It is Christmas, and I am at the family home of my 34 year-old, Republican-adjacent boyfriend.
We had met on MySpace, after I searched for people who had gone to INSEAD, a business school in France. I had decided to apply to INSEAD during a good hard wallow about the heartbreaking condition of my life, which - to be fair - was truly excruciating. Just ask any 31 year old East Coast transplant to LA who’s watching her life’s dream slip down the drain. Not for the faint of heart. So I’d figured, if I had to mop up my heart while doing something sensible with my life for a change, I should at least get to do that in Europe. (For the record, I doubt seriously I’d have had a snowball’s chance in hell of getting in. I’m just not that smart, and my strengths lie… elsewhere than in business school.) But Matt had responded generously to my request for info about INSEAD, unlike the one guy who pointed out that if my MySpace inquiry included a typo, I’d have to up my game on the actual application. He was, of course, right.
If memory serves, Matt and I had corresponded back and forth a bit, likely with less and less focus on business school, and he’d invited me down to San Diego for the day. It was clearly a date, not a business school coaching session. I liked that he was tall, handsome, outdoorsy, and most of all, the farthest thing from a floundering, insecure actor. He practically screamed security - he was an engineer, and his car, though red, was a Corolla. He could definitely save me. I guess he thought I was fun, different, and hot, although as I came to learn more about what he liked in a woman, I am astonished he found enough surface area on me to project it all onto. But in any case, I had stalked his blog, found a mention that his favorite champagne was Canard-Duchêne, and absolutely knocked his socks off by showing up with a bottle in hand.
We dated for a while, usually me driving down to him. (To be fair, I had two truly crazy roommates at the time) He wanted me to move down to San Diego with him and get a real job, instead of waffling and making vague half promises about it, and subsisting on pennies from my "skill-less labor." I tried to ignore his family’s politics - Matt himself had never voted for a Republican, although he was registered as one. He had a keen, discerning eye, you see. Oh, I hated him. He kept his clothes on a practical metal rack instead of a dresser, didn’t care that his shower was revoltingly mildewy, and had had his entire beard electrolysis-ed off to save valuable shaving time in the mornings. He also seemed to have daddy issues, wanted five kids (though he "wouldn't expect his wife to bear them all"), and was super into porn. I tried, though. I tried to keep embodying the newly sensible, but still quirky dream-girl I’d told him I was. I was clearly the bad guy here. He just believed what I'd told him. I hated him anyway.
So fast forward, and as I said, it is Christmas, and I have brought a Panettone as an offering, and I’m glancing sneakily around for any sign of booze to help me feel less awkward around his perfectly nice family. The Panettone is looked wildly askance at, one slice is cut…for me, nobody else tried it, and the rest of the family devours their traditional “monkey bread,” which in my memory had, maybe, jelly beans embedded in it? Anyway, something was leaking artificial coloring all over the sticky slab. There was probably other food, and conversation. I think there eventually was the offer of a little booze. There was definitely the eagerly, greedily awaited family tradition of watching A Christmas Story.
I’d seen the movie before, but probably only once, and had no real feelings about it one way or another other than occasional horrified images of getting my tongue stuck to a metal pole. But this time… well, eventually it came to the dinner scene. I’m already less than charmed by the Mother-as-servant family dynamics, but now, with her scurrying from stove to table, back to stove, while Father sits there doing fuck-all except reading the sports page while she’s serving everyone, and she has just finally sat down when Ralphie whines about not having gotten any cabbage, so she “patiently” gets up again, and the narrator says his mother had not had a hot meal in about fifteen years… Matt’s family laughed and laughed, and I was… I was changed. Or, actually, maybe something I'd never understood about myself was revealed. And I thought - that will NEVER be me. I could sense that if I had kids, if I gave up on pursuing my career, if I had that American Dream life, I would 100% become like that mother. It’s in my nature to give everything away to everyone else first, to my own detriment, possibly to my own demise. Even all these years later, it’s hard for me to choose the better of two things for myself if there’s anyone nearby I can even imagine might possibly want it too. I could see myself, several kids later, fleeing them all, abandoning them, running for my own life, finally, finally, finally.
It’s a lot of responsibility to put onto an 80s movie.
Now, many years later, I’ve made some progress in giving myself what I want. Some, but not yet enough, if I’m honest. But I did keep my life for myself. Sort of. I didn’t give it all away. Although I did give away years of fighting for my career in favor of a low-paying but steady office job. That hurts to admit. I wish I could have tolerated poverty and insecurity for longer. I only ever wanted one thing… but I didn’t have enough faith in myself I guess. Or enough audacity. (Or, just to throw in one non-self-blamey thing...enough damn LUCK.) Then about five years ago, I started to really try again. I didn’t believe I could make an acting career happen, but I did believe that I could turn audiobook narration into a full-time job. It took three years of trying as hard as I had any energy for before or after (ok sometimes during) my day job. But it worked. And now I make my living as an artist. I am gratefully, quietly triumphant.
For two years, I kind of rested there. Or more like, bent over, panting, astonished to have outrun the terror of disappointment, and afraid to move a muscle in case it all disappeared. I think I’m through most of that now, and I find myself wanting more again. Looking at what I have and how I can use it differently. Steven and I decided to hire a cleaner twice a month and I look at it as my time being valuable - even just my down time. I bought some nice new clothes just because I like feeling fashionable, and I’d stopped giving myself that pleasure. I let myself not work very much during an emotionally complicated month this past summer…because Steven had a great job, and it’s okay to let myself be helped. I dared to see if I could do a singing warm-up in my booth without disturbing my neighbor, just because I love singing, and I’ve told myself for years I didn’t have anywhere private and quiet enough to sing. Duh. I have an acoustically treated sound booth. She can’t hear a thing.
I’m writing this. And I’ll write eleven more entries by this time next year under the umbrella title of “Maybe it Won’t Be Terrible.” It’s scary, and I feel a bit exposed. But I want to do things that I love and that challenge and inspire me. Plus, my vision temporarily improves when my eyes well up a little. Which isn’t even a metaphor! Stupid LASIK.
It’s Christmas time again. Last week, I saw a brand new KN95 mask on the passenger seat of my car, but I reached for the old one anyway, because - it’s fine, it’s good enough. It’s only gotten a little bit fluffy and tickly from repeated wearings, and it probably doesn’t have any lurking COVID spores in it… But I found myself saying - out loud, to myself - “No. Let me have the good thing. Now.” It’s about time. Give me the good thing. The better one. Dinner while it's hot. Success as I define it. Anything I can earn.
Except, of course, nobody has to give to me. I can just take it. For myself. Finally.
