Begin Again

“You’re giving black cat energy.” My face remains slack as I internally balk at the slight. After a pause, I smile nonchalantly as if I were not a mallard – moving gracefully in the gaze of my appraisers while chaotically moving my feet underneath the cover of the lake. I propel myself towards what I pray is forward. I sip my club soda with lime, discreetly concealing my sobriety to the hawkish gaze of other party-goers. 

I take a breath, send a bicoastal smile across my face and look Savannah directly in her dancing carob eyes. Carbonating my voice with mischief, I say wickedly, “Let’s take a hot-boy lap.” “Yesssssssss, okay now you’re getting the assignment.” I take her arm, inhaling the sweet and floral scent of Flowerbomb by Viktor&Rolf.

We take a promenade around the high-ceilinged Greek Revival museum, sipping our beverages and appraising the men around us. “That shirt does not fit him right.” Savannah rolled her eyes and continued, “On the other hand, he looks like he both does-not-have and very-much-needs a girlfriend.” I do not see the allure in that, but have always appreciated Savannah’s unapologetic tenacity. “Go get him, tiger.” I respond with a contrived enthusiasm that does not quite endure to the end of my sentence. Savannah stalks away from me like a lioness on the hunt. 

I’m not sure if what I’m feeling is Major Depressive Disorder or the monumental weight of the patriarchy, but I’m deeply put off by the man and his ill-fitting shirt. I don’t understand why I spent all week working out extra hard, bought an expensive dress, paid for a professional blowout and put on makeup to attend this event and he can’t even find a wrinkly shirt that fits right. I’m mad at myself for this, somehow. I feel burdened, hopeless, and despairing.

Looking over at Savannah’s similar appearance, I remember the years we spent in middle and highschool pretending we didn’t know the other one was throwing up after meals. Our unspoken understanding, in many ways, has bonded us. Now, she radiates conventional beauty. Her enticing blonde hair cascades gracefully down to her mid-back. Her winged eyeliner frames her romantic milk chocolate eyes. Although not common knowledge, I know exactly where botox has relaxed the signs of aging and filler has plumped her face to highlight her sensual features. She is so intentional.

As I appreciate her, I reflexively consider everything I’ve eaten that day. It is a vestige of our friendship’s history; I often have a resurgence of these thoughts when we are together. I feel a heavy fireball of shame that is eclipsed by rage. The rage is quickly – too quickly – threatening to travel from my belly, up to my chest and out of my mouth as a despairing roar. Overwhelmed, I take my fireball of rage and hurl it at the lackadaisically dressed male Savannah is pursuing. I hate that man, I hate that stupid fucking shirt, and I hate the weaponized incompetence it represents. 

As if my rage were an ethereal summons, my phone buzzes and I know before looking who it is. “Hey babe, how is the party?” “Hey. Yeah, it’s good. I don’t want to be rude though, so can we talk later?” “Yeah!” He only sounds mildly disappointed. “The guys and I are probably going to hop online and game tonight,” he offers despite my incuriosity. “Cool, yeah we’ll talk later.” I can’t help reflecting that the same cool-girl indifference that makes me desirable to men also camouflages my genuine apathy towards them. 

I hang up and scan the audience for Savannah, who has one hand on her drink and the other lightly on Dumb-Shirt’s elbow. She is laughing easily and seems to be holding court with Dumb-Shirt and his friend who are looking upon her admiringly. I prepare myself to walk over there and entertain the two men in a manner that is imperceptibly flattering to Savannah. I am fully aware that my willingness to play second-fiddle to my girlfriends is one of my more potent social currencies. 

I slip my phone into my clutch and lazily saunter over. Offering what I hope is a dazzling and winning smile, I place my full attention on my friend and say, “Your phone has been buzzing non-stop. You’re going to have to hold it yourself next time because it won’t shut up. Have less friends.” I smile with a saccharin sweetness so that my words are not mistaken as aggression or bitchiness. Savannah bats her eyelashes upwards and shrugs flirtatiously as if to say, “What can I say, I can’t help being so popular.” I redirect my attention to the two men as if I had not even noticed they were there. “Oh no! And now you have two more friends. It’s nice to meet you, I’m Emma.” 

The two men introduce themselves, looking smugly pleased at how their evening is unfurling. I don’t catch their names, focusing dutifully on Savannah and laughing right along with them every time she says something clever. She is working it. I can’t help but notice that she is making a monumental effort while the two men – what? I attempt to push the thoughts away as my rage fireball begins to churn again in my stomach.

A voice like windchimes interrupts my backstage thoughts and pulls me back into the party. My eyes snap up and a beautiful early-thirties woman with large peridot eyes and a styled chestnut bob meets my gaze. She’s wearing a simple black cocktail dress that is both conservative in coverage, but devastatingly sexy in its off the shoulder cut. She takes the arm of Dumb-Shirt’s companion and smiles at him. That’s why his shirt fits. It’s because he has her. 

“They ran out of vodka, so the options are gin, whiskey or wine,” she says. “I know you are allergic to juniper and hate whiskey, so I grabbed you a white wine.” She hands him the glass and he doesn’t thank her as he turns his attention back to Dumb-Shirt. They continue to talk about their consulting job as Savannah toils to insert herself where she can. I’m impressed at her effort to remain engaged with them. I can think of few duller topics than government consulting. 

The woman with the chestnut bob seems to agree with me because she takes her hand off of Dumb-Shirt’s friend and turns to me. “I’m Lara.” I offer my first genuine smile of the evening. “I’m Emma. Want to go with me to the bar? A gin martini actually sounds amazing.” I’m fully aware that my stomach will rebel later. GLP-1’s and alcohol are not friends and sobriety has played a large part in my recent weight-loss.

Intrusive thoughts of my boyfriend’s pants not fitting me flutter in and out of my consciousness along with the appraising words of my mother, the social acceptance I’ve received since becoming more conventionally attractive, and the constant lies I’ve been telling everyone around me to save face. Traditional diet and exercise, alongside some sober-curiosity! I am full of shit. And I am the problem. I deserve to feel shame. 

Snapping out of my thoughts, I throw my shoulders back and stride confidently towards the bar as she follows a half-stride behind me. Her stride is willowy and graceful and I can’t help but wonder if she is faking it too. Or could she truly feel as confident and gorgeous as she is? Waiting in line with Lara, she complains, “He could have said thank you – I waited for like ten minutes for that drink.” I stare at her and, as our eyes meet, I can tell we share a mutual sentiment.

“Does he know what your second option drink is?” Lara sighs and emotion flashes across her face before she masters herself. In that split second, I feel seen. “Probably not. But if I were to ask him for either this or that, he’d happily go do it. He really is an eager beaver. More so when he is not around Matthew.” That must be Dumb-Shirt’s name. Lara continues, “They were roommates in college so when they get together he tends to act like more of an ass than usual.” “Is that an excuse, though?” Lara laughs, the musicality of her voice is sonic genius. “No, it most certainly is not.” 

Not wanting to beat a dead horse, I change the topic to Lara herself. I find myself wanting to know her. Refreshingly, she seems to be just as curious about me. I can’t remember the last time someone offered a curiosity about my inner world. We take our drinks to a table on the periphery of the museum. The light is dim and I feel less like a fish in an aquarium, laid bare for male appraisal.

I learn that she is a lawyer and that she struggles with Anxiety. We discover that we were both parentified children, tasked with managing the emotional tenor of our family systems. We bond over how, as adults, we have over-achieved and struggled to prioritize ourselves. She is affirming and kind, and I find that energy ball of rage in my stomach dissolving into something that feels more akin to grief.

“So tell me about John.” I start and sit back in my chair, surprised. I don’t much want to talk about John. “He’s loyal and very hard-working,” I begin. “Well, he sounds like a really lovely employee.” We both chuckle. Lara cocks her head sideways and looks at me in the way she does, as if she’s x-raying my soul. “Does he know your second favorite drink order?” I inexplicably feel like I’ve been slapped and tears sting my eyes, threatening to disrupt the casual elegance I’d been aiming for with my makeup. We both seem surprised at my response. “I’m sorry,” Lara stammers, “I didn’t mean to strike a nerve.” 

I take a deep breath and make the decision to express to her, because I believe she will understand, the feelings and thoughts that I have been suppressing since puberty. “I feel like everything is my job – and now, everything makes me so angry.” It isn’t eloquent, but it is exactly the sentiment that has been poisoning my soul. Lara takes my hand. “Does John help? Does he take on some of that burden for you?” One tear escapes and slides down my cheek. “No.” The world lingers in the air as if it is both and answer and an existential question.

Lara squeezes my hand and stares directly at me, confronting my tears with tender and earnest care. She does not try and fix it, but she sits with me through my moment of pain. This feeling of accompaniment is new to me and I feel a ball of tension I did not know I had dissolve into a puddle. I put my other hand on top of hers and squeeze her hand back hard. 

I lean towards her and pause a millimeter from her face. She nods nearly imperceptibly, an indication of consent. I gently lay my lips on hers and feel my solitary tear as it sits momentarily on both of our cheeks. I pull away slowly from Lara and take in her countenance, searching for some feedback. She remains positioned towards me with her hand squeezing mine. We sit and stare at each other as our emotions and thoughts pass like clouds through our consciousness and flutter away into the abyss. We sit and accompany each other through our experiences, wordless and attuned. It feels like a beginning.