heart dropped. I realized, that until this moment I had always wondered, maybe even allowed myself to hope, that he’d step in, step up and try and convince me that he really, truly, loved me. But even if actions speak louder words and words are only secondary, the absence of both is a sure sign. I took a deep breath and stood up.

“This can’t be a shock to you,” I said. “You’ve known we were troubled for a long time.” He looked down at his shoes. No response. “I tried to tell you. We talked about it. I put it out there that I wanted to work on it but …” and my voice broke a little “…you didn’t choose it.” Still he said nothing and I picked up my purse off the console table and moved around him toward the door. “You have so much in you Stanley. You're a good person. You’re smart. But you have to want something. It’s not enough for me to want it for you.” I kissed his cheek and opened the door, “I hope you find it. Whatever it is,” I said, and just as I was stepping out he said: “How could you do this to me?” I turned and looked at him. I wanted to be strong and tough like a character in a movie. I wanted to say something without regret, without emotion, as if the whole of our relationship was behind me. Instead, I felt tears stream down my face. I tasted the salt of one as I said, “I didn’t do this to you by myself. You let it happen too.”

“You left me remember?” His voice was angry. Mean. His face was red with emotion but it wasn’t sadness. It was rage. I wanted to argue. The words for a retaliation compiled in my brain, ready for battle. But I heard the voice of the DLA and the sense of Get Some Manners: Be truthful to yourself. Know that you don’t need someone else to agree with you in order to be right. Don’t try to convince someone that you are worthy, they may not be in a place in themselves to be able to see and accept it anyway. Don’t be angry. Understand that they can only give of what they are. And what they are is determined by where they are in their own self awareness. The truth is you can scream until you’re blue in the face but if they can’t see themselves, if they can own it, you won’t be able to convince them. The truth was we just weren’t on the same level anymore. And maybe we never were.

“I’m sorry for giving up on you Stanley. But I can’t be the only one who chooses to act in the relationship. You have to choose too or the whole thing goes under.” He said nothing and as I waited for him to respond my tears dried up. It was affirmation: I could be waiting my whole life. So I said, calmly and perhaps with my first ounce of contentment, “Goodbye Stanley. Good luck.” And I then I closed the door.

The finality of it all released me. I was free. And that, as it turns out, is where your two minute movie clip really begins. Julia Roberts running through the streets. Richard Gere packing up his boxes to move on. Free, not bound, to choose whatever they like. Of course, in the movies they choose each other, but no matter.

The DLA championed my self- thought. My actions, my words, they said, were a representation of all that I had struggled to learn, put into practice. As they talked amongst themselves about their own improvements I was running through simultaneous inner dialogues, the results of which were harsh. Andrew had not shown for our meeting. I’d texted him all week. Called him. But he did not respond. I wanted to continue saying this behavior was unusual for him but the truth was that it was becoming regular. I supposed he really was moving on. And the ache of that realization was harder then when I walked away from Stanley. And yet, it wasn’t his fault. He wasn’t responsible for my happiness. And that thought pushed Christian my mind. I knew then what I would have to do and, sighing at the revelation, dismissed myself early from the meeting citing indigestion as the cause.

It was almost Christmas and we had two cooking classes left . I was still looking forward to each one as much as I had in the beginning. Christian was like a mirror. A beautiful mirror and under his reflection I saw the person I wanted to be. But before I could know if I loved him for him or him for how he made me feel, I had to find out if the reflection I saw of myself in his mirror could be conjured in my own mirror: alone. Otherwise, I was making all the same mistakes. Only this time, I might be ruining someone for whom I was really meant. Get Some Manners said: it isn’t about not making mistakes. It’s about observing and correcting behaviors until you achieve a consistent balance of truth and action that propel you toward your desired goals. If I didn’t let Christian go, I would never know how to maintain that consistency for myself.

In class on Thursday, we made Sundried Tomato Quiche, roasted artichokes and ricotta parfait. I watched him. Every image I collected was more powerful than the last. This was the hardest part. The moment just before you separate yourself from the thing you want the most, knowing full well, that you are choosing to let it go for the sake of their own good, is heartbreaking. I absorbed every movement he made. Breathed in the scent of him knowing I might never get the chance to stand here in his want again. When class was over he reached for me and said, “You’re far away. What’s going on?” I surprised myself when I didn’t cry. Every emotion inside of me was larger than tears. We went for coffee, the same place where we’d had our first real conversation, and I explained to him everything in detail. What amazed me, endlessly, about Christian was that he never needed me to dump it down for him. He never asked me to stop thinking so philisophically and just get on with it. He never asked me to be what he needed but instead, always encouraged me to be me.

“I just don’t think this is healthy yet,” I said. “I want you. I do. But I have so much to go through still. You know? And you’re a distraction. An amazing distraction but a distraction all the same.” I rubbed the bones under my eyebrows to release the tension that swelled in my brain at the expression of my thoughts. I hated this. I hated this. On impulse, I wanted to take back everything I said and run off into the sunset with him. But it wasn’t right. He knew it and I knew it.

“You don’t have to worry,” he said, reaching across our little table and taking my hands away from my face. “I understand." He smiled and it wasn’t mischevious or devilish like it normally was. It was the Christian I met that first night – present and understanding.

“I feel like I’m just giving up. On everyone,” I said. I felt sick with myself for saying it out loud.

“No,” he said. “You’re just choosing not to give up on you”. There was a long pause and we stared at each other, silently.  Everything we hadn’t said held visibly in our gaze. “And besides I’ll be around,” he massaged my hand gently, “you and I are going to be friends for a long time.”

After that, I went home and cried. I ran and played the violin. I talked out every detail with Mel and cried some more. I skipped our last cooking class. He messaged me that he did too. I went running instead.

And it turns out, the turmoil of it all culminated to this moment. Sitting outside the audition door.

A woman with dark brown hair and a red suit opened the door and called my name. I entered the audition room and introduced myself at their behest. It happened quickly, without much fanfare. I played my piece, I stood and thanked for their time. And when I left I couldn’t help but feel that I had finally done something on my list. Whether or not I actually made the chair, I had worked toward a goal and done everything possible to make it happen. It was the first time I felt that perhaps, even for just a short while, I had stopped living the Discount Life, and started living a real life.