spa, George Gentry?”
“Sure. Is he still following you?”
“I think I might have followed him. I met him at a law office today.
“What did you want to do for dinner?” This is a question that’s really wasted on Lilly. She doesn’t care what she eats, or even if she eats. She somehow manages to get enough calories into her slender hips to keep moving and buzzing around life like an ADD bee flowering the whole of San Francisco with her pollen.
She turns her sketch pad, studying the angles. “I’ve got some Cup O’ Noodles in the cabinet. Shrimp or chicken?”
“That is not dinner, Lilly. That is a camping snack. ‘Just add water’ is a direction for a facial substance, not a meal. Do I need to go to the grocery store?”
“I guess you do if my Cup O’ Stuff isn’t good enough for you. Or maybe you could phone Mrs. Henry and have her come by on her way home and create a seven-course meal for you. Cleanse your palette before the pâté and all that. Tell her to bring the good china; mine’s at the shop.”
I drop my hands to my sides and feel my smile disappear. And suddenly everything—the agonizing shoes, the stupid Got Milk? bag, the humiliation of hawking myself to ungrateful companies, not to mention the fact my whole life has suddenly become a whole lot harder than it was even a week ago—comes crashing down on me. I’ve had it with Lilly’s comments. I’m ticked. I’m fumbling with my future while Lilly’s grasping hers by the horns, sketching her spring line with confidence. I’m envious that she just naturally knows what to do in her life and that she has so much initiative that she can push away a perfectly good man like Max and not be the worse for it. I haven’t even had enough initiative to get rid of the cell phone number my ex-boyfriend (I can’t bring myself to say husband , and since the annulment is complete, helped along by the fact that we were never legally married, I’m going to stick with ex-boyfriend . It makes me sound like less of a loser. Sort of.) keeps managing to call me on.
I cross my arms and glare at my friend. “Lilly, maybe I don’t know all that you know as a street-smart San Francisco girl, but I’ll tell you what—not once did I ever make you feel like less. Not once. When you didn’t have money and couldn’t afford fabric? When your roommate stole your check? Did I ridicule you? No, I gave you my credit card and what you needed.” I feel the knot in my throat rising painfully under the words. I hate conflict (and truthfully,
doing everything my father has told me to do, I’ve never really faced much conflict).
I slip on the excruciating shoes and I exit Lilly’s apartment, slamming the door behind me. It’s only when I’m in the dimly lit hallway that I realize how limited my options are. If I go back home to my daddy’s, everything they say about me will be true, and I will be forced to admit I am inept, naïve, and most likely my mother’s daughter. Of course, part of me wants to whine that it’s not my fault. I know I’ve been given everything in life, and perhaps I shouldn’t have taken it all, but I didn’t know anything different and I never prepared for the alternative. One doesn’t spend her entire life rich and yet contemplate poverty. Maybe as a Christian, I should have done this all along.
The realization stuns me that I truly am twenty-nine with nothing to show for my life except a trail of paunchy old men my dad hoped I’d marry. (And something tells me I can’t exactly print that in the Stanford alumni newsletter.) I do what my father always told me—stand up straight and try to focus on the positive:
I have my degree.
I have my health.
I had good shoes. (It is better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.)
However, none of these things adds up to a life purpose, and I don’t have the first idea what I could do for a job. My father always just told me where to be, and like a good little lemming,
“Sure. Is he still following you?”
“I think I might have followed him. I met him at a law office today.
“What did you want to do for dinner?” This is a question that’s really wasted on Lilly. She doesn’t care what she eats, or even if she eats. She somehow manages to get enough calories into her slender hips to keep moving and buzzing around life like an ADD bee flowering the whole of San Francisco with her pollen.
She turns her sketch pad, studying the angles. “I’ve got some Cup O’ Noodles in the cabinet. Shrimp or chicken?”
“That is not dinner, Lilly. That is a camping snack. ‘Just add water’ is a direction for a facial substance, not a meal. Do I need to go to the grocery store?”
“I guess you do if my Cup O’ Stuff isn’t good enough for you. Or maybe you could phone Mrs. Henry and have her come by on her way home and create a seven-course meal for you. Cleanse your palette before the pâté and all that. Tell her to bring the good china; mine’s at the shop.”
I drop my hands to my sides and feel my smile disappear. And suddenly everything—the agonizing shoes, the stupid Got Milk? bag, the humiliation of hawking myself to ungrateful companies, not to mention the fact my whole life has suddenly become a whole lot harder than it was even a week ago—comes crashing down on me. I’ve had it with Lilly’s comments. I’m ticked. I’m fumbling with my future while Lilly’s grasping hers by the horns, sketching her spring line with confidence. I’m envious that she just naturally knows what to do in her life and that she has so much initiative that she can push away a perfectly good man like Max and not be the worse for it. I haven’t even had enough initiative to get rid of the cell phone number my ex-boyfriend (I can’t bring myself to say husband , and since the annulment is complete, helped along by the fact that we were never legally married, I’m going to stick with ex-boyfriend . It makes me sound like less of a loser. Sort of.) keeps managing to call me on.
I cross my arms and glare at my friend. “Lilly, maybe I don’t know all that you know as a street-smart San Francisco girl, but I’ll tell you what—not once did I ever make you feel like less. Not once. When you didn’t have money and couldn’t afford fabric? When your roommate stole your check? Did I ridicule you? No, I gave you my credit card and what you needed.” I feel the knot in my throat rising painfully under the words. I hate conflict (and truthfully,
doing everything my father has told me to do, I’ve never really faced much conflict).
I slip on the excruciating shoes and I exit Lilly’s apartment, slamming the door behind me. It’s only when I’m in the dimly lit hallway that I realize how limited my options are. If I go back home to my daddy’s, everything they say about me will be true, and I will be forced to admit I am inept, naïve, and most likely my mother’s daughter. Of course, part of me wants to whine that it’s not my fault. I know I’ve been given everything in life, and perhaps I shouldn’t have taken it all, but I didn’t know anything different and I never prepared for the alternative. One doesn’t spend her entire life rich and yet contemplate poverty. Maybe as a Christian, I should have done this all along.
The realization stuns me that I truly am twenty-nine with nothing to show for my life except a trail of paunchy old men my dad hoped I’d marry. (And something tells me I can’t exactly print that in the Stanford alumni newsletter.) I do what my father always told me—stand up straight and try to focus on the positive:
I have my degree.
I have my health.
I had good shoes. (It is better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.)
However, none of these things adds up to a life purpose, and I don’t have the first idea what I could do for a job. My father always just told me where to be, and like a good little lemming,
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