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Description
OLD

I’m on my death bed. My children are at work, my grandchildren at school. The cats are eating their Fancy Feast that the nurse put out on my request. I tell the fly on the wall, “I have no regrets.”

YOUNG

“Two Truths and a Lie!” It’s a new icebreaker game, one that I haven’t heard about before. It sounds like more fun than Truth and Dare. I always choose Dare, and I always end up wussing out.

“Who’s ready to go first?” The camp counselor directs that dazzling outdoors-Barbie smile at me, and I stutter to attention. I don’t mean to, but I end up telling three truths. I say the one that no one guesses is the lie.

YOUNGER

Christmas is my absolute favorite time of the year, besides my birthday. My Jewish friends like to brag that Hannukah is way better because they get eight days of presents instead of one, but I reason that it’s quality over quantity when it comes to holiday gifts. Not that I ever get any good gifts – last Christmas, my brother and I both got science encyclopedias from Santa. His was on mechanical physics, mine on biology. He actually was pretty thrilled, but I couldn’t look past my dreams of Tickle-Me-Elmos and Game Boy Pockets.

But this year’s different, because from the onset I can tell that my present from Santa is something special. Oddly wrapped and bulging in way that definitely negates the possibility of books or underwear, the thing sits with heavy anticipation in front of the empty fireplace and a plate of half-eaten sodium crackers (my dad had insisted that Santa was on a diet). Tradition dictates that Santa’s presents are opened last, so I am forced to wait, but finally I rip into the package with childish delight.

It’s a Build-A-Bear, like the one my best friend has, the one I’ve been jealous of for months. I can’t believe my luck, and I squeal with unbridled joy. “How did Santa know what to get me?” I ask.

“He’s magic,” my parents tell me, unable to contain their self-satisfied grins at finally finding the right present that can make me happy.

BEFORE COLLEGE

“Jell-O shots, anyone?”

Jell-O shots, pudding shots, margaritas, rum. I hate the acidic burn of alcohol, the piss-color-taste of beer. I take a blue Jell-O cup anyway, downing it like a shot of medicine.

OLDER THAN I’D LIKE TO BE

I read a study on the front page of Yahoo that contrary to previous research, children have on average a better quality of life when two parents with marital troubles stay together instead of divorcing. It’s got some pretty convincing proof; I forward it to every single one of my husband’s various email addresses and tape a hard copy to his pillow for good measure. I know that he sees it because when I wake up in the morning, it’s gone and crumpled in the wastebasket of the master bathroom. The next night, he makes an effort to sit in at dinner. We play Happily Married for the children.

Afterward, I tell myself in the solitary safety of bed and darkness, “There. That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

COLLEGE

They’re the friends I made before I started partying, before I discovered the breathless wonders of vodka, like coming back to life after drowning. They didn’t understand when I joined a sorority, why I didn’t just drop out after weeks of sleepless nights and self-doubt. I pretend that I don’t see their slightly pinched stares whenever my pledge sisters and I are in the same room. I tell them that I haven’t changed, that I just go to parties for the dancing.

YOUNGER THAN I’D LIKE TO BE

Sometimes, there’s these days when I just really don’t want to go to school. I’m obviously not actually going to learn anything that will prove to be useful beyond a year or two. The teachers are all lame, and no one in my classes understands me, or my deeply angsty poetry about loneliness and misunderstood genius. Unfortunately, the only way I can get my parents to sign for a sick day when I don’t have a fever is to throw a tantrum. How it works in five easy to follow steps:

One, pretend to be working on homework until midnight, and then actually start on your homework. Let the frustration build until the crocodile tears start coming.

Two, scream at your mom. Tell her how much you hate her.

Three, bury yourself under your blanket and refuse to come out. Make lots of sobbing noises in the dark, soft, comfort of warm blanket goodness.

Four, continue with three until your dad finally stops your mom from trying to pull you out from under your pillow. “She’s sick,” he tells your mom stubbornly. “She’s sick.”

Five, bask in your complete victory. You are now free to cry yourself to sleep.

THE TIME OF MY LIFE

He’s really cute. He’s got these amazing eyelashes, black to match his messily curly hair that comes from a stunning mix of Italian-Chinese genetics and a jug of hair product. Whenever he smiles, my heart goes into a miniature cardiac arrest. Those teeth are just so damn white.

“Are you going on the Six Flags school trip?” he asks. I can’t stand roller coasters; I’m terrified of heights.

He smiles; my heart seizes. “Yeah, definitely,” I say.

I’ve never been to a Six Flags park before, but somewhere between the fourth loop and the sixth fall of the third ride, I remember exactly why I hate roller coasters. By the fifth ride, I can’t take it anymore – I tell everyone that I’m sitting the next one out.
“I’ll stay with you,” he says.

I smile, hoping that mine is as brilliant as his. “Don’t worry about me, I’ll be fine alone! Really, you go have fun with the others.”

He smiles back and squeezes my hand gratefully before heading toward the line, looking back for one last wave. I try to tell myself that it means nothing, but I can’t stop smiling.

OLDER THAN YOUNG, BUT YOUNGER THAN OLD

The human silence pervades the room with a deafening white noise. It blocks out the scratch of pen on paper, the gentle ticking of the antique clock, the whir of computer hardware. My heels are killing me, and all I can do is stare at the thin toupee of the interviewer, his head bowed low as he intently examines my resume before him. Any attempts at striking conversation lead to awkwardly trailing chuckles on my part. So I just treat him to a dazzling smile, exuding confidence. I used to practice smiling at myself in the mirror for hours, calculating exactly how to achieve that perfect ratio of teeth to dimples.

Six weeks later, I get the letter in the mail. Sometimes, all that faking actually does pay up.

AT THE BEGINNING

There is a photograph of me that my mom absolutely loves. As my mom tells it, I decide of my own accord one day to don my brother’s shirt and pants, my mom’s fancy straw sunhat and sunglasses, and my dad’s old leather shoes. For some reason, this get-up earns my parent’s instant endearment, and my dad – being my dad – insists on taking a picture to commemorate the occasion. I don’t actually remember that day, much like I don’t remember anything before the age of five, for which there’s some scientific reason that I’ve forgotten. All that remains are brief sensory impressions – the heat of the sun toasting the flat of my shoulders, the soft folds of my brother’s too large shirt, the scratchiness of the straw on my bare neck. I remember the pride I felt, dressed in grown-up clothes that I would someday mature into. I also seem to remember a sensation of warm fuzzy happiness, but that could just be the golden fog of childhood memories.

Description
OLD

I’m on my death bed. My children are at work, my grandchildren at school. The cats are eating their Fancy Feast that the nurse put out on my request. I tell the fly on the wall, “I have no regrets.”

YOUNG

“Two Truths and a Lie!” It’s a new icebreaker game, one that I haven’t heard about before. It sounds like more fun than Truth and Dare. I always choose Dare, and I always end up wussing out.

“Who’s ready to go first?” The camp counselor directs that dazzling outdoors-Barbie smile at me, and I stutter to attention. I don’t mean to, but I end up telling three truths. I say the one that no one guesses is the lie.

YOUNGER

Christmas is my absolute favorite time of the year, besides my birthday. My Jewish friends like to brag that Hannukah is way better because they get eight days of presents instead of one, but I reason that it’s quality over quantity when it comes to holiday gifts. Not that I ever get any good gifts – last Christmas, my brother and I both got science encyclopedias from Santa. His was on mechanical physics, mine on biology. He actually was pretty thrilled, but I couldn’t look past my dreams of Tickle-Me-Elmos and Game Boy Pockets.

But this year’s different, because from the onset I can tell that my present from Santa is something special. Oddly wrapped and bulging in way that definitely negates the possibility of books or underwear, the thing sits with heavy anticipation in front of the empty fireplace and a plate of half-eaten sodium crackers (my dad had insisted that Santa was on a diet). Tradition dictates that Santa’s presents are opened last, so I am forced to wait, but finally I rip into the package with childish delight.

It’s a Build-A-Bear, like the one my best friend has, the one I’ve been jealous of for months. I can’t believe my luck, and I squeal with unbridled joy. “How did Santa know what to get me?” I ask.

“He’s magic,” my parents tell me, unable to contain their self-satisfied grins at finally finding the right present that can make me happy.

BEFORE COLLEGE

“Jell-O shots, anyone?”

Jell-O shots, pudding shots, margaritas, rum. I hate the acidic burn of alcohol, the piss-color-taste of beer. I take a blue Jell-O cup anyway, downing it like a shot of medicine.

OLDER THAN I’D LIKE TO BE

I read a study on the front page of Yahoo that contrary to previous research, children have on average a better quality of life when two parents with marital troubles stay together instead of divorcing. It’s got some pretty convincing proof; I forward it to every single one of my husband’s various email addresses and tape a hard copy to his pillow for good measure. I know that he sees it because when I wake up in the morning, it’s gone and crumpled in the wastebasket of the master bathroom. The next night, he makes an effort to sit in at dinner. We play Happily Married for the children.

Afterward, I tell myself in the solitary safety of bed and darkness, “There. That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

COLLEGE

They’re the friends I made before I started partying, before I discovered the breathless wonders of vodka, like coming back to life after drowning. They didn’t understand when I joined a sorority, why I didn’t just drop out after weeks of sleepless nights and self-doubt. I pretend that I don’t see their slightly pinched stares whenever my pledge sisters and I are in the same room. I tell them that I haven’t changed, that I just go to parties for the dancing.

YOUNGER THAN I’D LIKE TO BE

Sometimes, there’s these days when I just really don’t want to go to school. I’m obviously not actually going to learn anything that will prove to be useful beyond a year or two. The teachers are all lame, and no one in my classes understands me, or my deeply angsty poetry about loneliness and misunderstood genius. Unfortunately, the only way I can get my parents to sign for a sick day when I don’t have a fever is to throw a tantrum. How it works in five easy to follow steps:

One, pretend to be working on homework until midnight, and then actually start on your homework. Let the frustration build until the crocodile tears start coming.

Two, scream at your mom. Tell her how much you hate her.

Three, bury yourself under your blanket and refuse to come out. Make lots of sobbing noises in the dark, soft, comfort of warm blanket goodness.

Four, continue with three until your dad finally stops your mom from trying to pull you out from under your pillow. “She’s sick,” he tells your mom stubbornly. “She’s sick.”

Five, bask in your complete victory. You are now free to cry yourself to sleep.

THE TIME OF MY LIFE

He’s really cute. He’s got these amazing eyelashes, black to match his messily curly hair that comes from a stunning mix of Italian-Chinese genetics and a jug of hair product. Whenever he smiles, my heart goes into a miniature cardiac arrest. Those teeth are just so damn white.

“Are you going on the Six Flags school trip?” he asks. I can’t stand roller coasters; I’m terrified of heights.

He smiles; my heart seizes. “Yeah, definitely,” I say.

I’ve never been to a Six Flags park before, but somewhere between the fourth loop and the sixth fall of the third ride, I remember exactly why I hate roller coasters. By the fifth ride, I can’t take it anymore – I tell everyone that I’m sitting the next one out.
“I’ll stay with you,” he says.

I smile, hoping that mine is as brilliant as his. “Don’t worry about me, I’ll be fine alone! Really, you go have fun with the others.”

He smiles back and squeezes my hand gratefully before heading toward the line, looking back for one last wave. I try to tell myself that it means nothing, but I can’t stop smiling.

OLDER THAN YOUNG, BUT YOUNGER THAN OLD

The human silence pervades the room with a deafening white noise. It blocks out the scratch of pen on paper, the gentle ticking of the antique clock, the whir of computer hardware. My heels are killing me, and all I can do is stare at the thin toupee of the interviewer, his head bowed low as he intently examines my resume before him. Any attempts at striking conversation lead to awkwardly trailing chuckles on my part. So I just treat him to a dazzling smile, exuding confidence. I used to practice smiling at myself in the mirror for hours, calculating exactly how to achieve that perfect ratio of teeth to dimples.

Six weeks later, I get the letter in the mail. Sometimes, all that faking actually does pay up.

AT THE BEGINNING

There is a photograph of me that my mom absolutely loves. As my mom tells it, I decide of my own accord one day to don my brother’s shirt and pants, my mom’s fancy straw sunhat and sunglasses, and my dad’s old leather shoes. For some reason, this get-up earns my parent’s instant endearment, and my dad – being my dad – insists on taking a picture to commemorate the occasion. I don’t actually remember that day, much like I don’t remember anything before the age of five, for which there’s some scientific reason that I’ve forgotten. All that remains are brief sensory impressions – the heat of the sun toasting the flat of my shoulders, the soft folds of my brother’s too large shirt, the scratchiness of the straw on my bare neck. I remember the pride I felt, dressed in grown-up clothes that I would someday mature into. I also seem to remember a sensation of warm fuzzy happiness, but that could just be the golden fog of childhood memories.