“baby steps,” and doesn’t congratulate me on my award or date.
“Have you considered what you’re going to do when the money runs out?” Richard asks me. He questions not out of a true concern for my well-being, but out of a fear that I’m going to start bumming off them, like Ethan.
“Honestly, if nothing magically drops into my lap in the next few months, I’m back to work as a graphic designer. I know that,” I reassure them. “I’ll go back to making pamphlets until I grow old and die at my desk surrounded by ‘I heart New York ’ mouse pads and Pantone color charts.”
“Is Aunt Rachel going to die?” Penelope asks, her voice saturated with fear.
“Aunt Rachel,” Richard says, “is speaking in hyperbole.”
I notice that Penelope does not need the term “hyperbole” explained but instead seems placated enough on the topic of my health to go back to her peanut butter and jelly.
“Will that make you happy?” my sister asks.
And how can I answer that? The idea of abandoning my blog makes me want to place my head on the table and cry. If I could somehow translate my three thousand readers into subscribers for articles strategically placed in magazines or newspapers that would pay me enough to continue living in Manhattan , I’d take the job in a heartbeat. The reality is that I’m happiest when I’m writing.
“I do like design work,” I answer because it’s easier than vomiting out everything that just happened in my brain. “Listen, I’d love to be a writer, and I’d love to parlay cooking into a job. I am really happy in the kitchen, and I can’t believe that I waited thirty-four years to learn how to make my own hummus. So, yeah, I’d love to write and cook, and if I could make that into a job, I would.”
“Watch out,” Sarah says drolly. “You may even end up with a career.”
She pronounces the word in such a way that she conjures up every fight I ever had with Adam over the hours he worked. She makes it sound like I consider career to be a venereal disease, but I don’t have the energy to set the record straight. And regardless, the whole thing is mixed up in my mind as is. It’s suddenly too confusing to consider why our marriage ended over his emotional isolation or how I feel about work or what causes a husband to spend more time in the office than at home. Or why, oh why, I couldn’t have found my writing voice while I was with Adam. I could have used all of his late nights working to blog.
“Don’t you want to know about my date?” I ask, realizing that I am still trying to convince them that my life is good. Can’t she see my enormous internal smile, radiating happiness?
Maybe they didn’t hear me because they launch into a long story about a fundraiser at the local synagogue, the numbing effects of religion on the masses, and preschool tuitions that cost more per year than my college. There is no graceful way to bring Gael up again, so I finish off the afternoon watching my niece sit, straight-back and crumb-free in her chair, like a little robot. An edamame-loving, never-scuffed-shoe, loveable robot.
Lunch with my sister before the second first-date-of-the-rest-of-my-life was not the best idea I’ve ever had. No one can punch down my self-esteem or make me question all the choices of the last few years quite like my family in Park Slope.
I slip on a jangly Peruvian red-shell bracelet, match it to my matte red lipstick, and walk a tiny path between my bed and sofa to work off my anxiety.
I am really nervous for my first second date.
I sit down at my computer and try to center myself before the date by checking my stats. 2544 people disagree with my sister, I note. 2544 people think that I’m funny and sassy and make a damn fine stack of pancakes. Actually, it’s 2,546 people by the time I log out of the stats after taking a quick peek to see if Gael’s IP address has shown up in the log.
It isn’t there.
At
eight o’clock
I decide to go
“Have you considered what you’re going to do when the money runs out?” Richard asks me. He questions not out of a true concern for my well-being, but out of a fear that I’m going to start bumming off them, like Ethan.
“Honestly, if nothing magically drops into my lap in the next few months, I’m back to work as a graphic designer. I know that,” I reassure them. “I’ll go back to making pamphlets until I grow old and die at my desk surrounded by ‘I heart New York ’ mouse pads and Pantone color charts.”
“Is Aunt Rachel going to die?” Penelope asks, her voice saturated with fear.
“Aunt Rachel,” Richard says, “is speaking in hyperbole.”
I notice that Penelope does not need the term “hyperbole” explained but instead seems placated enough on the topic of my health to go back to her peanut butter and jelly.
“Will that make you happy?” my sister asks.
And how can I answer that? The idea of abandoning my blog makes me want to place my head on the table and cry. If I could somehow translate my three thousand readers into subscribers for articles strategically placed in magazines or newspapers that would pay me enough to continue living in Manhattan , I’d take the job in a heartbeat. The reality is that I’m happiest when I’m writing.
“I do like design work,” I answer because it’s easier than vomiting out everything that just happened in my brain. “Listen, I’d love to be a writer, and I’d love to parlay cooking into a job. I am really happy in the kitchen, and I can’t believe that I waited thirty-four years to learn how to make my own hummus. So, yeah, I’d love to write and cook, and if I could make that into a job, I would.”
“Watch out,” Sarah says drolly. “You may even end up with a career.”
She pronounces the word in such a way that she conjures up every fight I ever had with Adam over the hours he worked. She makes it sound like I consider career to be a venereal disease, but I don’t have the energy to set the record straight. And regardless, the whole thing is mixed up in my mind as is. It’s suddenly too confusing to consider why our marriage ended over his emotional isolation or how I feel about work or what causes a husband to spend more time in the office than at home. Or why, oh why, I couldn’t have found my writing voice while I was with Adam. I could have used all of his late nights working to blog.
“Don’t you want to know about my date?” I ask, realizing that I am still trying to convince them that my life is good. Can’t she see my enormous internal smile, radiating happiness?
Maybe they didn’t hear me because they launch into a long story about a fundraiser at the local synagogue, the numbing effects of religion on the masses, and preschool tuitions that cost more per year than my college. There is no graceful way to bring Gael up again, so I finish off the afternoon watching my niece sit, straight-back and crumb-free in her chair, like a little robot. An edamame-loving, never-scuffed-shoe, loveable robot.
Lunch with my sister before the second first-date-of-the-rest-of-my-life was not the best idea I’ve ever had. No one can punch down my self-esteem or make me question all the choices of the last few years quite like my family in Park Slope.
I slip on a jangly Peruvian red-shell bracelet, match it to my matte red lipstick, and walk a tiny path between my bed and sofa to work off my anxiety.
I am really nervous for my first second date.
I sit down at my computer and try to center myself before the date by checking my stats. 2544 people disagree with my sister, I note. 2544 people think that I’m funny and sassy and make a damn fine stack of pancakes. Actually, it’s 2,546 people by the time I log out of the stats after taking a quick peek to see if Gael’s IP address has shown up in the log.
It isn’t there.
At
eight o’clock
I decide to go
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