Miss Nancie

     Standing in the arcane basement of our neighboring town church, I stared across at every girl in my preschool class. Their dresses all incorporated some configuration of ruffled lace trim, and I took note of who made the better choices. Music played. And as parents leaned on columns dotted with Scotch-taped paper hearts, the boys asked the girls to dance. It was an exercise in chivalry insisted upon by my first teacher, Miss Nancie. She was good.

     To call The Three Little Bears Nursery School the Harvard of midcoast Maine pre-k programs would be to understate the reputation it has earned in my psyche.

     Nestled unassumingly on a quiet neighborhood street, it was the house that Miss Nancie built. Belonging to that special class of women referred to only as “Miss” followed by their first name, I revered her more as a grande dame of character development than a preschool teacher. Witnessing her ability to herd toddlers into routines of cubbies and snack time and rest and play was my first true lesson in choreography.

     As I recall, she ran the school with a soft halo following her at all times. Other kids saw that, right?

     A stately older man would appear at irregular intervals to greet Miss Nancie, dressed in overalls and clearly returning from a long day’s work on a farm. (His eyes looked remarkably similar to those of Santa Claus, who also visited our class once a year during the holiday.) Long after my graduation, I was informed that he was, in fact, her husband with whom she lived next door. That still didn’t sit quite right with me.

     Goddesses don’t need husbands.

     My memories of preschool are likely as accurate as the artfully questionable renderings of my family in stick figures. But if these images aren’t true, why do they still bring tears to my eyes?

     I yearn to weep for those who stroll past Miss Nancie today in her local mall, unaware that they are walking next to a woman with impact beyond measure. I find comfort in imagining her enjoying restful winters in the warm air of Florida, gazing out her window and taking note of every palm leaf, each one of us, her children, swaying in the wind with light dancing on our faces.

Oops

I always forget until I get there.There are no rules.

PowerPoint

     As I stood in front of the class, I could feel the tips of my fingers tingling with anxiety. The cooling sensation swiftly flushed it’s way up my arms and through my chest like an army of ants, dipping into my legs and engulfing my knees. My head flushed with a cool, empty breeze as the presentation behind me pixelated away like a broken television screen.

     Undergraduate economics was a subject for which I held great respect yet enjoyed only moderate aptitude. I appreciated that it was an area of study in direct conversation with the “real world,” a focus sorely missing from my days in high school critically analyzing The Old Man and the Sea. Suddenly I was learning how to map desire and name the phenomena surrounding human decision making, a intricate dance of words and numbers I could finally appreciate.

     To be sure, my admiration for the field peaked in Economics 101. Fred Smith, a man who’s voice was as unique and captivating as his name, led the daily lectures. But as he expounded upon the reasons we stop eating at an all-you-can-eat buffet, I found myself listening intently. He drew a graph illustrating the point at which the cost of consuming another cookie is greater than the satisfaction provided by said cookie, and I was sold.

     Diminishing marginal utility was a subject I would come to know far too well as I continued my time on campus, most acutely when I stayed awake almost the entire night before my final presentation in Health Economics.

     As I opened my eyes, I noticed several students towering over me. I felt my professor’s arms supporting my shoulders as someone handed me a wet paper towel. As I dabbed my forehead in shame, I debated explaining what may have been the cause of my sudden collapse, from the stress of finals week to the coffee I drank on an empty stomach. But there was no way out of my unfortunate hole.

     To call my fainting episode a turning point would be to suggest that things got better. I continued to limp my way to the finish line of the economics minor, a badge of honor I continue to hold with fluctuating levels of contempt. Or, should I say, as a good or service that provides me varying levels of utility. I’m sure you could plot an indifference curve for that.

Go Easy

A train that arrives on time.

A deep fireplace.

A country house.

An open field.

A strong drink.

A soft pillow.

Crickets.

Saturday morning.

Hot coffee.

Fresh towels.

Sweet perfume.

Good news.

A close friend.

A long jog.

A deep breath.

A full battery.

A full stomach.

A time to say.

And a place to say it.

Candle

     For those times demanding an immediate escape, I look no further than reality television. Snuggling up on my reasonably priced couch with some chips and store brand seltzer, I jump on the opportunity to peek behind the curtain of the lives of the rich and variably famous. I find a peculiar comfort in setting aside my immediate problems, only to entertain from afar the trivial troubles of affluent women.

     The only thing more absurd than the producer-contrived drama is the extent to which I am infatuated with it.

     As they move from personal training sessions, to late lunches, to cocktail parties, I find myself haphazardly executing mental gymnastics in attempts to solve the economic formulas at play. How much are these girls making? How can they afford such a big house? How can they be so angry with each other when all they have is time and money?

     What is wealth if you can’t enjoy it in complete silence?

     I flip the channel. A pool party consisting of gorgeous twenty year olds at one of their dad’s infinity pools reminds me that I will never have a body worth seeing on MTV primetime. I have the urge to finally start going to the gym. During a commercial break I take a glance at my body in the bathroom mirror. I am fine for now.

     Another channel change, and I fall deeper into the rabbit hole. I inevitably settle on an hourlong documentary program detailing the trials and tribulations of people plagued by one of a variety of addictions, from hoarding, to food, to online romances. Exploitation is suddenly a fuzzy line. I probably shouldn’t be watching this sort of stuff, but look, it’s right here.

     I suppose it’s easy to feel like you’re making progress when you witness another person who is clearly not. It’s akin to the sensation that your train is moving faster simply because you’re passing one plummeting in the other direction.

     A tea light burns quietly in its glass holder on my affordable coffee table. An incoherent screaming match ensues in a housewife’s grand living room, tempers blazing amongst her set of cream couches.

     She may have a gorgeous fireplace, but I am happy with my candle.

Bad Receptionist

     The phone rings. My heart rate increases tenfold for a fleeting moment, only to rest itself on a familiar bed of anxiety. A flare of armpit sweat rages beneath my black sweater.

     “Ethan Hunter Salon, this is Dan.”

     Like most sane human beings, I have a natural aversion to unanticipated phone calls. The inevitable exchange of clunky niceties and awkward pauses makes me want to burry my head in a pillow. Being held responsible for answering the phone feels like sitting in my living room with the front door wide open. Who would tolerate such an invasive channel?

     This attitude, unsurprisingly, did not serve me well during my short-lived part-time career as a receptionist in Portland, Maine.

     I moved to the small coastal city near my hometown in pursuit of a quiet yet diligent life of writing, dancing, sitting in coffee shops, and managing the inevitable litany of cute boys that would be falling into my lap. I knew I would need to find some temporary work to support myself, but I hoped that I could finagle a gig where interaction with the public was nonexistent and the pay was exceptional.

     “Wow, it’s so rare we have applicants who just graduated from such prestigious liberal arts colleges! Right this way, this is where we keep our money pile! Please, help yourself!”

     I was forced to reevaluate my intentions after an unsuccessful interview for an overnight doughnut cutter position at The Holy Donut on Park Avenue. They appreciated my coming in, but ended up going with someone who actually had some doughnut cutting experience. Go figure.

     Eventually, I found myself in the dubiously qualified position of being the face and voice of this sweet couple’s small salon in the historic Old Port district. I spent my days nervously sweeping hair, nervously washing out mixing bowls, and nervously counting down the moments until I could say into the receiver, “No problem! Have a good day. Buh-bye.”

     Wash, rinse, and repeat.

     The mile walk along the brick sidewalk from my studio apartment to the Old Port afforded me many chances to replay a supercut of my life-so-far. Only a few months passed until the plot for my next big move began to crystallize. Once I sat down to let my bosses know that I would be leaving in two weeks, we were all free to release a sigh of relief.

     “We hear you. This probably is not a position where there would be much growth for you,” Jessica offered with her sincerest sympathy.

     She was right. It probably wasn’t.

Woof

     Man’s best friend, for me, is more of a peripheral acquaintance. I have no problem running into him a few times a year, but balk at the idea of meeting for a long walk.

     I agree that this soulless disposition is a red flag. I wave my white flag in surrender.

     My propensity to jump at the smallest disruption makes me fundamentally incompatible with pets in general. On top of this baseline anxiety, I rarely find intriguing a living being with whom I can’t have a bilateral conversation about the news or, even better, my feelings. The cost-benefit analysis of maintaining an additional canine life simply doesn’t add up. I can’t afford to spend that much time outside.

     During finals week in college, young puppies would be brought to campus from the local shelter in an effort to relieve student stress. The value in this practice eluded me, as being surrounded by restless newborn animals seemed like one of the most stress-inducing environments I could imagine. I often pondered the potential alternative of bringing in newborn babies for us to hold, wrapped securely in swaddling clothes with pacifiers to keep them occupied. I was sure a plethora of health and legal protocols would prohibit such an event, but it still made more sense to me.

     All griping aside, there are a few times when I can see the light.

     Walking down the street one day after therapy, I noticed a man paused beside a building, stalled by his golden retriever. The dog was leaning forward, neglecting to raise a hind leg in classic fire hydrant fashion. Slowly, unenthusiastically, she was relieving a clearly full bladder. She looked pitifully lethargic, and I loved her.

     If I were a dog, I would capitalize on the unique privilege to invest minimal effort into every task while continuing to reap the full rewards of belonging. I would lie down whenever possible, feel no pressure to smile, and take my time returning the tennis ball. I would certainly never trouble myself with raising a hind leg to pee.

     The implicit freedom enjoyed by pups is the subject of both my envy and repulsion. Their ability to move through the world void of guilt is a feat incomparable to my existence. Their wagging tails and my oscillating self-doubt are irreconcilable. I love them, and I want them to go away.

     I think of my childhood dogs, Sheba and Duke, who I picture now galloping through a field of tall grass, tongues flapping in the wind, a solid red barn sitting stoically in the background.

     I want to be just like them. By myself.

Capricorn

     I find it every weekday printed on the back page of amNewYork, the subway paper.

     Capricorn

     Relax, and let controversy pass you by. Focus on what’s really important: family, friends and love. Let go of a misconception. Keep an open mind.

     The gentle instructions come as both definitive verdicts and empty promises. They are printed plainly in black and white, but the cheap ink rubs off onto my thumbs. And while amNewYork may be Manhattan’s Highest Daily Circulation Newspaper, it’s also free.

     The business of manufacturing personality traits and daily fortunes out of planetary alignments is a field in which I am admittedly undereducated, but much like a Roth IRA, I don’t have to know exactly how it works to participate. Astrology is just another playground of authority figures, inviting risk and investment with few marshals on duty. I have come to embrace this ambiguous territory of cosmic storytelling as a prime arena for experimentation.

     In an attempt to cultivate a new social connection, I will commonly use an entirely contrived understanding of zodiac signs as my own artificial growth hormone. It is a delicate operation, but one I have come to refine over time. Gin and tonics, unsurprisingly, tend to encourage the situation.

     I take the floating lime as my cue.

     “What’s your sign?” I ask her, raising my chin slightly, brows furrowed.

     “Aquarius.”

     “Ah, that makes sense,” I nod, as if to affirm my suspicion.

     “What? What makes sense?”

     I lean forward to offer my conclusions. They are always the same.

     “You tend to put others first, neglecting your own needs to the point where you sometimes lose sight of yourself. You are wary to let people in, but once you do, you’re very loyal. You’re like a golden retriever. And sure, these skills have allowed you to survive up to this point, but they’re also the very things holding you back from your destiny.”

     Their growing eyes confirm that I have touched a nerve. They are seen.

     Is there a wrong way to make a friend?

     Another day, and I am back underground with amNewYork. Invariably, my eyes meander through the pages until they find their way back home. Capricorn. I read the words, honoring their insights and absorbing their essence. The doors open for my stop. I exit the train. And walking down the platform, I unceremoniously throw the issue in the garbage.

Open Concept

     “Wow, I was really hoping for granite.”

     “Well I was really hoping your husband had a better job.”

     “I know we were looking for character, but this new construction is really growing on me.”

     “Oh really, Cindy? Maybe you don’t actually have any preferences at all, and have just always done what your mother says like when you married Jim!”

     Few pleasures compare to the catharsis offered by shouting obscenities at House Hunters while hopelessly couch-bound. The silent invitation to offer constant, critical feedback to seemingly innocent couples looking for a sweet three-bedroom in suburban Cincinnati is one I accept with enthusiasm. The view from the sidelines is always the clearest.

     The romantically ambiguous couples are the most enthralling to witness. They appear every few episodes, rare diamonds in the rough, ripe for scrutiny and speculation. Stephanie is looking for the perfect home for “herself” to live in, and her “friend” John is “tagging along” to “help her.” I take a sip of my wine.

     There’s no countertop hard enough to hit you in the head and tell you he’s not going to propose, girl.

     The most abhorrent displays of human impulsivity are laid bare in the program’s international edition, where people who have built entire lives decide to “leave behind everything they know” and pursue “new horizons” with “just their savings,” crafting masterful plans to “home school” their children and “finally find time again.”

     All that money could also go towards some very, very high quality therapy, Stella. I’m not saying…I’m just saying.

     The television-engineered bleach-washing of the process is the most deceivingly reassuring element of the show. A lovely couple is introduced to us, statistical needs laid bare, and presented with three appropriate housing options. And in a civil conversation over mimosas and scones, one property is selected. Before the half hour is over, we witness people go from periods of varying discontent to a singular state of staggering certainty.

     There is no addressing of their self-destructive behaviors, no attention paid to underlying resentment towards their spouse, and no suggestion that maybe they’re just buying this house to prove childhood foes wrong. There’s no reckoning with inner demons, no reference to plaguing world issues, and no acknowledgment that Brenda never even wanted to move to Milwaukee in the first place. For half an hour, it’s really about the granite, the open concept, the stainless steel. That’s all they’re looking for.

     I look on, speculating.

Disarmingly Consistent

     I lumber across the aged parking lot, delicately navigating the landscape of cigarette butts and empty ketchup packets. The small bowling ball I just consumed sits comfortably in my lower abdomen, and my mind falls gently into that familiar comatose. I did it again.

     There are few feelings that compare to the cost-effective satisfaction of a meal eaten under the glow of the golden arches.

     My better-informed brother will have you know that America’s most popular fast food restaurant is actually a real estate company, although I would liken it more to a morally void yet disarmingly consistent church. Many of its patrons are tired and poor. The iconography is unmistakable. And I only find myself there when the turbulence of life demands a return to relentless sameness.

     Rules are clear and expectations are met. Orders are taken, and attention is paid. Learn the choreography once, and repeat. Don’t try to move the tables. They’re bolted to the floor.

     I hold a particular fondness for the woman who works behind the counter smelling strongly of floral perfume and cheap hairspray, pounding artificial nails onto the register as orders are spat at her through the air. I like it when she is short with the customers who deserve it. I make eye contact with her. We are both better than this.

     Sitting in the clinical dining area, my eyes wander to other tables, noting the family on a road trip, the couple in the corner, the person dining alone. They must feel the same internal conflict between comfort and contempt that I do, right? We all know this isn’t right, right?

     The hot, salty fries melt in my mouth as if it’s been years since I’ve known satisfaction. I look at the woman again behind the counter. We are both getting out. One day.

26

     I handed my license to the weathered yet cordial cashier in quiet anticipation of her response. “Oh wow, Happy Birthday! All the way from Maine, huh?”

     “Yup,” I rehearsed. “Just passing through.”

     “This for a party or somethin’?” She would surely say.

     My response would be witty, concise, and unapologetic. This was my chance. I was finally becoming the independent woman I had always wanted to be. “Yes, a party of one! I actually decided to book a room across the street and just have a night with my favorite person,” pointing to myself.

     Her eyes would widen, and for a fleeting moment she would reflect on all the times she, too, would have liked to run away and have an evening alone with a bottle of moderately priced champagne.

     “Well alright! Nothing wrong with that I suppose.” Then the credit card reader would honk, the register would clank shut, and in a coddling yet sincere tone she would offer, “You have yourself a nice time, now.”

     Instead, she immediately turned my license over and attempted several unsuccessful scans of the back barcode. She passed it back to me. “It’s not scanning, but don’t worry about it.”

     I would not.

     Downtown Easton, Pennsylvania is wanting for a standard bodega with pints of Ben & Jerry’s Cinnamon Buns. All you’ll find instead is a row of smoke shops on the main drag with sparse selections of candy, soda, and beer. Your best bet is the one on the corner of Northampton and 2nd Street, where there’s a lonely Blue Bunny cooler in the back with strawberry shortcake bars.

     After nestling my new treasures in the hotel ice bucket, I had a silent debate about ordering in or going out. I decided that bringing a book to a restaurant was an appropriate way to usher in a new era of risky sophistication. My server at the surprisingly chic pizza establishment had soft eyes and spoke highly of David Sedaris. He said the espresso was on him because he never saw someone dining alone, and my to-go containers were placed in a thick brown paper bag labeled with calligraphic Sharpie.

     Baths take a longer time to fill than you think.

     I exhaled in the boiling water, pondering everything and nothing.

     “This is so nice.”

     “Did I lock the deadbolt thing on the door?”

     “I should do this more often.”

     “How long am I doing this?”

     “Wow, to think, Oprah does this every day.”

     I thought of all the gay boys who didn’t make it to 26. I poured a little bit of champagne into the water. I cried and laughed. When I felt the stopper unplug, I let the water drain out. And laying in the empty tub, I listened to the chorus of tiny bubbles popping like a round of applause.