Something is Happening to Me

I’m writing about things I didn’t think could happen and things I didn’t think I would do, ever. About asking for advice, for anything, and about getting advice and listening. It may be a story about intimacy and the gifts that not being invincible bring.

I have this image to defend. I am not a couch potato. I run and dance and still do Pilates sometimes, and the twenty years I have done it still show. And I am ambitious. Built a business out of nothing, made a living with what fits in the trunk of my car: cameras, light stands, tripods. I learned tango and wrote a book, got a job and clawed my way up a ladder that didn’t exist. Blah, blah.

These are the things I tell myself.

I tell myself my job at the school’s too small, lacks challenge.  But there are challenges I could take on if I want. Master forming negative commands en Español, so I don’t have to look it up to help Brandon. Take the root of the yo form present tense, then add the opposite ending in the tú form. Opposite ending means use the ir/er endings for ar verbs and the ar endings for ir and er verbs. See? I actually can write the rules without looking, but when it’s time to practice I tell myself I’m a grownup and I don’t have to do it.

An example of how ambitious I’m not lately.

Gravity’s gotten heavy, like that Kurt Vonnegut book where it varies like the weather. And inertia. An object in motion tends to remain in motion, while an object at rest stays on the couch.

I take long naps, sometimes before noon, then I berate myself. This is not me, I think. Who is this?

I also think I don’t ask for anything from anyone, least of all advice. Nor do I accept it. I know everything, can handle anything all on my own. So I believe.

But Friday night Rachel calls. She’s exhausted, thinking of not coming over. Got in her car and almost nodded off. She runs one of the biggest companies around, she’s the goddamn CFO. This is no ordinary tiredness. Leave her alone, let her go home and rest, I think, per my childhood training. Don’t ask for anything, don’t bother people. They’re busy. They’re tired.

Then I do the unthinkable.

 “I need some hair advice,” I say and instantly she says, “I’ll come over.”

What? Who is this? I don’t ask for anything from a tired person and I never ask for advice.

I need it, though. My hair’s going gray, color doesn’t work any more, and I have to stop trying. But I can’t walk around with a skunk stripe so I bought this box of stuff to make highlights, to blend the gray.

I’m seized by that hair-altering mania that makes people die their hair magenta, shave it all off, actions that either free them or crush them with regret. I’m worried about regret.

Rachel and I look at the instructions, two big pages of tiny print.

“It looks complicated,” says this woman who reads financials for multinational corporations.

There are many, many cautions. It says it will minimize damage to your hair.

“Why don’t you go to Judith?” she says. “My treat.”

I absolutely shouldn’t do this, says the voice of my mom. Advice, money from someone else, help with my hair. I’m in forbidden territory. But no sirens sound, no spotlights shine, no gunshots ring out. I’m letting my friend do something generous and kind. I get all trembly inside.

The next day I talk with my sister, mention I applied for a job.

“Have you followed up with them?” she asks.

And I, the know-it-all big sister don’t say, “Nobody does that any more,” I say, “That’s a good idea.”

I share things with Beth I never have before. The letter of recommendation my philosophy professor wrote for me, unbidden.  I ask her questions, which is rare. When we hang up she says it was a really great conversation, and it was. Special and sweet.

Something is happening to me.

Later Nava calls and I read her a poem I wrote. Me? I say I don’t write poetry and I definitely don’t share one before it’s finished. She thinks I need more concrete detail, and I don’t defend my choice. She’s right.

We have this sacred friendship where fifty years mean nothing at all, we are only people. I don’t say she’s wise beyond her years, she’s just wise.

What is it that’s happening to me? Doors opening, walls crumbling, a tender uncertain being exposed. Words arise to describe it but they are cheesy and wrong. No Hallmark here, please. This is real—and maybe a question better left unanswered.

What is happening to me?