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…….