Irene Wilde
New Member
America is such an anonymous place, I thought to myself as I waited in the restaurant, decorated with the same silk ferns in brass pots as the restaurant next door. Each place is the same as the next, each town, each city. We all live out our lives uniquely, but against the same backdrop -- a Starbucks here, a Footlocker there, and the great Golden Arches with it‘s billions and billions served. America is franchised for our convenience. It was a depressing thought and I banished it quickly. I didn’t want to be depressing today. Today, I wanted to sparkle. I was lunching with a friend, a female friend, and I wanted her to like me. I have few female friends. A psychologist could have a field day with that. "Lost mother at age 4, abandoned by abusive stepmother at 8, spent four years living with alcoholic grandmother, befriended and abandoned by father‘ various girlfriends in adolescence. Deep mistrust of women. Difficulty forming lasting same sex bonds." But I want a girl friend, a gal pal, someone to lunch with, someone to laugh with. I remember the girl friends of my growing up years, the way we shared our lives, our hopes, our secret crushes, our worries of dying old maids. Yes, I‘m 40 now, but who says 40 is too old for a crush, or someone to share the secret of it? Still, it’ more than that, really. I want to know there is someone else like me. How different it is with men, so simple and direct. Women don‘t talk about football. On the other hand, men don’t have breasts that begin to sag. They don‘t have stretch marks. They have no experience with being female. If only I could confess to a male chum my fears of ever letting another man see me naked at this age! I can hear the answer already -- "How about those Lakers?" I fold my hands in my lap and put on my best smile.
So when the new girl arrives at the office, when she mentions she too is going through a divorce, when she says her favorite song is Janis Ian‘s "Seventeen," I suggested we meet for lunch. She arrived bright and smiling. She appeared to carry no weight, no scars upon her heart, and I envied her that lightness. I live in a cocoon of doubt, slavishly devoted to my responsibilities, my shoulders sagging under the burden of living in both the physical world of job, motherhood, and crumbling marriage, and the spiritual world of words, music, and ideas. I bury myself in books and papers, sitting at the computer by the hour until I have expressed myself just so. She seemed so at ease with the world around her, the one that by turns annoys and terrifies me. How did she do that? What is her secret?
We ordered. She asked for substitutions and things "on the side." Inwardly, I cringed. Why do women not order off the menu? Was she trying to impress me with her self-control? Why do women make a fuss? I get confused enough with the server grilling me over "Soup or salad? Dressing? Roll, bread, or muffin?" I just wanted something to eat! Things were going badly. This wasn‘t what I had expected, but it was just a glitch, it wasn’t too late to regroup. We talked about work, simple common ground. That felt better. But as we chatted and laughed, I knew we wouldn‘t talk about important things. The things I discuss so freely with my male friends. Do women not wonder about God? Question the nature of the soul? Worry about the Raiders Offensive Line? Oh for crissakes, she started talking about the brilliance of Sarah Brightman. Music is my passion, my inspiration. It saved my life on those nights I couldn‘t sleep, wondering how much longer I could keep up the pretense of a failed marriage. It comforted me the day my father died. Music is my refuge, my safe harbor. Being so attached to it, I am sensitive to its abuse. Sarah Brightman is technically brilliant, but hollow and soulless. Empty, thoughtless music. Music without passion designed, produced, and marketed to provide ambient noise to people too insensitive to know they are being sold rubbish. With an effort, I kept my lunch in my stomach.
The next day, I returned to my usual habits, spending my lunch hour in my car, reading or writing in my journal. With my male friends, I can share Joyce and Rimbaud, Hunter and Ronson, Beckham and Owen, Buddhism and Judaism, the thrill of the triangle offense and the thrill of creating a four-line poem. Was I unfair? Women make up half the population of the planet, and I can‘t find one to relate to? Or is it me? Am I the one who has it all wrong? Is there a secret code women have with each other that I never got a copy of? I looked out the window and saw a group of women from work all going to lunch together. I was glad I wasn‘t not joining them -- six chicken salads with no cheese and fat-free ranch "on the side" -- but at the same time, I was jealous. I looked out at the club I’ll never be able to join, and felt like an outsider once more.
Irene Wilde
So when the new girl arrives at the office, when she mentions she too is going through a divorce, when she says her favorite song is Janis Ian‘s "Seventeen," I suggested we meet for lunch. She arrived bright and smiling. She appeared to carry no weight, no scars upon her heart, and I envied her that lightness. I live in a cocoon of doubt, slavishly devoted to my responsibilities, my shoulders sagging under the burden of living in both the physical world of job, motherhood, and crumbling marriage, and the spiritual world of words, music, and ideas. I bury myself in books and papers, sitting at the computer by the hour until I have expressed myself just so. She seemed so at ease with the world around her, the one that by turns annoys and terrifies me. How did she do that? What is her secret?
We ordered. She asked for substitutions and things "on the side." Inwardly, I cringed. Why do women not order off the menu? Was she trying to impress me with her self-control? Why do women make a fuss? I get confused enough with the server grilling me over "Soup or salad? Dressing? Roll, bread, or muffin?" I just wanted something to eat! Things were going badly. This wasn‘t what I had expected, but it was just a glitch, it wasn’t too late to regroup. We talked about work, simple common ground. That felt better. But as we chatted and laughed, I knew we wouldn‘t talk about important things. The things I discuss so freely with my male friends. Do women not wonder about God? Question the nature of the soul? Worry about the Raiders Offensive Line? Oh for crissakes, she started talking about the brilliance of Sarah Brightman. Music is my passion, my inspiration. It saved my life on those nights I couldn‘t sleep, wondering how much longer I could keep up the pretense of a failed marriage. It comforted me the day my father died. Music is my refuge, my safe harbor. Being so attached to it, I am sensitive to its abuse. Sarah Brightman is technically brilliant, but hollow and soulless. Empty, thoughtless music. Music without passion designed, produced, and marketed to provide ambient noise to people too insensitive to know they are being sold rubbish. With an effort, I kept my lunch in my stomach.
The next day, I returned to my usual habits, spending my lunch hour in my car, reading or writing in my journal. With my male friends, I can share Joyce and Rimbaud, Hunter and Ronson, Beckham and Owen, Buddhism and Judaism, the thrill of the triangle offense and the thrill of creating a four-line poem. Was I unfair? Women make up half the population of the planet, and I can‘t find one to relate to? Or is it me? Am I the one who has it all wrong? Is there a secret code women have with each other that I never got a copy of? I looked out the window and saw a group of women from work all going to lunch together. I was glad I wasn‘t not joining them -- six chicken salads with no cheese and fat-free ranch "on the side" -- but at the same time, I was jealous. I looked out at the club I’ll never be able to join, and felt like an outsider once more.
Irene Wilde
I write myself, so know, that everything that is written has at least a fragment of yourself in what you write. I wonder how much of you is in this work? A lot, it seems to me.
