Love Fruit

I wake, shivering in the wintry morning chill and craving tangerines. I reach for the bedside clock to check the time, snuggle deeper into the covers and curl the cat closer to me. “Be a love, Wasabi, and go fetch and peel me a tangerine,” I whisper in her furred ear. “You don’t have to actually feed it to me – just go and bring me one, okay?” Wasabi ignores me. Just as well. I wouldn’t actually have time to wait for her to peel the fruit, because I’m already running late for my trip to the city with Zoe.

 

“I’ve made appointments for us to have our charts read,” Zoe announced a couple of weeks earlier. “My Solstice gift to you.”

 

“Aw, c’mon, Zoe,” I said. “You know I don’t believe in astrology. Although we are approaching my Saturn return, and with Uranus hanging out in my 12^th house and the recent grand cross of Jupiter, Venus, Uranus and Pluto, it would be interesting to know what’s up. In a totally casual way of course.”

 

“Oh yes. Totally casual. Of course,” said Zoe.

 

I’m due at Zoe’s in an hour now. Braving the cold beyond the comforters, I get out of bed and stop by the kitchen for a tangerine before I hop into a steaming shower. But there are none left, so my craving will have to wait. I scribble TANGERINES – LOTS! at the top of my running shopping list. It’s time.

 

“There’s the cold that makes me want to pull out the wool sweaters – which means I’m ready for autumn,” I explain to Zoe on the drive up to San Francisco, “And then there’s the cold that makes me crave tangerines – which means I’m ready for winter and cocooning and fires and candlelight and the season’s celebrations.”

 

“Interesting insight into the weird little mind of our Wench,” says Zoe. “But you do make a certain odd sense. And hey, I could go for a tangerine or two. I need the vitamin C.”

 

After taking the 280 up to the city, we find parking at 7^th near Irving and make our way down the sidewalk along with the neighborhood’s Saturday morning crowd. We pass clothing boutiques, a flower shop with branches of bright holly berries in galvanized steel pails outside, and a couple of cafés that are doing brisk business, as evidenced by the steamed windows. Zoe navigates us to a old Victorian, painted purple with teal and yellow trim, and we climb deep steps to ring the buzzer near a massive oak door, which is swung open a half minute later by an tall, older man sporting multiple piercings (ear, nose, lip and brow) and a trim goatee and who introduces himself as Perry, our astrologer.

 

Perry leads us upstairs to a sitting room with a large bay window that overlooks the busy intersection and dishes up a big slice of the sky over the rooftops of the houses across the street. The room is warm and filled with sunlight and plants, and amidst fragrant cedar greenery on a battered but elegant square mahogany coffee table, I spot a willow basket of tangerines. Oooo. Just one . . .

 

“So who wants to go first?”  asks Perry.

 

 “You first,” says Zoe, nodding at me. I cast a wistful glance at the tangerines and follow Perry into a cozy little kitchen at the back of the house. He offers me a mug of tea and a seat at his table.

 

“Your chart,” begins Perry, “is interesting.”

 

“I’ll bet you say that to everyone.”

 

“True. I do. And I mean it. But you’ve had Jupiter with all its beneficence in your sign since last December. “

 

“Yeah. That’s right. It was supposed to be my lucky year.”

 

Perry cocks his head at my ironic tone. “And it wasn’t?”

 

“Well,” I say. “I would characterize it as a year of unexpected disruption and change. And that would be me being nice.”

 

“But imagine if you didn’t have Jupiter as a mitigating factor.”

 

“I can’t imagine.” I say. I mean, honestly. I can’t.

 

The reading is more of a conversation, really, and Perry’s insights are pretty typical; nothing that I haven’t come across in the standard guides to the astrological signs. But his metaphors are colorful and quixotic – he likens me at points in our discussion to a dragon, a tiger, and an avocado – and his use of slang (“Neptune in your 10^th crib is creating some illusions of having ‘mad bank’ ”), is, well, intriguing. I enjoy watching his facial expressions and the way he uses his hands as he talks.

 

As the half hour draws to a close, Perry asks if I have any burning questions.

 

“This love and relationship thing. Will I ever get it right?” I toss this one out casually.

 

“Aren’t you?” Perry asks.

 

“Answering a question with a question – geez, man, you sound like my therapist,” I say.

 

Perry turns back to my chart. “Well, sweetheart, here’s the deal. Pluto will be in your sign for the next 15 years. There’s a lot of change ahead for you. Deep change, from the inside out. Your ideas of traditional institutions – religion and spirituality, romantic partnership or marriage, friendship, work arrangements, all of your structures – they will be steadily and completely transformed over the next decade and a half. Who knows what take on all of this you’ll end up with in a year, two years, five years, 15 years from now?”

 

He continues. “Nonetheless, I am surprised by your question. Given your chart, I would have imagined an abundance of love in your life this year.” He looks at me quizzically. I look steadily back at him.

 

“Hmmm,” he says, and for a moment his eyes bore into mine. “Ms. Wench. What I would say to you, the one thing I would encourage you to remember is this: Enjoy the moments of the love.”

 

And whether that’s Perry’s advice as my astrologer or as a person who’s been on this planet a lot longer than I have, I don’t ask.

 

Perry escorts me back to the sitting room and tells me to make myself comfortable and, catching me eyeing the basket of fruit, invites me to help myself. As Zoe follows him for her turn in the kitchen, I curl up in an overstuffed chair near the coffee table and reach for my first tangerine of winter.

 

I tear the peel, and the zesty citrus mist that hits my nose springs the lock on a memory. It’s one of a year ago, when I was with Aaron. It was a cold December night, and I lay, naked and warm, nestled against him in the soft, thick blankets of his bed. He kissed my neck and then pulled away. “Stay here. I’ll be back,” he said. I rested, happy and relaxed in the candlelight, and a few minutes later, Aaron returned, carrying a cobalt blue plate bearing two peeled and sectioned tangerines. He held the plate out to me, smiling at my delight. I took it and offered him a piece of the fruit. “No,” he said. “I’m fine. I know you get hungry though, afterward.” I laughed and ate the tangerines as he watched me, and it felt almost more intimate than making love. I feel seen and known, I remember thinking.

 

It is a sweet sad memory; two weeks later Aaron told me he was in love with me but wasn’t ready for a serious relationship so soon out of his marriage, and so we parted company. And I tried to forget. And why? If I think, as Perry suggests, of the moments, it really doesn’t matter what happened next; in that moment, there was love.

 

In that moment and what others? I wonder, as I reach for a second tangerine. And suddenly, as if they’d just been waiting for the right invitation, memories crowd my mind: Roxanne’s soulful voice and the rapt attention of our friends around the table as she sang for Harrison and me at our joint birthday celebration early in the year. Doc’s short, throaty hum of pleasure as we sat, close and companionable, in the dark movie theatre one rainy afternoon, his large, warm hand curled around mine. Jake nagging Kate to take the big flashlight for protection as we headed out for one of our night walk-talks and bonding, and Kate and I laughing when Kate rolled her eyes and said, “Sometimes my old lady can be a real drag.” Chris gazing steadily at me with her kind eyes and asking over our Friday breakfasts, every time, “So how are you, really?” Rose and I happy and silly and complimenting each other on how lovely we looked when we dressed up for one of our ironically dubbed “Fall (as in Autumn) of Romance” outings.

 

To mind come Harrison’s late night, early morning calls, just to talk, just because. George and Lucy at my door, with wide grins and warm hugs: “Hi, Harry’s Mom! Wanna watch a movie?” Cyn and I at dinner, celebrating our friendship of 15 years and recounting all the ways in which we’ve seen each other grow. ZJ and I walking and talking and cracking jokes and cackling and raising margaritas to toast our great good fortune of discovering each other as we did. My rambling Saturday morning phone calls with my sister Mare and her voicemail messages to me, sung to Abba tunes; the email and phone calls with my sister Lou. Standing in the warm kitchen of my parents’ house, drinking tea and talking with my mother, the smell of dad’s bread baking for our dinner. Movie nights and board games and wine and mentoring with Libby. Hikes and laughs and insights shared with Colleen. Goodwill hunts with Joanne. Quips and confidences exchanged over IM with Stu and Vanessa, Matt and Stefanie. Personal and philosophical insights shared in correspondences with Spence, Bill and Hitoshi. Doc’s playful and intimate notes, greeting me, “Dear Word Wench . . . “ All of these memories come.

 

Enjoy the moments of the love. With some, these moments add up to relationships of duration, ever-evolving connection, as they do with Harrison, with Kate and Jake, with Mare; and as they are with Chaika, Zoe, Sydney, Art, Horst. With others – the thoughtful and funny Jewish-Buddhist lawyer at the sushi bar in Vegas; the sincere young servicewoman on the flight to Newark on her way to Iraq; once-close colleagues and friends; Aaron; Doc -  they are, perhaps, instances of  connection within a finite period. Yet all deepen my appreciation for the taste of love fruit.

 

I peel and eat a third and last tangerine, lingering on each bite of the bittersweet, stomach and heart approaching full.

 

“Sooooooo. . . what did you think?” asks Zoe as we head home, later, after stopping into a little grocery store where I buy a five pound bag of tangerines.

 

“It was enlightening, Zo,” I say. “A great gift. Thank you very much.”

 

“You’re welcome,” says Zoe. “Happy Solstice, Wench.”

 

“And to you too, love,” I say, as I hand her a tangerine.

 

The Word Wench weblog is a fictional memoir, and any resemblance to any person living or dead (you know who you are!) is purely coincidental. Installments are posted at whim, so please subscribe to RSS feed to read the latest, or join the WW mailing list by sending a SUBSCRIBE message to TheWordWench@gmail.com

(c) All Rights Reserved.

Rondo A La Turkey

“So. About Thanksgiving.”

 

I’m on the phone with Harrison, making plans for her trip back to Cali from Boston for the holiday.

 

“I’ve got your ticket, and I’m preparing to kill the fatted tofu. That’s a variation of a biblical reference,” I add, “Just in case you didn’t catch it. You know: the prodigal son, the killing of the fatted calf on his return . . .”

 

“You’re so mean,” says Harrison. “First, you don’t even raise me in the Judeo-Christian tradition, so I’ve got huge cultural gaps – which really handicap me in my lit classes, by the way. Then you show me up with attempted witty riffs on said tradition. You’re a bad mother.”

 

“You’ll thank me later,” I say. “In the meantime, we need to talk turkey. Have you spoken with your father?”

 

For the last ten years, since Harrison’s father and I separated (eventually divorcing), the three of us have celebrated Thanksgiving and the Christmas holidays together. Because our extended family extends across the U.S. and Asia, my ex, Makoto, and I did these holidays at home, ourselves, from the outset of our marriage. When we split, we each thought it unfair to pull the plug on the practice and the other, so we continued our nuclear family tradition, with only the occasional meltdown.

 

During Harrison’s high school years, her friends George and Lucy started joining us for our evening Thanksgiving dinner – George after her first meal of the day, and Lucy after her first or second. Dinner conversations were lively, and dessert time livelier still with as many as 15 or 20 crammed in my tiny living room as other kids dropped by after their families’ meals for pumpkin pie and gossip.

 

This year, however, Makoto was proposing a change. “I’m going to spend Thanksgiving with my girlfriend and her kids,” he said, when I called to discuss the dinner plan. “Harrison can come with me, or she can stay with you. It’s up to you two.”

 

“Oh,” I said. “Oh.”

 

Okay. Maybe propose is the wrong word. But of course one had to expect that things would eventually change, and I had, particularly when a new significant other came on the scene. I felt a tad sad, but we had done a good job of it, all in all, and it was time to let things move on.

 

“You mean, do I know that Dad’s planning on going to his girlfriend’s for Thanksgiving?” asks Harrison.

 

“Yes, actually,” I say, relieved. Yes, she tells me, they’ve talked – and she seems okay with the altered arrangement. “You know, I’m fine if you’d like to join your dad. I can make other plans.” I briefly revel in the thought of doing no cooking or cleanup whatsoever. Mmmmmm.

 

“No. Everybody expects Thanksgiving at your house,” says Harrison. “But we have a bigger problem. What about the turkey?”

 

“What about it?”

 

“Mom, you know what I mean. I’m really worried!”

 

“Why? It’s like cooking a big chicken.”

 

“MOM! Sacrilege!”

 

To understand Harrison’s consternation, one needs to know two things: First, Harrison LOVES turkey. Her preference for the bird pre-dates any thirst for mother’s milk, if one’s appetite during pregnancy is indeed influenced by one’s offspring in utero. I craved turkey constantly when I carried Harrison, and that gestational summer, Makoto often returned home after work to a roasting hot house and a full autumnal spread.

 

Second important bit of background: I haven’t actually roasted a turkey since my pregnancy, so Harrison has no memory of me ever cooking one. As far as she is concerned, dad = turkey. Always better with meats – heck, with pretty much all cooking – Makoto took over the turkey roasting the year Harrison was born.

 

After we separated, when I offered to host Thanksgiving dinner, Makoto asked “What can I bring?” To which I replied: “What about the turkey?” His agreement was swift and emphatic, and for the last ten years we’d feasted on some exceptional birds – some years brined; others herbed; once roasted on a spit outdoors over mesquite. These fowl were quite the bar-setting culinary experiences.

 

Thus Harrison’s concern. Before we hang up, I promise her I’ll do thorough research on turkey cookery, and we will have a tasty, juicy bird.

 

Harrison and George talk shortly after we do, apparently, because, within a half hour, George Facebooks me: Harry’s mom! Let’s deep-fry the turkey this year! They come out really juicy! To which I reply on her wall: HELL NO! Do you know how dangerous that is? To illustrate the point, I post links to photos of turkey deep fryers ablaze, sending 20-foot columns of flame shooting skyward.

 

“You can still have a deep-fried turkey,” says Takeo, Cyn’s boyfriend, a few days later, over dinner and in response to my questions about turkey prep. “Just order one from KFC.”

 

“He’s young; his tastes are immature,” says Cyn, a cougar and an outstanding cook. “He only eats gold-colored food. Don’t listen to him.”

 

A week before Thanksgiving, I visit with Joanne in Berkeley and bring her an old Coach handbag for her eBay stockroom, in exchange for turkey tips. In addition to being a rabid Goodwill hunter, she’s also a professional chef. She recommends brining overnight, and then smoking on the grill. She and Nathan regularly prepare 24-pound birds this way.

 

“Are you kidding?!” I say. “That’s way too much work! Plus, I wouldn’t know how to manage the heat on a grill! And besides, I don’t have a grill big enough! Come to think of it, I don’t have a turkey roasting pan either. Hey, could I pay you to cook a turkey for me and I’ll just come and pick it up?”

 

“You’re a crazy bitch,” says Joanne. “But I will help you. Let’s go to Goodwill and get you a roasting pan.” We do, and I’m that much closer to getting the turkey situation under control.

 

“Look,” says neighbor Kate, as we crunch through the leaves on an evening walk, T-Day minus four: “You want a moist, juicy turkey? I’ll make this easy for you. Step 1: Order a fresh turkey. Step 2: Take it out of the refrigerator an hour before cooking. Step 3: Stuff it. Step 4: Put it in the roasting pan, breast side down; cover it, and roast at 350 degrees Farenheit for about 20 minutes per pound. Baste liberally with butter every hour. Step 5: Turn the turkey over for the last hour, baste liberally with butter, and roast uncovered to brown the breast. Step 6: Check for doneness, remove the fowl from the oven, let it sit for 20 minutes, and then carve it. And there you have it: One juicy bird. Works every time. And no drama.”

 

“Okay!” I say. “Yay! We can DO this thing!”

 

So I call the grocery store and order a modest (fresh) turkey, and the Wednesday before Thanksgiving, Kate and I go together to pick up our birds.

 

A crowd has gathered at the meat counter. “We’re here for turkeys,” says Kate.

 

“The turkeys didn’t make it,” teases the butcher. “All we’ve got are pigeons.”

 

“Yuck!”  I make a face.

 

“Hey,” says a woman standing next to us, “Don’t knock it ‘til you’ve tried it.”

 

“Eh?”

 

The woman nods emphatically. “I used to work in one of the Paly University labs, where we had pigeons – “

 

- I shoot Kate a raised eyebrow which translates as: Oh my, she’s not going where I think she’s going, is she? Kate signals back with a slight shake of her head: No, she couldn’t possibly.

 

But the woman does go there. “Those pigeons – the control pigeons of course, the ones injected only with saline – they were some of the most delicious roasted birds I’ve ever tasted.”

 

The knot of people around the counter goes silent. Even the butcher is speechless.

 

Kate coughs.

 

 “Well,” I say, “That’s one approach to brining your poultry.”

 

Back in the car, Kate and I laugh so hard we cry. “And it seemed so cannibalistic – like eating your colleagues,” I say when I can finally speak again.

 

“More like eating your subordinates,” Kate replies. “Which, come to think of it, happens all the time in the workplace.”

 

We’re still laughing when we part, bearing our turkeys back to our respective homes.

 

Day of, Harrison and I are up early and in the kitchen. Pies baked? Check. Cranberry sauce prepped? Check. Our turkey, at 12 pounds, really does resemble a large chicken, but a very large chicken, Harrison concedes. We follow Kate’s instructions and get the turkey in the oven. And then we make the other sides – including my dinner rolls, which, Harrison points out, are as essential a part of our Thanksgiving tradition as the turkey and quite possibly my ace in the hole with the man in my future. (“Aw, thanks sweetie.”) An hour or so before dinner, Lucy arrives, followed shortly by the girls’ friend Zack. As is tradition, all are put to work, and the dinner starts to come together. George shows up just after the rolls come out of the oven, and we sit down to feast.

 

The turkey turns out just fine. The sides are good, and the kids eat until they can’t breathe, so I know their compliments are genuine. We toast – to Thanksgiving, our annual extended family feast, friendship, Makoto, the rolls and the turkey. “Moms,” says Harrison, her glass raised, “I can’t lie. You really had me worried when you said ‘Basting? What’s basting?’ But the turkey came out great!”

 

Yes. In the end, it all worked out. There was turkey, even if Makoto was not present. And note: There was no drama. No houses burned, and no pigeons were harmed in the making of this meal.

 

The Word Wench weblog is a fictional memoir, and any resemblance to any person living or dead (you know who you are!) is purely coincidental. Installments are posted at whim, so please subscribe to RSS feed to read the latest, or join the WW mailing list by sending a SUBSCRIBE message to TheWordWench@gmail.com

(c) All Rights Reserved.

 

 

 

Change is [fill in blank].

“Change is (sometimes) good.” – the Potrero Hill Gang (TPHG), 1996

 

“So, where’ve you been lately? Haven’t seen you in a while.”

 

It’s my first incursion into the gym since I got off the living room floor, and Sam, a trainer in residence, beams a welcoming smile.

 

“Yeah,” I say, “I’ve been stuck.”

 

“With your exercise program? Can I help?”

 

“Nah. It’s been more of a mental-emotional-spiritual impasse.”

 

“Oh,” says Sam. I’m thinking he’s thinking “TMI,” but he surprises me. “You know, you see that in the physical world too. We see it here in the gym daily.”

 

“Yeah?”  

 

“Yeah. I mean, people end up stuck all the time. They’re in here, they’re doing their workout day after day, and they’re not making progress. They plateau. Or hit a wall. They get stuck. And they get frustrated or despair; they figure they’ll never see improvement.”

 

“Yeah.” I say.  “Hmmmmm.”

 

“Yeah.” He hesitates. “So, anyway, welcome back. Enjoy your workout.”

 

I nod and head over to the elliptical. And turn back.

 

“And they get unstuck?”

 

“All the time!” says Sam. “Sure!” His conviction cheers.

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Yeah. They change something,” says Sam. “One thing. That’s all it usually takes to get things moving.”  

 

“Change happens.” – TPHG, 1997

In times past, I’ve whipped myself into shape with action plans and to-do lists. This time’s different. I’m still moving gingerly after my blue period, following co-navigation by animal instinct and quiet self-awareness. I’m trying not to over-think or overanalyze, and when my mind gets all hopped up, I toss a book or some work at it. I don’t want to be lured by my thinking – which I know still lacks a certain clarity – into doing anything more that will take me off center.

 

How to move forward? I like what Sam said. Maybe change one thing. I consider what one thing that might be, and over the next few days, I find I feel like catching up with a few friends I haven’t seen in a while. I feel I’d like to paint my house. I’d like to find a new job. I’d like to visit my family.

 

I feel energized, and eventually I begin to act. And change happens. A little here. A little there. And suddenly, things are shifting.

 

It feels good. So I keep doing it.

 

“Change, for a dollar.” – TPHG, 1998

 “Wow!” says my manager. “I didn’t expect this.”

 

“I didn’t either,” I concede. I had just tendered my resignation, because I’d accepted a position with another company. “It happened rather fast.”

 

And it did. I put the word out in my network, and a month later, I’m changing jobs. “It’s time for me to go, but I’ve appreciated being here.”

 

“Well, I’m happy for you,” she says. “Things are changing at this company, and you’re being proactive. That’s a good thing.”

 

I don’t correct her. I don’t tell her that this just seems to be the right next step for me for now. “Thank you for everything,” I say.

 

“Change is different.” – TPHG, 1999

I take two weeks between jobs and accept invitations to fly east and visit Harrison in Boston and my family in Ohio. In Boston, Harrison asks me to join her for a film class, houses me in her apartment, takes me to work, and introduces me to her many friends. I am careful, respectful; I understand that she is offering me a rare view into her new life. Our roles reverse, and I stay in while she heads out for a party; they reverse again when she lets me play mama and buy her sheets and washcloths and underwear. I know it’s time-limited role playing – she’s allowing it only because I accept that everything’s changed.

 

When it’s time to part, I tell Harrison that I’ve appreciated seeing her in her new natural habitat, and that I am proud of her and the life she’s creating.

 

“Thank you, moms,” she says. “That means a lot to me.”

 

In Ohio with my family, I am daughter and sister and auntie. My mother and stepfather indulge me when I ask them to cook some of my favorite foods, and Mare does my hair and advises me when we go shopping for clothes for the new job. My niece and nephew clamor for the treats I bring, and my baby sister Lou, their mother, cracks me up when she dances around the kitchen as she did when we were kids. As is customary, I spot some item of my mother’s clothing that I borrow and pretend to covet throughout my visit. As always, she warns me not to try to sneak off with it in my suitcase, and as always, just before I leave, she gives it to me outright.

 

Before I go through security to board my homebound plane, my mother places her hand under my chin and looks at me. “Your face is changing, you know,” she says. “You’re becoming a rather elegant middle-aged woman. You’re wearing your life well.”

 

“Thank you, Ma,” I say. “That means a lot to me.”

 

On the trip home, I think of my transformations as mother, daughter, sometime lover, onetime wife. Over these last few months, I’ve revisited these identities, trying them on like one might treasured retro outfits kept hanging in the closet. But all the little changes have finally added up, and those identities no longer fit as my daily garb.

 

And it’s okay, because I am newly comfortable in my own skin, on my own, free and clear.

 

 

“Change is.” – TPHG, 2000.

I’m home again. Change is afoot. The world economy churns, a new president is elected, I start a new job. None of us know what comes next. But for now, I am unstuck and ready to move forward.

 

And so I do.

 

The Word Wench weblog is a fictional memoir, and any resemblance to any person living or dead (you know who you are!) is purely coincidental. Installments are posted at whim, so please subscribe to RSS feed to read the latest, or join the WW mailing list by sending a SUBSCRIBE message to TheWordWench@gmail.com

(c) All Rights Reserved.

A Little DABDA’ll Do Ya

I don’t hear the knocking at the door. Apparently, I don’t hear anything until that moment when I startle to consciousness with Zoe shaking me. “Wench! Wenchie! Wake up!”

“Ahhhgggg!” I almost jump from my skin, the adrenaline rushing me from sleep. “What the hell? Zoe . . . ?”

“We were supposed to meet for dinner tonight, Wenchie. What happened?”

“Were we?” I shake my head, still trying to orient myself.

“Yes. Planned weeks ago. You didn’t show up, and you didn’t answer your phone, so I drove by.” I’m focusing on Zoe’s face, and she looks concerned. “Saw your car in the driveway, but no lights on in the house. No answer to my knocking. You had me worried, Wenchie girl. Your back door was open, so I let myself in.”

“Oh.” Beyond Zoe, through the venetian blinds on the living room window, I can see that it’s dark outside. “Uhhh – what day is it?”

“Sunday evening,” says Zoe. “How long have you been lying on the floor?”

“Um, not long,” I say. “I was just napping.”

“Liar,” says Zoe. “The carpet pile pattern is etched deeply in your cheek.”

“I have thin skin.”

“So how long?” Zoe is taking in the unkempt hair, the sweats, the smeared mascara. She knows I’ve been here more than a couple of hours. I don’t want to tell her that I’ve been lying here, off and on, for the better part of a month.

“For a while,” I admit.

“And will you be here much longer?” she asks. Her voice is gentle, and it makes my throat tighten.

I take a deep breath. “I think I’ll be ready to get up again soon,” I say.

* * * * * *

I didn’t see it coming.

The events of the past year plus were adding up to an extended period of disequilibrium, and I didn’t realize that I teetered. I felt I’d been coping just fine with all the change transpiring personally, professionally, and in the wider world around me, weathering all, welcome and unwelcome both, with resilience and some sense, even, of doing my part for the “greater good.”

And it all seemed to work, until one day it just didn’t. Like the cartoon character who doesn’t see the uncovered manhole before the nontrivial misstep, I plummeted.

I was at dinner one evening with a few former colleagues, and the conversation turned from careers to personal lives. “Here’s one from the singles chronicles,” said one woman, Adrienne, and she recounted the tale of an acquaintance, Mark, a man who, recently divorced after a 25-year marriage, found himself in his 50s back in the dating pool.

Mark had gone out with a few women and then met one he liked – a lot. After a few dates, they slept together, and things seemed good; the next time he saw her was for dinner and the ballet. But something went horribly wrong. As he told it, said Adrienne, the woman joined him at the restaurant, but she seemed a little strained. And by the time they’d had a drink and the appetizers came, she was fraying. “ ‘Now that you’ve slept with me, I suppose you’ll disappear,’ ” she said. No, he protested; but she was not reassured. The conversation escalated, the woman’s voice rose, and the couple drew stares from other diners. “She was, suddenly, a “complete raving lunatic bitch,’ according to Mark.”

And so, after a few minutes, Mark excused himself from the table to go to the restroom. And he pulled aside the maitre’d, gave him $150, and asked him to show the woman home in a cab. Then he left the restaurant, and, as he had planned, went to the ballet. And switched back on his cell phone after the performance to discover the woman had left 30 voicemail messages for him, distraught, pleading, raging.

He did not call her back. In fact, he never spoke to her again.

“What a nutcase she turned out to be,” said one of the men at our table. Others were still shaking their heads over this tale of such out-of-control behavior when I excused myself.

My heart was pounding. I could hear the blood thrumming in my ears, and I felt lightheaded. I went downstairs to the women’s restroom, where I found a padded bench in a dimly lit corner, and I sat and leaned over, my elbows on my knees, my head down to help the dizziness pass.

In the end she’d turned out to be right about him, didn’t she? I thought. And I wondered how she would have told the story: After they’d slept together, did Mark’s ardor and attention wane? What else was said – or left unsaid? What were the specifics of this particular break for her? What past experiences haunted and goaded? How many times had she gambled on a lover – opening up, sharing her secrets, her bed, her heart – and what had she lost in the process? Time? Hope? Faith? Trust? And how much more can I bear before I am a complete raving lunatic bitch?

No more.

I felt suddenly and terribly fragile, and I wanted to get safely away, to hide. I needed to go home. Now.

It seems I was gone too long, and eventually Adrienne found me, still sitting in the corner of the women’s room.

“Are you okay?” she asked.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I don’t feel well. I need to go. Can you tell the others?”

Once home, I pulled in, closed off, shut down. I took to my bed and the living room floor, where I spent the greater part of the next few weeks.

* * * *

Of course I had to get up. Use the bathroom. Drink water. I occasionally ate food from cellophane and paper packages. Fed the cat; let her in and out. During the days, I worked from home, alone, the work rote and my mind otherwise occupied, like some toddler safely in a playpen while her parents deal with the burst plumbing or other household emergency. And when the workday ended, I returned to the living room floor or to my bed, where I lay, staring at the walls.

DABDA is the catchy acronym for it. The five stages of grief, that is: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, acceptance. I realized that I’d done the denial, I’d done the anger, I’d done the bargaining. And in those phases, I’d used my words. Early. Often. Fluently. But there’s a time when words don’t work, as they didn’t now for me.

Words don’t work when we are feeling, bodily, the loss of our intimates – our children, our lovers and partners, our colleagues and daily companions, our cherished friends – and the loss of those relationships in which we have known those deeper, perhaps less-known aspects of our selves and another. There comes a time when we feel the full impact of their departure: the absence, the altered routines, the rent in the fabric of being where we were once interwoven. And it just hurts.

But all of these words, and their imprecise description of what we must feel (or struggle to avoid feeling), well, they come later, much later, when the wounds are finally healing. And the time it takes to cross from the one state to the next – from grieving to healing: It decides us.

In the evenings, during those weeks, I lay awake on the living room floor, watching the late afternoon and evening light move across the room until nightfall. I lay, dozing. I lay on the floor and listened to my breathing. Eventually I lay, not thinking, but aware that some animal process – some wordless thing that had served life on this planet for hundreds of thousands of years – was taking over, and I needed to shelter and be still and let it bear me through.

I slept then, finally at peace.

* * * * *

And then came Zoe, shaking me awake one Sunday evening.

“I’m glad you’re here,” I say to Zoe, after I’m fully conscious and have tried to explain to her what’s been going on.

“I’m glad you’ve told me,” says Zoe. “And I’m sorry you were alone.”

“I needed to be alone, I think. In some inexplicable way, this process has brought me back to myself. I have a baseline now: I have me, and here I am.”

“Ta-daaaa!”

“Ta-da.” I nod, although I am more muted. We both sit for a while, saying nothing.

“So, are you hungry?” asks Zoe.

I consider the question. “Yes,” I say, surprised. “For the first time in weeks.”

“I’ll make dinner then,” says Zoe. “And why don’t you go take a shower.”

“That bad?”

“That bad.”

In the shower, I stand and let the water run over me, hot and stinging, for what feels like hours. I listen to the sounds of Zoe in the kitchen. She is singing, and banging pans, and in a short time I smell bacon cooking. My stomach growls, reminding me that breakfast for dinner is my favorite. I am glad Zoe is here, even if I don’t have much to say.

I sit at the table, and Zoe sets down bacon and toast and a scramble of eggs and mushrooms sprinkled with cheese. She’s made hot cocoa, and marshmallows float on top. The food looks delicious and good, and the fact that she’s prepared it makes me cry.

“You haven’t even tasted it yet,” says Zoe. “My cooking’s not THAT bad.”

“These are tears of joy,” I say. “After a steady diet of crackers and American cheese, I’m beside myself with happiness.” I say this and I realize that I do feel good, and then I realize that it relieves me to know that I can.

We eat in silence, companionable. And the meal tastes as wonderful as the best I’ve ever had.

“So,” says Zoe later, as we put things away and prepare to say goodnight, “Are you ready to rejoin the world?”

I explore my heart gently, lightly. The healing is taking at the edges, but the center is still tender to the touch. “Not completely,” I say. “Cautiously at first, perhaps.”

“What feels do-able?”

What indeed? “Mmmmm. Maybe getting outside. Taking walks. Cleaning things up a bit. Reading. Perhaps seeing a few good friends.” I hug Zoe. “Especially if they come bearing good food.”

Zoe hugs me back. “Well then,” she says, ”Take it from there, Wenchie love. And just go slow.”

The Word Wench weblog is a fictional memoir, and any resemblance to any person living or dead (you know who you are!) is purely coincidental. Installments are posted at whim, so please subscribe to RSS feed to read the latest, or join the WW mailing list by sending a SUBSCRIBE message to TheWordWench@gmail.com

“Bye for now . . . “

It is Sunday and the last of our Summer Sunday backyard dinners before we all transition into autumn and begin our next series of adventures, the kids dispersing once again to colleges near and far, and Kate and Jake heading to Argentina to travel and tango for a month in celebration of their 25th anniversary and Kate’s birthday. Our final dinner will cap off a couple of weeks of partings for me, partings in which I am the one who is left behind.

The leave-taking is taking its toll. In this last little while, I’ve said good-bye again to my daughter Harrison; to a man on whom I gambled my heart; and to an increasingly elusive muse. Not easy stuff. And still ahead: these partings with some of my dear friends.

I drink a little too much wine before the others arrive, as I prepare our last supper, and, defenses down, I finally surrender to my need for much weeping and wailing and gnashing of teeth.

* * * * *

As a child watching the Sound of Music, I dismissed Captain Von Trapp’s initial love interest – the Baroness – as an uptight, boring, out-of-touch woman. Who wouldn’t prefer singing, romping, berry-picking, curtains-to-clothes-transforming Maria to that icy thing – even if Fraulein Maria did have a really bad short pixie haircut?

As a grown woman, though, I find the character of the Baroness intriguing and oddly inspiring. She knew how to say good-bye. Yes; she sees how the Captain looks at Maria that night at her engagement party – her engagement party! – and she knows what’s coming. She senses the shift in the Captain’s affections, she tries to fight it, but when he finally says “It’s no use, Elsa” she surrenders. She just accepts that it’s the end. Her eyes might well with tears, but she doesn’t cry. Rather, she utters one line – something witty that even helps the Captain clue in to the fact that he’s falling for Maria – “And I suspect that somewhere out there is a young woman who won’t become a nun,” she says – and she leaves. And that is that.

She is one classy dame.

Despite the fact that the character of the Baroness was scripted by men, I aspire to be like her when a parting, for whatever reason, is at hand. But truth be told, here’s how that scene would go down with me:

The Captain stands on the porch, gazing out over his grounds and the nearby lake. He is quiet, contemplative. The Wench walks over to join him, and hugs his back. The Captain turns his head and smiles a little at the Wench, but clearly is distracted.

Wench [knows something is up but tries to make small talk and re-engage the Captain]: So, I was thinking that maybe today we could head over to the farmer’s market and then go to the movies or maybe take a hike or go on a bike ride or something, or . . . [trying to get a laugh] . . . maybe get his-n-hers “luv” tats . . .

The Captain [looking at the Wench with a mix of affection, sadness, resignation and resoluteness]: It’s no use, Wenchie.

Wench [playfully punching him in the arm]: Silly! What do you mean ‘It’s no use’? No use going to the movies? No use taking a hike or a bike ride? You make it all sound so hopeless. Really, the exercise and fresh air would do us good, make us feel better, get the blood moving.

The Captain: No, I mean, it’s no use, use. You know.

Wench [in denial]: What do you mean ‘It’s no use, use. You know.’ No, I don’t know. Can you explain?

The Captain: Ummmm. Ahhhhh. I’m just not feeling it.

Wench: Not feeling what? Like going to the farmer’s market? A movie? A hike? I was just joking about the tats.

The Captain: No. It.

Wench: Which “it”? What?

The Captain: Not that. Those. It. Us.

Wench: Us?

The Captain: Us. Yes.

Wench: Us? What? How? Why?

. . . and so on and so forth, until the scene is one in which the Captain, like most men who must speak of such things, is squirming uncomfortably but finally, in desperation, makes a clear and direct statement, and the Wench continues baring ever more of her soul – as if saying more would change anything – forgetting that she will only regret having NOT done it more like the Baroness, who knew that when it’s over, it’s over, and as a result, escaped with her dignity.

* * * * * *

I aspire to someday accept partings gracefully and flexibly, and not on my strict terms. But too many have come precipitously, unsought and unbearable – such being the way of life, perhaps – so if I am awkward and even bumbling and unable to let go of how I think parting could be, I cut myself slack.

These partings shaped me: my father leaving for Vietnam for two years when I was a young child; my father leaving for good when I was thirteen; my estranged brother perishing in the Persian Gulf War when I was a young woman. And while years later I eventually untwisted my wrecked heart, I came to insist that we – I and whomever – do endings, whenever possible, my way. Because I learned that while I can accept the physical parting and even the ending or changing of the connection, I cannot bear the denial of the love or the hope – for want of better words – that gave rise to our relationships in the first place. When it’s time to take our leave, I ask that if we have claimed to care for one another, then at least let’s part in kindness and in peace, honest about and honoring of what we once shared.

And it is for that ending, gracefully executed or not, that I always hold out.

* * * * * * *

“I don’t want to say good-bye,” I said to an older friend years ago, as she readied for a move across the country.

“Imagine, though, if we never said good-bye,” she replied, hugging me tightly. “And we held on to everything and everyone. Eventually, all that baggage would weigh us down. We couldn’t move. And there would be no room for welcoming anything else.”

I recall her words often; and I find that what makes parting easier now is remembering that the leaving is also the going toward something and that all things are possible at that point – a different choice; a different path; a different adventure; a hopefully better future handled with greater care.

Neighbor Kate says “bye for now” when we part company. “It’s much less final than ‘bye’ ” she explains. “Gentler, sweeter. My father always said that to us.”

And it implies reunion. I love that. I have started saying “bye for now” too.

* * * * * * *

I am still a bit tipsy when Lucy walks in, the first to arrive for Sunday dinner. Having cried my eyes out, I’m feeling cleansed, peaceful, relaxed. Before she says a word, I confess that I’ve had a bit too much wine this afternoon, and I apologize if I’m slurring my speech, burning any food, mixing any metaphors, or in any other way being a bad hostess. Nonetheless, I point out, I’ve been quite productive in the kitchen: the meat is marinating; the vegetables are sliced and sprinkled with balsamic, olive oil and herbs, all ready for grilling; the various components of the bruschetta are lined up for assembly. Lucy relieves me of the kitchen knife, sits me down at the table, disappears, and reappears shortly with Kate and Jake. Jake joins me at the table, engaging me in conversation and insisting that I eat the appetizers (“you need some food now”) that magically appear before us, thanks to Kate and Lucy.

By the time the last of the wine has worn off, George and Roxanne and Paula have arrived. George and I get out our guitars and start running through all the songs we’ve learned this summer. We nod at each other in happy appreciation as we’re singing, realizing that we’re sounding good, and we play until Kate calls us for dinner.

In the backyard, around the table, under the strings of twinkling white lights and the starry night sky, we feast on the last meal we’ll share together until Thanksgiving break. We have wine (not me; I’m cut off) and pass the platters repeatedly, until everyone is full. We call Harrison to tell her we love her and miss her and consider her here with us in spirit. (“Are you drunk, mom?” she demands. “Not now,” I say.) Someone throws out a question: What did you learn about yourself this summer? And we take turns around the table, the old and the young adults alike. The answers are thoughtful, reflective and very personal, and I find myself marveling at the love and the trust in evidence.

After dessert and coffee, we request songs of our chanteuse, Roxanne, and once again George and I pull out the guitars. Jake joins us on a third, and I supply Lucy with a set of bongos. We jam together for an hour or so, putting off the inevitable parting, until, at well past midnight, I finally confess that I’m a bit tired, even though I don’t want the evening to end.

My visitors don their shoes and gather their things, and we stand at the front door looking at one another. “So, what comes next? “ I ask, and George says: “Answer in one word!” We answer: “Autumn.” “School.” “Change.” “Exploration.” “Adventure.” “Friends.” “More!” And then we crowd together for a final group hug.

* * * * * * * *

And so our last Summer Sunday is as I would wish all partings could be – a joyful, fun, silly, exuberant celebration. And best of all, when we finally part company, I know that it is only bye for now. Until next time. Soon.

The Word Wench’s Weblog is a fictional memoir, and any resemblance to any person living or dead (you know who you are!) is purely coincidental. Please subscribe to weekly Sunday updates through RSS feed or by sending an email to TheWordWench@gmail.com

Salute to Summer’s End

Dear Gentle Readers,

I hope you all enjoy these last weeks of summer vacation. I’m on hiatus, but will return with more stories of life and love in a couple of weeks.

Cheers,

The Word Wench

Fat Class

Wednesday evenings you’ll find me in Fat Class – what I fondly call my ongoing weight management class. Over the last year, I’ve lost about 30 pounds with this program; and for a good six months, I’ve maintained the loss – no small achievement. I still have another fifteen to twenty pounds to go, and this time next year, I should be looking like Rachel Weisz.

Just joking.

Seriously. I’m here because of a back injury I sustained a couple of years ago, when I accidentally pulled a large and heavy Shop Vac down on my head while cleaning my attic. Despite feeling the shock of the impact through my spine, for a couple of days I laughed at the absurdity of the incident and shared it as an amusing dinner anecdote. I was not amused and in fact sobbing with pain a few days later, however, when, after a particularly bumpy bike ride, I was unable to stand and could barely walk or sit.

My recovery was slow and fraught with setbacks and it was a good six months before I could forego a back brace and special implements and strategies to replace sitting and bending and lifting and carrying. Eventually my thrice-weekly chiropractic visits dropped to two, and then to one, and I got back to exercise—walking—with a vengeance. A year later and about 85 percent recovered, though, I hit a plateau. And because I wanted to feel even more healthy than I was – as grateful as I was for feeling as improved as I did – I began to examine those variables I could tweak to make a difference.

I chose two: More and different exercise to strengthen more of my body, particularly my back and stomach muscles. And weight loss, to take the extra burden off my back.

Exploring exercise led me to spinal work, where I learned about natural posture and relearned sitting, standing, walking, and lying down using these principles. I experienced pretty miraculous improvement over a few weeks’ time, and soon found I could walk farther and longer and stronger than I ever had. My preference for sustainable weight management led me to Fat Class, where the loss of pound 17 was a watershed moment, one where I could literally feel the weight lift off my back. I felt like a new woman, and I know there’s still room for improvement.

And so here I am in Fat Class.

This is a practical, data-driven program that focuses on portion control, exercise, conscious choice and personal accountability. It begins with a 13-week commitment that includes a strict attendance policy, and it proved to be just the thing I needed to stick with a food plan long enough to learn some important things about myself that, believe it or not, I didn’t know, well into my forties.

For example, turns out that every individual has a pretty specific volume of food at which their stomachs feel comfortably full, and this fullness is important to hunger—and consequently—weight management. And turns out that I’m one of those who require a pretty large volume of food to feel satiety. So, working with this insight, I learned to identify ways in which to eat that volume while balancing calories. (Two words: More veggies!)

It all sounds so serious, but really, Fat Class can be a lot of fun. Week by week, the bond of camaraderie and support grows among those of us in the trenches together fighting the battle of the bulge. We’re pretty real, speaking of and solving for the daily and unexpected challenges that can trigger unconscious eating, and often we make each other laugh, particularly when we share our practices for portion control, like drinking a single beer poured out in multiple servings in champagne glasses, or whipping out measuring cups and pocket scales in restaurants.

Our instructor, Carol, vivacious and witty, is a delightful mix of tough cookie and gifted storyteller, holding us in thrall with earnest encouragement and her unexpected one-liners. Her commitment is unflagging but practical, and she’s wise to the human psyche.

“Accountability is extremely important,” she says to me firmly, after reviewing a particularly sloppy week of my record-keeping.

“But hard,” I say.

“Yes,” she says. “Old habits die hard, because the truth is that sometimes we really just want to keep doing what we’ve been doing.”

“But in some way, the behavior is serving a need,” I say.

“Yes,” she agrees. “And that need isn’t bad or good; it’s a need with a reason. But your line of inquiry might be: What am I trying to move toward? Why do I want to do things differently? What need or needs would that ‘different way’ fulfill? What new or different outcome am I trying to create? And then, with intent, action: Can I focus on that new intent and desired outcome and make choices that support that? Because here’s the thing: Once you make those different choices, and you’ve experienced that new outcome and results you like, you’ll find it easier to continue to make choices that support that new way of being or doing.”

It’s food for thought that I (just call me ‘Grasshopper’) continue to chew over.

Anyway, tonight, summertime Fat Class begins as it always does with the horror stories that send chills up our spines.

“Let me remind you that it can be dangerous out there in the gap,” Carol says. And here let me explain: “The gap” is what we refer to as that difference between the amount of food our bodies need to be healthy and in balance, and the overabundant amount of food on offer daily in American culture, particularly in restaurants, but often in our offices and vending machines and homes as well.

Carol continues, “This week’s Bad News from the Gap features a couple of milkshakes, a popular treat this time of year. The first is the Baskin Robbins’ Heath Bar Shake. This beauty totals 2,300 calories.”

The class gasps.

“Yes,” says Carol. “That’s almost twice the total daily caloric allocation for some of you women on maintenance.” I nod. I’m one of those who can look at a stick of butter and gain 12 pounds.

“Our second feature is Dairy Queen’s Thin Mint Blizzard. This one totals 1500 calories, and includes one whole package – remember, there are two in a box – of Thin Mint cookies from the Girl Scouts.”

“You mean ‘the girl devils,” someone says loudly. We laugh.

The girl devils may tempt, but as Carol points out, they’ve got nothing on our own mind devils, really. Over the years, I’ve shown a good number of devils the door, and now I simply refuse to answer when they come knocking. Abstinence has become a cornerstone strategy: I don’t go to places like Dairy Queen or Baskin Robbins anymore. If I buy a food and have it in the house and find I consume it too quickly, I don’t buy it again; it’s likely a trigger. I no longer cook much, except on special occasions, and my menu is quotidian; I stick to some pretty basic items. This is what Carol describes as decision-free eating. Ultimately, it might seem boring or limited, but it’s a tradeoff I’m willing to make; I like feeling better in my body, and I like being free from a good deal of mental self-torture.

After reviewing the class’s food and exercise records and discussing upcoming challenges, Carol moves on to the evening’s topic: fast food and dining out. We discuss strategies, options, and better choices, including abstinence, selectivity, and offsetting occasional over-consumption with calorie deficits and extra exercise.

“It’s important to give yourself a break with decision-free meals,” says Carol, wrapping up. “And as we’ve discussed, that can be hard to do out there in the gap with portions gone wild. So any suggestions when it comes to fast food?”

“Don’t eat it!” someone calls out. Many of us agree.

“Anything that can work, if necessary?” asks Carol.

“Well, there is the Happy Meal,” Marty volunteers. “The cheeseburger at 320 and small fries at 210, with a diet soda, gives you a meal for 530 calories.”

“Yes,” says Carol. “And believe it or not, those are portion sizes that were considered regular adult meals in the 50s when McDonald’s first opened. Yes; the Happy Meal could be a decision-free option. Good suggestion.”

“Actually, it’s not quite decision-free,” says Marty, “ You have to decide if you want the girl toy or the boy toy.”

“That’s easy enough,” I quip. “I’ll take the boy toy. Yummy.”

We laugh, Carol dismisses Fat Class, and we head off into another week to make our ways safely through the gap.

The Word Wench’s Weblog is a fictional memoir, and any resemblance to any person living or dead (you know who you are!) is purely coincidental. Please subscribe to weekly Sunday updates through RSS feed or by sending an email to TheWordWench@gmail

A Breastrospective

I.
I’m baring myself here, tits and all.

One morning, I’m doing a breast self-exam for the first time in a long time because I’ve been feeling a lot of discomfort and weirdness on and off in the upper left of my chest and back for a few weeks. And that’s when I find the lump. Its presence is palpable at approximately a centimeter in diameter and hard.

At work I watch the clock and call the clinic as soon as it opens to get an appointment with my doctor. She confirms the lump and sends me to radiology to schedule bilateral mammograms and an ultrasound. My tests will follow a week and a half later, the earliest appointments available.

Once I have my pink slip, I walk to the car. I am crying, hard, before I can get the door unlocked and slide in behind the wheel.

II.
It’s not my first lump ever. But this one feels different. And I feel differently about it. I find myself thinking that the lump must be related to the chest and back discomfort, and I wonder if some huge tumor is growing inside my rib cage, pressing on my vital organs and extending itself through my ribs and into my breast. I realize that logically I cannot know this, and I’d likely be in much worse shape if it were true, but I cannot stop crying, nonetheless. I know I’ll be no good at the office, so I call my friend and colleague Rose, tell her what’s happening and ask if she will gather my things and meet me outside.

Rose is waiting at the curb when I pull up at the office. “Can you talk for a few minutes?” she asks, concerned. I nod.

We sit at a picnic table in a secluded corner of the parking lot, and I tell her what I know. She offers me sips of her hazelnut latte, which comforts, and she offers to go with me for the tests, which comforts even more. She shares her own and her mother’s experiences with lumps, both benign, and our talk helps me regain equilibrium. I even make us both laugh when I say, “Thanks for letting me get this off my chest. You know, I just needed an excuse today to avoid writing up my damned performance review.”

Back home, I call Doc. Our “opensure” is new and tentative, but his response of “A lump? Shit! Oh shit!” gives me a sense of comradeship, and his inquiries about my symptoms and next steps help me feel less overwhelmed. Still, unable to sit still, alone in my house in front of my monitor after we hang up, I walk next door to Kate and Jake’s and tell Kate. Kate offers to go with me on testing day too, and she reassures me, pointing out that the appearance of such lumps is not uncommon in menopause. Jake provides comfort food, making tunafish sandwiches and pouring glasses of milk.

Later I call Horst, who tells me he’ll call his mom, a breast cancer survivor, for more information about what I can expect with the tests. As I am lying in bed that night, staring at the ceiling and starting to worry, he calls. “Are you worrying? Don’t. My mom says that 80 to 90 percent of these lumps are benign.”

I am so thankful for my friends, I think, just before I drift off to sleep, calmed, with Horst’s voice in my ear.

III.
I am large busted. Well-endowed. Stacked. Have a rack. And I’ve had an ambivalent relationship with my breasts my whole life. I’ve felt, at various times, impatient for them, delighted by them, betrayed by them, dismayed by them, happy with them, unhappy with them, comfortable with them, at peace with them. Now I’m afraid of them.

In fifth grade, I couldn’t get them soon enough.

I remember cornering my mother in the kitchen one afternoon after school, away from my three younger, inquisitive siblings. Umm, Mom,” I asked, “I was wondering. . . Ummm, ahhhh, ummmm . . . could I get a bra?”

It had taken me a couple of weeks to work up the courage to raise the subject. I held my breath as I waited for her answer. In retrospect, I applaud how careful she was. “Well, sweetie,” she said, “Bras can be uncomfortable, but if you feel like you need the support . . .”

“Yes,” I said, relieved that making my case was this easy, although not quite understanding what my mother meant by “support.” I’d had a twinge or two of late over my chest and so I expected my breasts to pop out any day now, and I really, really, really wanted one of those pretty white satin-and-lace bras, with the little shaped cups and the pink rose stitched between them. Already this week, three more girls had shown off theirs in the bathroom, away from the watchful eyes of our Catholic school nuns, and I was envious and embarrassed. I didn’t care if getting a bra would cost me my standing with the boys as arm wrestling and dodge ball champion; I wanted one too. “I think I really need one,” I said.

My mom took me shopping that weekend. I felt so excited, on the verge of something wonderful and mysterious: I’d have a bra, breasts, and my hair would grow long -and straight, miraculously. I wandered through the girls’ underwear department, gazing blissfully at the pretty things, while my mom consulted with the saleswoman.

Moments later she stood in front of me. I stared blankly at the utilitarian-looking white cotton triangles joined by thin strips of elastic that she dangled on a plastic hanger. “What’s that?” I asked.

“It’s a training bra, honey,” said my mom, gently.

Clearly my mom needed more explanation. “But mom, that’s not the kind of bra I need. I need that kind of bra,” and I pointed to the lacy cupped bra with the pink rose.

“Sweetie,” my mom said, “That bra is too big for you.”

I think I ended up with both bras because my mother could sense my dismay and my fragility over what I seemed to be taking as a blow to my girlhood at the thought that I could not muster up enough to fill those lacy cups when all the other fifth grade girls could. Once home, I tried on both bras. Of course, the training bra fit. And of course, the lacy rosebud bra bagged in the cups.

I tried on the lacy bra every morning and every evening for the next month or so, impatiently willing my breasts to grow and fill it. I refused to stoop to stuffing, although I did pray to God to intercede on my behalf. Twice a day, every day for a month I persisted. But then one day, I’d had enough. Nothing was happening. Nothing was EVER going to happen. I inveighed against the other girls at school; I cursed the stupid tempting bras designed to get one’s hopes up with promises, undelivered, of all wonderful things; I railed against God – and went so far as to question if there even was a God. And then I balled up that loathsome lacy bra and stuffed it in a brown paper bag on which I wrote in all caps: DO NOT OPEN UNTIL 21!!!!!!!! And I shoved that damned bag way, way, way, way, way back in the linen closet, where we didn’t find it until we moved some two or three years later.

IV.
Over the next few days, after finding the lump, I struggle. Lying in bed at night alone is the hardest. This is typically my prime time for mental self-torture, it is true, but it is also true that right now I find it is the time of day where I wish there was someone to hold me and say, “Stop worrying, Wenchie. You’re okay for now. We just have to wait and find out. In the meantime, let’s try not to worry.”

In bed in the evenings and in the mornings, I feel the lump. I check it so often that the area over my left rib cage soon is throbbing constantly. Or, I wonder, is it throbbing constantly because of a fast-growing cancer? What if I only have weeks to live? My outlook blackens fast, and these thoughts start to plague me during the days as well. So unlike me, I think, and so I make an appointment with my counselor to talk. In her office, I talk and talk around things, holding myself to cheerful stoicism, while she listens, silent, calm, and watchful, until suddenly I blurt out what I haven’t said to any other person besides myself.

“I know I don’t know anything yet, and there’s really no sense in worrying. And I’m not really worrying, but what if I do have cancer?” My voice trembles, and I am almost defiant. “I’m sorry, and I don’t mean to trivialize the battles cancer patients and others are fighting for their lives every single day, but I just don’t want to deal with this.”

Julia, my counselor, is not shocked. I see that I don’t have to protect her, and that frees me to say what feels true and has been frightening me most. “I just don’t want to fight anymore. I’m tired of fighting and bucking up and healing and integrating and working through shit and being responsible and earning a living and taking care of a house and a car and work and my health and doing what needs doing all by myself. I just don’t want to work so hard anymore. I’m not going to fight this.”

We both let me cry for as long as I need to.

That night, I lie awake in bed for a very long time. But I’m not as scared – not of maybe having cancer nor of my own thoughts. I would still prefer to have somebody here to hold me and tell me not to worry, that it will be okay, and that whatever happens, we’ll handle it together. But the fact remains that I don’t have an intimate with me right now, in this moment. Other than myself, that is. And I think about this for a while: Can I do for myself what Julia did for me today – simply sit with what I’m feeling, really be here for me now?

It feels a little silly, but I try saying the words out loud: “Stop worrying, Wenchie. You’re okay for now. We just have to wait and find out. In the meantime, let’s try not to worry.”

And my voice, in the dark room, sounds soft and gentle and soothing to me.

I talk to myself for a while. I call myself “sweetie” and “honey.” I am kind and tender with my words. I sing myself a lullaby. The cat, perhaps curious, comes and curls beside me on the pillow and licks my face. I sink into myself and fall asleep.

V.
Anyway, the final laugh (God’s?) was on me when I “busted out” as they say, years later, in high school, from a modest C cup to a double D, between my junior and senior years. This new development, shall we say, strangely complicated my image as the nerdy girl who was one of “the brain squad,” along with all the computer and physics guys. Now I was confused, as were the boys I suspect: Did they want me for my witty repartee and stellar lab write-ups or did they hope to eventually cop a feel? When my guy posse, with whom I’d hung out for years, started using lines from our favorite Monty Python movies against me (“Wenchie has such ‘huge tracts of land’!), I felt betrayed, by my breasts and by them.

Partially to maintain my brainiac image and ensure that none of my peers confused “big-breasted” with “easy” – and partially in retribution – I refused to date any of the guys, and instead started seeing an older man who feigned no interest whatsoever in my mind.

VI.
As good fortune and organizational skills (not mine) would have it, my sister Mare comes into town for a week’s visit a few days after the lump’s discovery. I have taken the time off from work, and Mare, quiet and smart, direct and practical, quickly takes me in hand and gets us into a routine. She cleans my house and has us taking daily walks, watching movies, and getting out and about. She refuses to let me dwell in anxiety.

“Listen,” Mare says firmly, holding up her hand when I tentatively suggest that I show her where I keep my will and other documents, “No. We’re not doing that. Not now. IF we find out something’s wrong and I need to come back out, I will. And THEN you can show me everything. But we’re not going there now. Not while we don’t know anything.”

And that is that. Mare’s boundary-setting works, and within a couple of days, our conversations and walks and excursions and Scrabble games crowd out my daytime worrying. We do girly things: eat cake and chocolates, lunch, get manicures and pedicures, go shopping. I’m surprised to realize I’m having so much fun.

At night, though, after we call our goodnights down the hall to one another, I lie in bed with my thoughts. I’m not feeling morbid, really; rather, I am growing curious and surprisingly light-hearted in inquiry. Having given myself permission NOT to fight, and enjoying having my sister here to play with, I find myself asking, “Am I, in fact, ready to leave? And will I leave with any regrets?”

I am surprised to discover that I have very few. There are no places where I’m dying (forgive me) to go or things I feel I haven’t done. There are a handful of very difficult experiences that I wish I had not had, and a handful of lovely experiences and some states that I wish I had the pleasure of dwelling in longer, but I feel mostly at peace either way. Looking back over my life, I see that I’ve worked through adversity and tragedy, and I’ve known deep joy and happiness. Key story arcs have completed, and I realize that right now I am doing all of the things I wanted to do when I grew up: living pretty free; enjoying a community rich in friends and family; watching my daughter take off in her life; adventuring in and exploring the world; writing. What more I do want is to see how it all plays out – and that simply requires more time.

I’ve been very lucky to make it to midlife and to feel this way. And I decide, if I don’t have cancer, then in this next part of my life, I will use the rest of me all up.

And how will you do that? I ask myself and I begin to find that that thought intrigues me.

VII.
Breasts and sex. Divine. Breasts and pregnancy and childbearing. Miraculous. My breasts grew even larger when I was pregnant, quite overwhelming me. I didn’t know that they even made cup sizes that big. But my breasts dazzled me as well, when nine months later, they let me nurse a baby. I felt like such a mammal. A big, soft, milk-producing, life-giving mammal animal.

Childbearing, weight gain, weight loss and gravity all did their part over the years, and a couple of decades later, I considered having a breast reduction operation. At the plastic surgeon’s for an evaluation, I found myself feeling protective of and almost indignant for my breasts when he said, after having a look at them, “I could give you prettier ones.”

I leafed through a portfolio of his work and discovered that even breast beauty is in the eye of the beholder.

VIII.
Testing day is the day after the day after Mare leaves, and I stay busy cleaning and exercising and writing. I check in with Sydney and Libby and Chris, who has me in tears, laughing, when she reminds me of her own recent lump scare and the doctor’s cheery pronouncement that it was nothing, “merely calcifications due to the fact that [her] breasts were atrophying as all women’s do in menopause.” “Great,” I say. “Maybe I’m merely atrophying.”

The evening before testing day, Kate checks in and confirms that she’ll meet me in radiology, and Kate and Jake and I go to dinner. George comes by and we watch a movie. At the very end of the day, Horst calls and reminds me that 80 to 90 percent of lumps are benign. I tell him I’ll call as soon as I have results.

At work the morning of testing day, I stop by and say hi to Colleen. She tells me she’s been thinking of me and feels all will be well. Doc checks in by email, and I have lunch with Chaika, who entertains me with her observations of people and recommendations of good reads. “I’ll be thinking of you then,” she says, when I tell her my appointment time. Rose stops by with roses and a hug. I tell her she will be the first person I call once I know – just as she was the first person I called when we found the lump.

I know that everyone’s thoughts are with me, and I leave work for my appointment feeling strong.

IX.
I have had lovers who loved my breasts and others who preferred that I keep a top and maybe even a bra on, as they were disappointed with the way my breasts looked when they were not, as one said, “all trussed up.” Doc endeared himself to me the first time we were in bed together and he practically serenaded them.

“Tops off,” he said.

I hesitated. “I’m feeling self-conscious.”

“Okay. Let’s get this over with, once and for all,” he said, with mock exasperation. “Let’s have a look.” He removed my shirt and bra and moved my arms away from my chest and gazed at my breasts, as I watched his face in the candlelight.

“Why, they’re wonderful!,” he said, after a few moments. “Just look at them. They’re the breasts of a woman who has been pregnant and nursed a baby, a woman who’s now in midlife, who’s experienced gravity just like the rest of us. Breasts come in all shapes and sizes; yours are soft, and pendulous, and they’re just fine.” He spoke tenderly and earnestly.

I laughed at Doc’s speech and welcomed him happily.

X.
Kate’s is the first face I see when I walk into the radiology waiting room. She is sitting, calmly knitting. I fill out paperwork with her at my side, and then we talk. She tells me about her knitting project and I find it very intriguing, as it’s about making sweaters for orphans. She smiles at my questions and, when I start at the sound of my name being called a good 10 minutes later, says, “I just wanted to distract you. It worked, didn’t it?” Kate gives me a big hug before I walk through the double doors for my tests.

I take off my shirt and bra and don a gown, open in the front. The radiologist takes me to a mammography room, and takes several x-rays of both breasts. When she’s finished, she asks me to wait while the doctor reads the results.

It is a long wait. I thumb through two magazines, distractedly. And then I close them and sit quietly.

What will I do if I have cancer? I ask myself. And my answer is I will do what I can. I feel a sense of peace.

It seems like hours, but I’m sure it’s only a few minutes more before the radiologist returns. “Mammograms are clear,” she says. “We don’t see anything of concern.” I breathe deeply, with relief.

We do an ultrasound as well, and the verdict is “lumpy breasts” – calcification. Thankfully, no one uses the word “atrophy,” but I wouldn’t care if they did, if it’s the case that I don’t have cancer.

Dressed, I return to the waiting room, where my smile tells Kate the news. “I’m so happy,” she says, hugging me tightly. “What a relief.” She calls Jake; I hear his voice, glad, on the other end of the phone.

I call everyone – Rose, Mare, Horst, Chris, Doc, Libby, Cyn – everyone. The conversations are happy and sweet, the relief audible in everyone’s voices. I feel increasingly light, giddy almost, as the worry and anxiety I’ve been carrying, to an extent I didn’t realize, continue to lift.

XI.
At the end of the day, Kate and I regroup to take a celebratory walk out at the Baylands. The vista is magnificent, a cloudless evening sky with the mountains that ring the bay sharply visible. The air feels good, as does my body, as we stride along the levees.

“So what,” I say, “I have lumpy breasts that hang down to my knees. I don’t have cancer, and I have breasts!”

“And knees!” says Kate.

I laugh. And I thank Kate for being here for me through this experience.

“You are welcome,” she says. And then she asks, “So, now that you’ve been given this new life, what are you going to do with it?”

I think for a minute. “Great question. I don’t know the answer yet,” I say, “But I do know this: I’d like to listen better, show appreciation more, put my house in order, keep writing, and . . . just use me all up before it really is time to go.”

“Nice,” says Kate.

The relief, the fresh air, the exercise, the friendship all work their magic. And that night, when I get into bed, I feel happy, and I have not a single thought before I am deep asleep.

The Word Wench’s Weblog is a fictional memoir, and any resemblance to any person living or dead (you know who you are!) is purely coincidental. Please subscribe to weekly Sunday updates through RSS feed or by sending an email to TheWordWench@gmail

“Opensure”

It’s time to talk, Clare decided. And so she picked up the phone and dialed Ray.

“And what the hell comes next?” I ask aloud as I finish typing the line. I’m frustrated, because I can’t seem to bring this story to a neat and tidy conclusion, despite weeks of work and rework. And I’m only more irritated when my eye alights on the Rilke quote taped to my monitor, it once again reminding me to Learn to love the questions themselves.

“Enough with the questions! Let’s have some answers. I want closure here!”

Here’s the back story: My protagonist, writer Clare, and scientist Ray meet and fall madly into . . . something. Within a few short months, the relationship, despite its strong affinities and attractions, hits a wall of ambivalence with the question: “Where is this going?” Out of a need for decisive action, perhaps, and out of the blue, Ray dumps Clare by letter, telling her that while he cares for her very much, he’s met someone else and hopes that he and she can be friends. Clare, stunned, never responds.

Months pass, and as time mends Clare’s broken heart, she discovers that some key changes in her life have, in fact, been catalyzed by her brief but significant relationship with Ray. Channeling into her writing energies awakened by their playfulness, mental fireworks and hot sex, Clare finds her voice and an audience and growing success. Clare’s appreciation for the outcomes of good and growth, along with her preference for conciliatory if not happy endings (most of her exes, including her ex-husband, are friends), lead her increasingly to think of trying a friendship with Ray. Which creates her internal conflict: Can she reopen this connection and authentically show up as herself and as a friend to Ray? Or is it better for everyone, including Clare, to leave things alone?

Clare doesn’t know the answers to these questions. I don’t know the answers to these questions. And here I won’t lie: Some of the stories I’m writing borrow pretty heavily from my own experiences. Like this one, which is pretty much about me and Doc.

But I don’t have to have the answers at this moment; right now I’m saved by the bell. My alarm clock has gone off, and it’s time to meet Art for coffee (or, in Art’s case, tea or water). I figure I’ll run some thoughts by him, and Art will be the breath of fresh, pragmatic air to clear some of the confusion. Art’s a man of few – but well-considered – words. It will be good to talk.

I pull into the parking lot at my nearby Peet’s where Art is sitting in front of the cafe on a bench, self-contained and alert and looking sporty in his golf gear. He rises as I approach and gives me a hug. “How are ya, Wenchie?”

I hug him back. “Good.”

After procuring mugs of coffee and tea, we find a table.

“So,” I say, “I got news.”

“And?”

“I sold a story to The New Yorker.”

“Good job! Topic?”

“Love. Life. The usual.”

“Fact? Fiction?”

“Fiction. Although, obviously, all fiction is based on fact, since we writers write about what we know – or think we know – best,” I say.

“Keeping it real,” says Art. “Believable.”

“Yes,” I say. “And what’s new with you?”

“Gwen and I are engaged,” says Art.

“Wow! Art!” I’m surprised and delighted for him. “Talk about keeping it real! Congratulations!”

I know that Art and Gwen have been seeing each other seriously for a while, and I knew there was talk of marriage someday when the kids were grown. It seems that someday has come, and quickly.

“You’ve been together now, what, two or three years?” I ask.

“Eight,” says Art.

“Eight? Geez, I didn’t realize that. I guess I don’t really know the story of you and Gwen. I have questions. Do you mind?” Art shakes his head. “How did you meet? Was it love at first sight? And pardon me for sounding rude, but why did it take you guys eight years to get engaged?”

“Actually, it’s a pretty good story,” says Art.

“Go!” I say.

“Well. I first met Gwen on match.com. We emailed and spoke on the phone, and by the time I met her in person, I knew I liked her. But things were complicated.” Art looks a little sheepish. “I was kind of in a relationship; she was in a trial separation. We liked each other, and we had a few lunch dates over a few weeks, but then we decided that we each needed to take care of a few things. Put our respective houses in order.”

So two years passed. Gwen kept working at her marriage, and Art continued dating and had a couple more short-term relationships and a number of what he’s only willing to describe as “interesting” match.com experiences. “The Internet dating game is seductive,” he says. “There’s always another possibility, and you can distract yourself chasing after that, building up projections and fantasies and expectations. Pretty soon it almost doesn’t matter how great the real person is when you find her and have a connection – you keep thinking that there might be someone even better out there. It’s a common trap for guys.”

“Sheesh,” I say. “You men are sluts.”

“Not pretty but true, in my experience,” says Art. “And it’s something for you to be aware of, since I know you’re in the dating game these days.”

“Thanks. I’ll take it under advisement.”

During those two years, Art and Gwen kept in touch, and when Gwen officially separated, moving out of the family home, the two began dating again. They broke things off a second time when Gwen’s husband made a last stand and persuaded her to move back in and give things another shot. (Proving that the path to true love never did run smooth, I point out.) Art took himself out of the picture so that she could make her choice, free and clear. (“Hard?” I ask. “Yes, very,” Art answers.) After more marital issues surfaced, Gwen decided on divorce, and shortly thereafter, Art and Gwen got together. Three was the charm and this time it was for good.

“So that was about three years ago,” I count off fingers. “When did you know Gwen was The One? And how did you propose?”

“I knew I wanted to be with her for a long time after we’d spent a good year together – about four years after we first met,” says Art. “But I didn’t propose. Gwen proposed to me.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Yes,” he says. “I knew she was skittish and couldn’t begin to think in terms of marriage after all she’d been through. So, a couple of years ago, I gave her a diamond necklace and said, ‘Here you go. I want to marry you, and I know you’re not ready for me to ask you. So I’m giving you this diamond, and when you are ready, you ask me. Take the diamond, have a ring made with it, and then put it on your hand and let me know.’ ”

And so it was that one spring day in March of this year, eight years to the date after their first meeting, Gwen and Art met for lunch once again, at the same restaurant. They sat outside in the little courtyard, at the same table where they sat on their first date, and they lunched beneath the flowering pear trees, the white petals falling gently over them, carried on the warming breezes. They recalled their first meeting, reminiscing about one another as they were that day, and they spoke of the adventures and changes of the ensuing years, and of the history they now shared.

They talked and they laughed and they rested in companionable silences, and over coffee (and tea), Gwen reached across the table and took Art’s two hands in her own. And it was then that Art saw the flash of the diamond ring. He fell silent as Gwen’s eyes met his, and he leaned toward her to hear her ask him, softly, she quoting Rocky from one of Art’s favorite movies, “What do you think you’re doing for the next 40 or 50 years? ‘Cause I was wondering if you wouldn’t mind marrying me very much.” And Gwen held her breath until she heard Art say “I wouldn’t mind.”

Art and I sit in silence after he finishes his story. I sniff and he hands me a napkin. “It’s a good story, huh?” he smiles at me.

“It’s a GREAT story,” I say, blowing my nose. “A love story of patience and tenderness. A sweet story. Thank you for telling it.”

“It’s a story of what I call ‘opensure,’ “ says Art. “Different than closure. It’s about keeping doors open and letting things happen as they will.”

“Opensure,” I nod. “I like that.”

We linger a little longer, catching each other up on the kids and our jobs, and then we rise to clear our mugs and head back to work.

“Some thoughts for you,” Art says, patting my shoulder just before we part company. “In real life, you don’t have to have all the answers, Wenchie girl. And you can let things happen in their own time. Everyone has a story, and they’re all works in progress.”

I give Art a quick hug. “Thank you,” I say. “Very good things to remember.”

Later, back home at my keyboard, I still don’t know what the hell comes next. But it’s time to talk, I decide. And so I pick up the phone and dial Doc.

The Word Wench’s Weblog is a fictional memoir, and any resemblance to any person living or dead (you know who you are!) is purely coincidental. Please subscribe to weekly Sunday updates through RSS feed or by sending an email to TheWordWench@gmail

Just A Regular Guy

I want to go all over the world
And start living free
I know that there’s somebody who
Is waiting for me
I’ll build a boat, steady and true
As soon as it’s done
I’m going to sail along in the dreams
Of my dear someone

One little star, smiling tonight
Knows where you are
Stay, little star, steady and bright
To guide me afar
Rush, little wind, over the deep
For now I’ve begun
Hurry and take me straight into the arms
Of my dear someone

Hurry and take me into the arms
Of my dear someone

I’m practicing this sweet little Gillian Welch song for my upcoming guitar lesson, the guitar being something I’ve taken up again as another channel for my energies in the wake of my last failed romance. (I decided: If I can’t make music one way, I’ll make it another.) I’m working on a new picking pattern and noticing—with no minor satisfaction—that the steel strings no longer feel like they’re shredding my fingertips, when I’m interrupted by the phone.

“Hello, Ms. Wench?” It’s Minnie from the dating service. “I’m calling to tell you we have a match for you!”

I signed up for It’s Just a Nooner a couple of weeks ago, after my friend Mick suggested it was time to pick up, towel off, and jump back in the ring. “You need to get out on some dates.”

“Eh.” I said, adding that I’d rather have a couple of root canals, or maybe redo my taxes for the last decade.

“No, really,” said Mick. “You were in a good place. You had some good momentum going. You’re ready to rumble. And it’s a numbers game.”

“Oh, and I thought it was a question of timing,” I said. “Or of not looking but letting love find me. Or some other such clichéd, trite truism.”

“Bitter, Party of One!” said Mick. “C’mon, Wenchie. Move on. Get going. Next chump!”

“Whatev, Pollyanna,” I sneered.

But I thought about it for a few weeks more, and then chatted it over with a couple of my girlfriends. “On the one hand, Mick may be right,” I said. “On the other hand, my heart’s not in it.”

“So figure out some way to stay open but not invest any time or effort in searching,” suggested Zoe. “Make the boys come to you. Or better yet, get someone to bring the boys to you. Friends, family. . . ”

. . . Or a matchmaker, I thought suddenly. I found the idea intriguing. Maybe somewhere out there was a wee little dried-apple-faced, babushka-headed old woman, ready to pair me up with a good man. So I did a little Google-fu, searching on terms like “yenta for goy,” until I finally ended up at the service’s Website.

The staffers weren’t a wizened bunch. Instead, as I discovered when I ventured into their offices for an interview, they were a gaggle of perky, upbeat young women, most only a few years older than Harrison. I wondered how the heck these fluffy little chicks could have the skill and insight required to successfully pair up men and women in their 40s and 50s—most heavily armored after failed marriages, broken families and financial setbacks but still, probably “against their better judgement,” holding onto a slim shred of hope that they might, just might, somewhere, someday, somehow, meet The One, or at the very least, someone with whom they might like to spend some time.

But then, it would probably take a SWAT team of highly trained psychotherapists to do justice to such a midlife matching challenge, and I didn’t think there was a dating service like that anywhere on the planet. It’s Just a Nooner was meant to be low pressure – a casual daytime meal for busy professionals—and if one found a friend, companion, lover, or mate while lunching, well then, that was an unexpected bonus. And if, to ply yet another trite cliché, it’s all just a crapshoot anyway, why not see what these kids could come up with?

On the phone now, Minnie sounds giddy with joy. No kidding; she is gushing. “Steve is tall, attractive, and smart.”

Whatever, I’m tempted to say but don’t. Skip the descriptors. Except for “tall,” they’re all subjective anyway. And even “tall” could be subjective. Besides, I’ll know it when I meet it. So let’s just cut to the chase. “Nice,” I say aloud and “Thank you,” after Minnie finishes briefing me on my prospective date’s marital status (divorced), family (two children), and his work (financial services).

“Oh, and we’re a good match because . . . ?” I ask just before we hang up.

“Well, you’re both smart and energetic,” she says.

Whatever that means.

Minnie tells me when and where our meeting will be. It’s an evening rather than a noontime tete-a-tete, due to our work schedules, and Steve is happy to come down to my neck of the peninsula. I decline, because I have a new rule: I refuse to either date locals or to go on dates in my town; it takes too long to clear out the memories if things go south. So, I ask instead to meet in the City, but I do give Steve points for being willing to drive.

A few days later, I’m waiting at the restaurant, a quiet little place in North Beach. I’ve made an effort to look cute, hair down in loose curls, leg showing in skirt and heels, cleave showing in a wrap top. I’ve applied perfume and goosed myself along with another cliché: You just never know.

A tall, brown-haired, brown-eyed, not unattractive guy approaches me, “Ms. Wench?”

“Steve?” I extend my hand. “Nice to meet you.”

He gives me the quick head-to-toe once-over, and I must I meet his minimum requirements for attractiveness because he suggests dinner, rather than drinks. I find myself noting his precisely clipped and edged haircut, crisp collar, and very white smile. There’s a lot of tidiness going on there.

Seated at the table, we open with the textbook moves: Hellos, cursory comments about the weather and the day’s events, work. He offers the first compliment early in the game: “You’re just so warm and genuine.” He could be on the make, but I give him the benefit of the doubt; “You seem pretty nice yourself,” I return.

“I am,” he says. “I’m just a regular, nice guy.” And he flashes the dazzling white smile.

Yellow flag. Proceed with caution, Wenchie. I’ve learned to be particularly alert any time a person tells me what they are; there are usually sharks swimming in those waters.

“You say you’re in analyst relations. That’s so interesting,” Steve says. “Because I work with analysts often in my line of work.”

“Ah,” I say, “I think we work with different types of analysts. You work with financial analysts; I work with industry and technology analysts.”

“Oh,” he says. But he doesn’t seem interested in learning more. I switch into interview mode and learn pretty quickly about his success in the industry, the company he owns, how little work he does himself these days, how good he is at identifying talent to work for him, how much he enjoys being interviewed on television (it means he has to think fast on his feet) and how he’s going to write a book about his theory on building wealth (it’s an attitude). A look of annoyance crosses his face when the waiter interrupts to describe the day’s specials and take our orders.

“So,” I say after we’ve ordered, “Given all the opportunities you must have to meet people in your line of work, why did you sign up for It’s Just a Nooner?”

“Well,” he says, “I’m pretty well known, and people tend to put me on a pedestal. And then they’re not themselves with me. They just don’t get that I’m a regular guy.”

Oh really?

Over dinner, I ask the Regular Guy (his new moniker, I’ve decided) about his children. It seems that although he has joint custody, the kids don’t actually live with him regularly. Instead, he lets them visit when they want to–which doesn’t sound like it’s very often – and he takes them to Beverly Hills for the occasional shopping spree or to Disneyland for play weekends. Regular Guy doesn’t participate in the day-to-day childraising, although he does acknowledge that his children’s mother is wonderful.

“Why did you split up?” I ask.

“My needs changed. For years, I was a complete Type A, driven to establish myself, focusing on getting the prizes—money, prestige, the house, the car. You know. And then, once I had those things, I realized I needed something more.”

The waiter comes to clear our plates and offer us coffee and dessert. I ask for a cup of coffee, black, and the Regular Guy orders a decaf latte, double shot, extra hot, light foam, soy.

“And so you took stock of your relationship and realized that something important was lacking?” I continue to plumb the depths.

The Regular Guy pauses to reflect. “The best analogy I can give is this: One day I walked into the BMW dealership, and I took a look at one of their top-of-the-line cars, starting at 125 grand, and I realized, I could buy this, right now, with cash, but then I’d be on that treadmill of upgrading every year or so to get the latest and the greatest, and what a rat race that would be . . .”

“And at that point you realized the emptiness of pursuing things – and how important a good emotional connection is?” I’m trying to follow along, but I’m not sure how the BMW experience relates to the end of the Regular Guy’s marriage.

“No,” he says, and I’m left to puzzle what it all means, because just then the Regular Guy’s cell phone rings, and glancing at the display and without excusing himself, he picks up. It must be very important, I think. An important client perhaps.

“Yes,” he says, not bothering to modulate his voice. “My assistant should have been there to pick it up at 5. I’m not sure why she didn’t make it, but if she’s not there by 7, I will personally come by and pick it up tomorrow morning at 9. I will, yes.” He pauses. “I will personally ensure that it is picked up.”

The waiter serves our coffee as the Regular Guy finishes his conversation.

“Excuse me,” the Regular Guy says when he repockets the phone. “I had to take that call. My personal assistant – I have an assistant – was supposed to pick up a suit for me this evening. And that was my seamstress. She’s one of those big, scary Middle Eastern women – you know the kind – and you just don’t want to be on the wrong side of them.”

Mmmm hmmmmm.

“And what is this?” he continues, gesturing at his latte. “Why are they serving coffee in a bowl? How pretentious. I really can’t stand this kind of thing. I mean, I’m just a regular guy, and I just want my coffee in a regular mug. Waiter!” The Regular Guy calls our waiter over and speaks to him as if he’s talking to a three-year-old, his annoyance thinly veiled. “Can I get just a regular, normal coffee mug for this?”

“Thank you very much,” I add, making eye contact with our waiter and catching his fleeting look of annoyance just before he turns away from the table.

Mr. Regular Guy turns back to me, and says, “So, dinner’s almost over, but I’d like to hang out with you a little longer.”

Seriously? Surely you’re joking, I think. But before I can answer, the Regular Guy continues, “So, what do you say to a stroll, some ice cream, maybe a drive somewhere, or maybe – ,” he pauses, “And I gotta warn you, I’m a very spontaneous kind of guy—but if you don’t have anything else going on tonight, we could hop in the car, head to the airport, take the next flight to Vegas and get there for the 10 p.m. show of Cirque du Soleil’s Love. We could stay at the Wynn – separate rooms if you absolutely insist – and I could have you back for work tomorrow by 9. What do you say?”

Regular Guy has rendered me speechless. And not in a good way. “Thank you for your generous offer,” I say, finally, playing it polite. “But I really have a ton of work to do tonight.”

“Really? What do you have to do, really?”

I bite my tongue – hard–because he’s just so not worth it.

Bringing our dinner to a swift and very final close, I rise and thank the Regular Guy for the evening. At the door, just before we step outside, he pauses. “Tell me,” he asks, “Would you have gone with me to Vegas if you didn’t have work to do tonight?”

I stare at him and try to conjure compassion for this person who, I remind myself, will be just the right spice for someone’s life. But mostly I feel compassion for me, and I think to myself, Someday, someday, I’m going to be met by my equal, a man who’s willing to take the time to learn me, who’s willing to let me learn him, and who’s willing to learn what might be possible between us. But it’s not this man.

I sigh, and then I turn back to face the Regular Guy. “Three things you ought to know about me,” I say. “One: I hate Vegas with a passion. Two: I’m very spontaneous, but only once I feel trust. Three: I’m part Middle-Eastern.”

And then I walk away.

Back in the comfort of my safe little home, I strip out of the skirt and pantyhose, pull my hair back into a ponytail, and don my sweats and wifebeater. Next chump, I say out loud, to no one. And then I pick up the guitar and resume practicing. And once again, I marvel at how thick my calluses are becoming.

The Word Wench’s Weblog is a fictional memoir, and any resemblance to any person living or dead (you know who you are!) is purely coincidental. Please subscribe to weekly Sunday updates through RSS feed or by sending an email to TheWordWench@gmail.com