by Hope Lyda
Married or single?
I’m tired of questions.
“Under 65 and not blind.” I mark the “yes” box and my spirit is temporarily buoyed as I replace the idea of single with the idea of being young and sighted. But as my overanalytical mind tends to do, it takes the devil’s advocate position with fervor. While my peers are dating, getting married, or climbing corporate ladders in expensive heels, the two best things I have going for me are 1) I am not on Social Security and 2) I do not order my issues of Aging Grace in brail.
On a scale of one to ten, my version of twentysomething living has to rate a negative three. Hot tears escape from the corner of my squinting eyes. Lewis looks up from gathering his belongings and seems frightened by my pale and sweaty visage.
“But you get money back.” He is perplexed. Nobody has ever responded to a refund in this manner. “Did I do something wrong?” He slides around the booth and pats my back as though I am choking. The Boy Scouts never taught him the proper procedure for nervous breakdowns. My rigid muscles try to contain my sobs.
Lewis calls for Margo, who turns out to be the safety advisor for this shift. She also pats me on the back. “I have an aunt who is allergic to potatoes. Could it be that?” Her concern is kind, but I question the quality of her safety training.
“Call Sadie.” It is all I can think to do. “Sadie, please.”
Lewis grabs one of his file folders and locates Sadie’s number. Margo points to the swinging kitchen door as the closest phone available and starts to count aloud as she measures my pulse. The next time I see her, she is wearing a “I’m quite a LuLu, just ask me” pin given only to successful managers, honored cooks, and on that rare occasion, hostesses who prevent hyperventilating customers from choking.
A Life Examined
Psychologists, psychoanalysts, and monks consider life examination a worthy investment of time and energy. To be thrown into it, however, like the deep end of the pool when you are still clinging to an inflatable dolphin, is not something I would recommend. But here I sit, on my secondhand couch, surrounded by a jury of my peers, who are all now doing their job…peering at me with looks of concern and staring into my life with the same fascination one has when watching open heart surgery on the medical channel.
Sadie called them all here. She says for emotional support, but I know what an intervention looks like. When I am not engrossed in the medical channel, I skip over to the latest twentysomething angst in the city or affluent suburbs show where interventions can begin with a social hour, hors d’oeuvres, and polite talk of rising stocks. But in this eastside Tucson version, chips and salsa served on paper plates are followed with talk of why we are gathered in my small living room at 9:30 P.M. on a weeknight if it is not to watch a chick flick or to discuss a relationship breakup.
“The idea of being under 65 and not blind was depressing…was that it?” Caitlin is trying to understand my complexities.
With my head in my hands I try to explain for the umpteenth time. “No. It actually made me feel good, and then that depressed me. For someone so close to their absolute goal date, my proximity to the life I envisioned is so far away. I’m pathetic by anyone’s standards.” I force myself to look up. Angelica is nodding in agreement with this last statement and is reaching for more Doritos.
“You know what I love?” She kicks off her Marc Jacobs ankle boots and sits cross-legged on the black wicker chair I painted last year. “Those baked chips, the really crispy ones with the scalloped edges. They are so much better than these. Oh, or baby quiche. I could eat a dozen of those.” She lifts up the snack that does not pass her standards and shoves it into her undeserving mouth.
Caitlin, scattered but well-meaning, is turned directly toward me. She is wearing glasses with a diamond-studded ladybug on the right lens. As hard as she tries, her one eye is not able to see beyond the dazzling insect.
“I have always wondered what it would be like to be interrogated by a Latina version of Colombo,” I say to break the tension.
“Very funny,” Caitlin says, waving away the joke she doesn’t get.
Sadie taps her mason jar, the only glassware I own, to start the official intervention. “We need to share words of support for Mari. We all know she has been struggling for quite some time…”
Sadie has just given an invitation to my friends to come forward and dissect my life. I should be more insulted than I am. But I’m a bit curious. It isn’t as though I haven’t been aware of my problems; I just didn’t know my friends were dying to point them out.
The vulnerability makes me feel cold. I reach for a fleece blanket that since moving to Tucson has been more for decor than function. Bundled up, I await the onslaught of personal advice. Am I strong enough to weed through the petty and get to wisdom that might actually help?
Unfortunately, Angelica is eager to go first. I don’t trust her with my feelings. “Mari, let’s face it. You live the life of my grandmother. Look!” She rummages in the wrought-iron magazine rack and pulls out a stack of magazines.
Dang it.
She holds them up, fanning the pages and rotating them so that each person in the room can clearly view the cover images of white-haired models biking, playing cards, and enjoying their patio sets. “Aging Grace, Movement and Health, Aging Monthly, Retirement Weekly…” One by one she slaps them down with a thud on the glass coffee table, each an added exclamation mark tagged to the point she is making.
“Those are for my profession. Sadie, don’t you have scads of periodicals about plant life? It’s normal…” My shoulders gravitate toward my ears and my body tightens. I’m ready to defend myself if nobody else will.
“What’s this?” Angelica holds up a lively photo of twentysomethings laughing and mingling by a pool. “I don’t believe it…a brochure for Canyon Crest condos. This gives me hope for you.”
“Is that a different retirement home?” asks Caitlin.
“No,” clarifies Angelica. “It’s the hottest place to live in downtown Tucson.”
“I do have dreams,” I whisper.
“But do you have a chance of this,” she points to the brochure, “if you keep your current lifestyle?” Angelica goes over to my stereo unit and grabs a basket of CDs. “There isn’t one recent CD here. Sinatra, Dino…Rosemary Clooney, for pete’s sake.”
“There is nothing wrong with the classics. I have all of Sinatra’s work.” Finally, Sadie steps up for me.
“And how about this one? Do you have this in your collection?” Angelica tosses a case to Sadie’s open hand. Sadie turns the disk so she can read the bright red lettering. I try to remember what it is, but all I can think is how thankful I am that I have not received my online order of…
“Muzak. Best of the ’70s?” Sadie blatantly questions my taste.
Drat. Secret pathetic life fully revealed.
“Why is this getting so personal?” I direct my question to Sadie, my supposed caring friend. Why hasn’t she put a stop to this attack?
“Mari, this isn’t easy for any of us. Just hear us out.” She looks at the other two and speaks as though I am gone, locked up and trying out straightjackets. “If you had seen her at LuLu’s…” her voice breaks off and her head shakes side to side at the horror she had witnessed. “As difficult as this is, we must be very honest with Mari. And she knows it.”
Angelica needs no prodding and continues her list of my problems as though Sadie has not interrupted her. “You spend money on large-print books for your Golden buddies and then are too broke to join me in Cabo. When’s the last time you took a vacation?” She takes a deep breath before adding, “Or had a date, for that matter?”
We don’t have enough time for me to try and remember. Besides, I’m hazy from the muscle relaxant the urgent care doctor gave me. Sadie had whisked me away to Holy Cross as soon as she observed my mental state at LuLu’s.
Caitlin raises her hand to speak. I reach across the table and remove the ridiculous glasses. Her eyes flutter a
nd try to refocus. “Mari, of course you are sad. You moved to Tucson from D.C. with dreams of working in a resort…a place of luxury, opportunity, and affluence.” As she describes the life I had envisioned, I feel my conscience pull back a little. The practical Christian in me has not yet made friends with my personal ambitions. She tries to soften her assessment. “I am that way too. Maybe in a way we are dreamers who struggle with the doing part.” She toys with her glasses.
“Good point,” Sadie interjects. “So how do we help get you from the dreaming to the doing? What do you want most?”
“The job. Definitely.”
Sadie removes the ocean blue scarf from around her hair and lets her thick, black curls fall. Letting loose. She wants to settle into this moment. “How many résumés do you have out right now?”
“I have to update it. I want to include some recently acquired skills and talents…” I stop. Nobody is buying this excuse. Not even me.
“I’ll take this one.” Sadie raises her hand to sign on as my résumé mentor. While Angelica makes a good living, it is Sadie who knows the ins and outs of the job market.
“I want to dress her,” says Angelica.
“That should be me,” Caitlin counters as she eats guacamole by the spoonful.
They stare at me with territorial eyes. I cannot afford Angelica’s taste. And I don’t know that I have the courage to take on Caitlin’s sense of style. Sadie sees the dilemma. “Actually, Mari has great clothes. She just forgets to make the effort.”
She is referring to my closet full of Tess’ contributions.
“I have a bunion. Anyone want to claim that as their area of specialty?” I ask.
Is “mass ignoring” a phrase? Because it just happened here, in my living room, among my snacks, by my friends.
“Well, I have dating then. I’m the only one out there meeting people.” Angelica needs to win one of these points.
“No. You are out there dumping people. Sadie actually has a boyfriend.” I feel I need to clarify this because Angelica’s dating world scares me.
“We’ll take turns setting her up. How’s that?” They follow Sadie’s lead as I watch my life go up for bid in pieces. “Now, when is the last time you visited your family?”
“No.” I say in a voice that startles Elmo from his comfy perch on the back of the sofa. “This is not about home. Let’s not spin this one weak moment in my life into an opportunity to scrutinize my childhood.” I cross my arms in front of my chest like the child I say I do not want to discuss. Everyone notices.
“Fine. Then let’s talk about your adulthood, Mari. You say you are unhappy, yet you do very little to change your attitude or circumstances. I mean…it is as if…”
Even I, who does not really want to hear this, wait with bated breath.
“It’s as if you don’t even have faith. Maybe you don’t want to examine your feelings about home and your parents, yet it is the very thing you are still trying to get away from. When did you last visit?”
“Four years ago. And I told myself I wouldn’t go back until…” Dang. I am such a sucker.
“Until?” Sadie knows the answer.
I give her the “you know” look but she won’t settle. So I begrudgingly continue, “I suppose I don’t want to go back until I can prove to them that I can be successful in the world and still be a good person.”
If this were live in front of a studio audience on the Dr. Phil Show, an applause sign would be held up and we could go to commercial.
Angelica checks her watch. “Hey, now. Isn’t this supposed to be a time of prayer? How about I start?”
“Thank you, Angelica.” I am relieved and shocked, frankly, that she wants to turn this to prayer.
“But this is the point we should be discussing.” Sadie tries to dissuade Angelica who, we find out later, had a date waiting for her at El Charros the entire time.
“Mari clearly doesn’t want to discuss it. She is half-drugged anyway. Let us pray.” Angelica bows her head to lead us.
Sadie seems reluctant to bring this session to an end, but she, like the rest of us, is too surprised by Angelica’s suggestion to stop her.
As we bow our heads and get quiet, a voice that is loud, blunt, and unmistakably Angelica’s belts out, “Lord, would you just get Mari to start acting her age? Amen.” And as if just remembering the setting for the prayer she adds, “Oh, and let us be a help in her time of trouble. Amen again.”
Before they leave everyone clarifies their assignments. It takes a village of type A women to change my life, apparently. Angelica has to make sure her patronizing prayer didn’t cancel out any plans we have made. “You know what is so unbelievably perfect? You promised to join me for my company’s golf tournament next week.”
“Oh, I almost forgot. And how is that perfect?” Two disasters make a right?
“Consider it our first outing after this…” she draws a circle in the air with my last Doritos chip. “What could be better than a fancy golf tournament loaded with eligible, successful men?”
“A hangnail that morphs into a tumor?”
“That is what we need to change.” She points at my heart but means my attitude. Satisfied that she has fully assessed my problem and apparently her problem with me, Angelica turns to face the mirror by my bright red door. A quick slip of lip gloss and a tweak of her cheeks for a fabricated glow of youthful enthusiasm and she is ready for her date.
“Don’t you care that I cannot play? I hate to hold others up.” I try a new angle.
“We will just tell them to play through. Besides, the people I work with…they start toasting one another’s accomplishments a little early in the day. By the time they are hitting the fairway, you will look like Annika Sorenstam.”
“Who?” I scrunch my forehead. “Hey, nice BlueBerry, by the way.” I point to her fancy PDA. “One of the residents has one just like it.” For once I am with-it enough to know what Angelica is up to.
She types “Project Mari” on several dates to create a spreadsheet of opportunities to fix her pathetic friend and then rolls her eyes at my comment. “Wrong fruit.” She doesn’t offer any more information. It is enough to know that I am absurdly out of touch with real life.
“What? What’d I say?”
Angelica holds up her BlackBerry to keep it between her life and my ever-deepening rut.
Saving Vase
Delete.
Delete.
Delete.
Three more weird calls from even weirder men. If this were not the night of my favorite show, I would start investigating this phenomenon. But I have only five minutes to make popcorn and settle in for an evening of Castaways, the reality show about ten people who are forced to compete with one another to stay on a neglected Caribbean island. It’s a cheap rip-off of a more popular reality show; the characters even have less personality.
I blame my captivation with this low-rent version of human drama on my teen years’ obsession with Gilligan’s Island. Shown on the late-night classics station, my opportunity to watch it depended a lot on how soundly my parents were sleeping. Imagining the castaway experience to be the most adventurous thing ever, I used to pretend my top bunk was the island. If my foster-siblings approached me to tie their shoe, make them a sandwich, read aloud another issue of Ranger Rick, or perform some other mundane activity, I would point to the blue rug and call it my deep ocean.
Being shipwrecked would be a tragedy for most folks, but it was certainly a salvation fantasy for me at the time. Like a message machine response I would say, “I’m sorry, I cannot be reached. You are in the ocean. I am far off in the distance, beyond the vision of your telescope and far past the range of your communication efforts.” They would walk away rolling their eyes or calling me names…and I would sit up tall, glad to be alone on my island of pressboard, a hand-me-down mattress, and a Kate and Allie comforter, contemplating not how to get rescued, but how to remain, survive, and build a life apart from others.
My
doorbell rings. This shakes me for a moment because Paul, the rodeo clown from Colorado, is just about to say who he is voting off the island, and because nobody has ever used my doorbell before.
A peek through the peephole reveals a funhouse rendition of Y’s torso. I just walked by the uncovered living room window, so it is too late to pretend I’m gone.
As I open the door I am quick to look over my shoulder to indicate that something…someone…important is waiting for me in my living room. So important I really shouldn’t take my eyes off of them to get the door. But I will…just for a sec. I say the last part out loud, “Just for a sec.” She falters on the step and pushes up her sleeves nervously while deciding whether to run away.
Afraid to sound rude, I backpedal and say I meant that for someone else. She waits a moment for me to explain who my guest is, but I don’t.
For obvious reasons.
I pull the door in closer to my body so she cannot see beyond me to the vacant chairs or to the wobbly island shots. I have always been ashamed to admit to friends that I watch this drivel, but after this past week’s confrontation I am hyperaware of any and all behavior that is socially derailed. This show is one of my few private comforts.
“Hi. Mari, right?” Y stands with her legs wide apart and her hands on her hips.
This is the perfect time to ask her what the Y stands for, but I want her off my step so I can get back to the voting. I nod and look over my shoulder again, indicating my guest is rather needy and demanding of my time and attention.
“Do you have a vase I could borrow?” She asks while glancing at the gutters above my door. She doesn’t see such things from her grave-level apartment.
“Oh, sure. I believe I do.” I think of a cupboard where I have numerous vases I have gathered from flower orders sent to me for holidays and birthdays from my family since I never go home. I don’t have a vase; I have a vase outlet.
