Being Me

Colorful lights are flashing, reflecting off of the disco ball hanging from the ceiling and bouncing through the club. Bodies are pulsing all around me as I thrash in time with them and the music, the sweet smell of sweat and cocktails hangs in the air. My friend Tessa leans on me and shouts into my ear over the music, “I’m going to the bathroom.” I nod in understanding and follow her off of the dance floor. Hand in hand, we wind our way through the crowd of crop tops and bell bottoms towards the bathroom. It’s much quieter in here, and Tessa enters a stall while I lean on the wall with the familiar orange carpet. I look into the mirror and gaze at my reflection, I’m looking particularly groovy tonight, this shade of blue eye shadow really works for me. My reflection wobbles a little, being separated from the commotion of the club reminds me how much I’ve had to drink tonight. 

    I hear vomiting. “Tessa babe, are you alright in there?” No response. I stumble over to her stall, careful not to fall off of my platform heels, and knock on the door. More vomiting. “Tessa, are you okay?” She mumbles something I don’t understand in return. This is typically how our nights end. I open the door by sticking my manicured nail into the screw securing the stall door and twist it open. I pick up Tessa as gracefully as two drunk girls can pick each other up, and we begin our tedious two block walk to the apartment that we share. 

We toddle down familiar streets and past the same shops that we’ve been to hundreds of times. I approach our blue front door, feeling the effects of the martinis heavily now, and unlock the outside door for us. We crawl up the stairs side by side, eventually making it to our apartment door. Tessa struggles with the key in her purse. Once she frees it, she misses three times before successfully inserting the key and revealing our cute two bedroom apartment. We crash inside, and I collapse on the living room floor. Sleep finds me mercifully. 

I awake the next morning, my head pounding, and I decide to keep my eyes closed a little longer before attempting today. I begin to run over my list of Sunday chores. I need to do laundry, there are dishes in the sink that I know Tessa won’t do, and if I don’t go to the grocery store I won’t eat this week. I roll onto my side and hesitantly open my eyes. I realize that I’m in bed, I don’t remember getting up last night from the floor, but perhaps I did. I sit up and stretch deeply, but as I glance down at my legs, I notice that they are not mine at all! 

My breathing rapidly increases, my heart pounds in my chest, and my head is spinning far worse than last night. I try to calm myself, and begin to offer rationalizations. My legs are just hairier than I remember, no need to panic, just need to shave. I glance around this bedroom and find it unfamiliar. It is painted in a slate blue, not the bright green of my bedroom. My blonde oak dresser outfit has been replaced by dark mahogany monstrosities in a style I’m immediately repulsed by. There is a bathroom attached to this room, I jump out of bed and rush in. I confront my reflection in the mirror, and what I see is completely foreign to me. 

There is a man with dark thick hair, a square jaw, and heavy brow staring back at me through deep brown eyes. The antithesis of the blonde, petite, lipsticked, and green eyed reflection I inspected last night at the club. I don’t know how to comprehend this, but I do realize that I very urgently need to pee. I sit on the toilet and it starts to sink in. I am in a man’s body, a man I’ve never met before, and I’m in a place I’ve never seen before. My breathing is quickening again, and I take several long deep breaths as I wash my hands, restraining myself from looking up at the stranger that is now me. I return to his bedroom, and look out of his window. 

I see a gorgeous mountain range speckled with small ornate houses along a dirt road. I

have no idea where I am. I decide to get dressed. I approach his closet and pick out some tan pants and a navy blue henley shirt, which incidentally are the most interesting clothes in his closet. Not a single pattern, no light silk shirts, and nothing by the way of denim at all. Whoever I am now, he must be extremely boring. I inspect myself in front of a standing mirror in the far corner that I didn’t notice until now. I am taller than I used to be even in heels, and much wider. I walk out of the room, slamming my right shoulder in the door jamb, rebounding I square up and exit. I find myself in a typical hallway with stairs at the end, and I descend. I don’t encounter anyone else in the house, and I find his keys in a bowl near the front door. 

    I step outside into the sun, and am immediately hit by how cold it is. I go back inside my house, where I easily find a coat closet and put on a heavy woven sweater with a high collar. When I go back outside, a neighbor of his is standing in the yard across from me and greets me, “Bonjour Georges. Beau temps que nous avons n’est-ce pas?” What did he say? I smile and wave politely at him. 

    Suddenly I find myself replying, “Oui. Plutôt sympa pour novembre.” I can’t understand the words that I’ve just spoken, but their meaning emerges to me all at once. I’m having a mundane conversation about the weather, in my front yard, with his neighbor. A man that I’ve seen before now that I think of it, his name is Frank. Frank is originally German, and now he lives here in Nice, across the street from me. Images begin to flood my mind of him, not Frank, but Georges, that is to say images of the new me begin to flood my mind. I see a much younger him, he lives somewhere very small, with a older women and a young girl. I’m filled with a sense joy as the memory takes me over, and I realize that this is my family. 

    More images of these two women play across my mind's eye as I begin to walk down the street of his neighborhood. They get older as the reel plays on, and there are all kinds of celebrations that I get to see of my life. I see Christmases, and Bastille Day parties, birthdays, and vacations. There is one strong memory that I recall in great detail. We are at a beach, and his sister Marie is running down towards the water. I look back at his mother setting up a blanket for all of us, and charge after my sister. We splash and laugh in the water for the entire day while our mother reads a book under an umbrella. I feel full and satisfied, I’m smiling as I walk toward the city square. 

    When I round the corner into the heart of the square I notice shops that are very familiar to me. I walk past store fronts and my reflection feels more comfortable with every passing pane of glass. I wave at those that I know and walk past the strangers, of which there are few. I reflexively walk into a coffee shop and order something I’ve never had before. When I take my first drink of it though, I can tell this is something that he, we, I enjoy very much. We leave the coffee shop and wander over to a newspaper stand. I pick up a paper and read the date at the top. Nov 2nd, 2009. It is 2009, I realize as I pay for my paper. The thought feels as natural as it would have yesterday stating that it was 1973 in Chicago, Illinois. 

    I sit with my coffee and my paper, that is in a language I now realize I have known all my life. As I enjoy this favorite drink of mine, in this comfortable familiar place, the parts of me that were panicked only a few short hours ago have melted away into what feels now like a weird dream. Actually, I think it was just a dream, one of those dreams you have when you fall back asleep after having woken up just enough to turn off your alarm. I stand up, feeling light, and begin to saunter back towards my home, and I go over my list of Sunday chores in my head. I need to do laundry, there are dishes in the sink that I need to do, and if I don’t go to the grocery store I won’t eat this week.