Look Up

 

I haven’t told my husband yet, but I am in love with another man.  It has been a couple of years now that I have found myself repeatedly returning to him for servings of the joy he brings me.  I supposed I should feel guilty, as he is about the same age as my sons, but instead I feel only pure affection.  To be clear, my love for him is strictly platonic and we rarely see each other for more than a few minutes at a time, but without fail, each time I walk away with a smile on my face that lasts all day. 

Not long ago, a noodle shop opened down the street from my office.  For most of my colleagues, the novelty of a new lunch spot wore off within a few weeks, but for me the significance of this commercial expansion was far more important.  The truth is...

I have a deeply entrenched noodle addiction.

I know Cosmopolitan magazine and Bridget Jones have the world convinced that eating ice cream out of the tub is every woman’s go-to “feel-better” activity, but in times of stress, sadness, anxiety, loneliness, shame, boredom, credit card overdraft, bad hair days etc. for me there is no quicker fix than a steaming takeout box of rice noodles slurped through disposable chopsticks so cheap that avoiding a splinter becomes the entertainment part of “dinner and a show”.  I don’t even really know why, but the simplicity of that perfect blend of steamy, sweet and spicy always brings me comfort.

Noodle boy’s sunny disposition confused me the first time we met. He looked up and met my eyes as I walked up to the cash. He smiled warmly, his focus never wavering. 

“Hi.  What can I get you today, Ma’am?”

Scanning the endless possibilities on the massive billboard, I wondered how I would ever decide.  Choose your protein, choose your sauce, choose your garnish.  Is it just me, or has takeout become exponentially complicated?  All I wanted were some hot sticky noodles. 

My breath got shallow and I started to feel anxious.  I heard the smartly dressed business man behind me breathing down the back of my neck.  He shuffled his Italian leather shoes impatiently at my indecision.  Out of the corner of my eye I saw him masturbating the screen of his smart phone absentmindedly with his thumb, like he might an old girlfriend he was growing tired of.

Noodle boy was unperturbed. He flashed me another smile. “Ma’am?  Have you made your choice?” He whispered gently.

            “Umm….a veggie pad thai please.

            “Spicy?”  His eyes twinkled, windows to his warm, calm heart.

Mr. Italian leather cleared his throat behind me.  His General Tao Special seemed sure to be the only thing standing between him and solving the Middle Eastern crisis. 

             “Maybe just a little.”

And so go our interactions.  There is little variation.  On occasion I’ll feel adventurous and try something else on the menu, maybe even ask a couple questions but mostly, our meetings are, on the surface, completely insignificant- money exchanged, few words spoken.  He doesn’t even know my name but somehow, our brief encounters stay with me.

There used to be an intimate apparel store in our local mall called Moments Intimes.  I laughed when a friend once misunderstood the chic French title and referred to it as Moments in Time.  But maybe she was right, that really, there is nothing more intimate than those little moments in time when we are truly present, whether with a lover or a complete stranger at our favorite takeout joint. With so much talk about BFFs and soul mates, maybe we underestimate those little connections we make when we just look up to truly see the person in front of us.

Today once again I found myself craving noodles and so decided to run into the grocery store on my way home.

Ten minutes later I get in line to pay.  I sigh as I see that the young woman working the cash seems to have time-warped into an alternate universe of slow motion. She struggles to identify the most basic of fruits and vegetables and after finally scanning each item, pauses to categorize its dimensions before carefully bagging it with bomb squad precision so as not to bruise or crush any fruit or baked good.  The line continues to grow behind me both in length and impatience.

I find myself feeling grumpier by the second so I pull out my phone to pass the time.  Facebook, the cyber-crack of checkout lines.  I swipe away, images spinning faster and faster in my palm.  Pictures of pizza muffins and the amazing healing properties of kale, interspersed with status updates of “7 easy steps to spiritual enlightenment,” and “Look what I just ate for lunch!” (Aside: has anyone else noticed that since the advent of Facebook, elephants have become increasingly artistically inclined?) My thumb scrolls faster and faster. The information overload only increases my angst.

Finally it’s my turn.  I am obsessively replaying a “pig nursing orphan kittens” video in disbelief.

And then I look up at the cashier. She can’t be twenty, this young woman with the fabulous afro and intricately air-brushed nails. I meet her eyes.  They are the deepest of dark browns. She gives me a pained smile and I can’t help but smile back.  We look at each other for a moment, I at her beauty and she, I fear, to see if I am about to give her a hard time. No way.  I drop my phone in my pocket and reach out to grab the package of vermicelli she has just passed over the scanner.

“Here, why don’t you pass them to me and I’ll bag,” I suggest.  She nods and her smile softens.

Yup, I think I’m in love again.

I toss the snow peas and mushrooms into the bag.  They will be perfect in tonight’s stir-fry. A dish that’s just the right blend of steamy, sweet, spicy comfort.

A dish I won’t be posting on Facebook.



 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

*Some details have been altered to protect the privacy of those involved but remain true to the essence of the events.

Kindness Lights The Way

The words of kindness are more healing to a drooping heart than balm or honey. -Sarah Fielding (1710-1768)

I’m no techno wiz, but I am pretty sure that when you press the power button of your computer it’s not supposed to go all black. I stare, waiting…nothing.  The tiny arrow sits alone, lost in the middle of the screen.  I can relate.  I fiddle with the mouse and tap the keys randomly.  Nothing but darkness stares back at me.

It’s not the first time this has happened.  The last time, I googled “Help!  My screen is black.”   The search brought me to an endless series of YouTube videos where pimply-faced fifteen year olds in their parents’ basements shamed me with their patronising techno-speak.

Was my computer finally dead?  Or was it trying to tell me something. Maybe reflecting back to me- a sarcastic pathetic cyber fallacy of the void I was currently going through.  The arrow pointing fluorescently to the nowhere my life was heading.

I had had a hard few months.  It was one of those winters where the universe seems to align the stars to test your inner strength and ability to stay in motion.  When circumstances breathe of pivotal choices to be made and transformational moments that lie ahead.  A season where you question not how you got yourself in this painfully tight spot, but what the hell you are supposed to do now and what “important life lesson” you are supposed to be learning.  A season that has you taking that second glass of wine more often than usual and rationalizing the consumption of carbs that are now nesting conspicuously on your hips while your eyes leak tears of exhaustion that speak of your raw spirit.

***

At the young age of 19, my sister-in-law found herself unexpectedly pregnant. With twins.  A remarkably resilient woman, she has often retold me the story of how soon after their birth their father had to go out of town for work and so upon discharge, she juggled them alone into a taxi along with cases of donated formula and proceeded to wade through the many months of sleep deprivation and isolation that followed as best she could.

But like all new parents she soon learned that the scary exhaustion of infancy eventually gives way to years of unfathomable joy.  That while we are worrying and puzzling at them, our kids inevitably manage to burst open a well of profound emotion we never knew existed and to wrap their sticky little fingers permanently around our hearts. Only this terrifically tight grasp also increases our vulnerability.

Daily life with young twins is a logistic complexity that rivals the tactical manoeuverings of the most sophisticated of armies. Gone are the days of jumping into the grocery store on your way home to “pick up a couple things for dinner.”  This simple act is replaced by a week of budgeting and meal planning that culminates in a full day excursion which includes lifting one child in and out of the shopping cart 17 times because they are tired and/or touching everything in the aisles and/or persistently irritating their sibling by poking them in the ear, dislocating your shoulder steering your cart in an erratic drunken manner to avoid running over the other child who is determined to ride on the front end but jumps off every time they see a TV-advertised sugary treat, a requisite 12 unplanned trips to the bathroom, and packing  your purse with 3 varieties of  emergency snacks and juice boxes in order to get through this marathon shopping trip you absolutely have to do in order to buy more snacks and juice boxes.

It was after one of these relaxing outings that my sister-in-law found herself finally waiting at the bus stop with her daughters, her six overstuffed bags of food balanced precariously against her legs.  She was tired and deflated.  The weekly grocery trip was a cyclical reminder of how tight money was and how life had turned out so differently than she had expected.  Life was not easy and many a day they lived on little more than love and dreams for the future.

The girls had caught a second wind and were now chasing each other in fits of giggles around the sidewalk.  They were having a great time when all of a sudden one of them missed her footing and went tumbling face down on the concrete in front of her.   After a suspended second of disbelief, chaos unraveled.  The young girl screamed in fear and pain.  Her mother yelled as she leaped to pick her up in her arms.  Her sister wailed at the sight of gushing blood. 

Before they could compose themselves or fully assess the situation, a car pulled up beside them.

“Get in!” the driver called out.

“What?”

“I saw what happened.  Get in!  I’ll drive you to the hospital.”

Perhaps in a more prudent moment she would have hesitated to get into the car of some random man with her two young daughters, but maternal instinct kicked in and so leaving her groceries bags standing alone by the side of the road like the forgotten remains of some impulsive ghostly chef, she pulled her girls into the car and delivered herself to the trust of this stranger.

At the hospital they were rushed into a triage room where a nurse cleaned the wounds and her daughter was artfully stitched up by a friendly resident.  Hours later when the adrenaline of the crisis had subsided and they sat quietly awaiting their discharge papers, she realized that she had not even had the chance to thank the kind stranger for the ride.  Moments later a nurse came in to check on them.

“So you’re all set then.  When you go, don’t forget your bags by the front desk.”

“Bags?  I don’t have any bags.” Confused, she followed the nurse to the waiting area.  There lined up by the reception desk were six white bags.  It did not take long for her to realize what had happened. The stranger, understanding what it meant for a young mother of two to lose a week’s worth of groceries, had gone back to the bus stop to retrieve them.

***

Without warning, my screen clicks on.  It lights the room in a warm glow. The email browser pops open.  1 new message.  I click out of curiosity. It’s from a colleague I don’t see often but who has heard about my current struggles.

“Was thinking about you today.  Like this cat, I know you will land on your feet and that your best is yet to come.”

A crazy cat photo jumps out at me and I laugh, my heart lightening for the first time in a long while.  My breath comes easier and my eyes are wet this time with gratitude for this unanticipated note. It was the reminder I needed of gentle goodness served during a season where the grey skies and heavy air only contrasted more sharply with every unexpected moment of kindness. Sometimes we just need reassurance that all will be ok when we don’t have the resolve to believe it on our own.

Like a stranger stopping to let you know they saw what happened,

or a few little words that reach out through the screen to take your hand, let you know you are not alone and remind you that in darkness,

…kindness lights the way.










*Some details have been altered to protect the privacy of those involved but remain true to the essence of the events.

A Life Well Chosen

 

     Our dining room table is longer than most.  It stretches eight feet and can comfortably sit 12.  It is the heart of our home, where secrets are unveiled and life choices are debated.   It is a solid piece, narrow in width which only serves to bring its diners closer together. The long beaten planks of pine have absorbed tears of grief and uncontrollable laughter.  It bears the markings and scars of many a glass of wine spilled and platter dropped.  It is where unsolicited counsel is given and joys are celebrated long into the night.

     But mostly, it is where the members of our intercultural, intergenerational, blended and extended family come together to break bread and mend hearts.  We are 14 in all, our six collective kids, their partners, biological mother and our new treasured grandbaby who is passed down the chain of arms with the same ease as the bowl of peas.

 

     Meals at this table are far from elegant sit-down affairs.  They are raucous and chaotic events where steaming plates of food are carried over the heads of wrestling young men and gossiping women.  Where beer and homemade wine flow as freely as the uncensored conversation that runs from wedding arrangements to hemorrhoid treatments to the feasibility of time travel.

***

     Sara* is a long-time friend who recently spent an afternoon at this same table tearily recounting the impending dissolution of her marriage.  She had just given birth to her third child and was in that all too familiar phase of readjusting marital expectations.

 

     “But it wasn’t supposed to be like this.  I didn’t know.  It was supposed to be different!” I take a sip of my coffee to quiet my tongue.  I cannot help but wonder how she ever thought a forty year old man whose mother continued to buy his socks and underwear would easily give up his bachelor lifestyle to change the diapers of the children he had reluctantly agreed to have.  But my heart went out to her as she sat there trying to reconcile the life she had imagined with the one she had created.

***

     I try to remember my own visions of the future.  As teenagers my friends and I could spend hours talking about our dreams of what our lives would become. We would run these dreams like reels of film in our starry-eyed minds.  I would leave home to study journalism and would promptly begin a skyrocketing career, traveling the world bringing light to the brutal humanitarian stories of those less fortunate. (It was the 80s.  I watched a lot of 60 Minutes….)

 

     Later, I would settle in some cosmopolitan city and quickly land a job as a columnist for some well-respected newspaper.  I could picture myself strutting to the office every morning, latte in hand while the theme from St. Elmo’s Fire played in the background. (Somehow in my adolescent imaginings I inexplicably became Caucasian and full-lipped, a cross between a well-fed Angelina and a 1986 Molly Ringwald…). I would rise in the ranks, passionately putting in long hours at a job I loved.  After hours I would banter cleverly with colleagues at the local bar like some rerun of LA Law.

 

     I would marry a man not unlike myself, a mirror of my own ambitions and interests, a suit-wearing nine-to-fiver who would read the Times with me Sunday mornings before we would head out to brunch and a new art exhibit with our equally hip young couple friends, a man who amazingly knew every Indigo Girls song by heart and would lead guests in a moving sing-a-long on his battered acoustic guitar at parties.

 

     Once established in our careers, we would go on to have a couple of children.  On weekends, between driving the kids to soccer games and ballet recitals, we’d host fabulous dinners.  While my metrosexual-looking husband artfully whipped up an impressive meal of leek soufflé and home-made crème caramel in the kitchen, I’d copy Martha Stewart table settings that creatively reflected the season and coordinated perfectly with our stylish home furnishings. (Note to self: At next session, ask therapist why in my dreams I seem to have married a character from Will and Grace. I’m also not quite sure how we managed to get all this done in a twenty-four hour day. Interestingly in my teenage version of my future, I had clearly managed to learn how to bend time…it was a futuristic vision after all.)

     (Obscure aside: This reminds me of one of my favorite jokes.  How many Martha Stewarts does it take to change a light bulb? None, because if you carefully use an Exacto knife to score out a quadrangle  from the front of the bulb, fill it with tufts of tissue and chiffon and hang it with a silk ribbon in your garden, you can turn it into a lovely birdfeeder...)

 

     But life isn’t a John Hughes movie.  It’s a series of karmic forks in the road that present us with choices.  Sometimes the choices induce stomach–churning nausea in their obvious life-altering importance.  But sometimes the seemingly innocuous opportunities are those which most alter our paths- the day you opt to take the bus to work and end up meeting a new job contact in the subway; the choice to buy a cup of a coffee where you run into an old friend you thought you would never see again; the last minute decision to go for an afternoon walk during which you end up meeting your future husband. Each choice leads to another, like links in the chain of moments that lead to your today. 

     My own choices have brought me far from my Diane Sawyer imaginings, but I am proud to own them as my own. I am neither journalist, nor sophisticated world traveller.  I did not imagine that after many stops and starts I would choose an entirely different career path.  That I would make professional choices that sometimes led to doors opening wide and sometimes to inadvertently jumping off such a career cliff that I’d scrape my shins trying to climb back up.

 

     I did not imagine a life where at times I would sleep-walk through the work day wondering how the hell I got here, or that I would ever feel fortunate to have a job where amidst the pendulum   of stress and boredom I would be happy for that occasional meeting or moment that has me declare “Well, that was kinda cool.”

     I did not imagine finding myself at mid-life, faced with the choice of stepping over decades of paying my dues to completely reboot my career into the teasing potential of the unknown.

 

     I did not imagine being barely out of school and falling head over heels for an older man.  A man with four children of his own, not much younger than me.  I did not imagine I would fall as hard for them as I did their father, or that I would eventually find myself happily embracing their mother as family.

     I did not imagine that the only art displays I would visit would be those in my children’s elementary classroom or that I could revel in the infinite possibilities of macaroni sculptures.

 

     I did not imagine choosing to marry he who is at once my complete opposite and my completion.

     I did not imagine I could be...

 

    ... so happy.

     We are no Norman Rockwell family. In fact tonight, as I carry out steaming plates of chicken curry and gluten free tofu balls (NONE of which were home-cooked by anyone) over the clatter of my rag-tag clan, I can’t help but think our eclectic menu reflects the eclectic mix of characters gathered at our long table.  There are groans and giggles as my eldest daughter reads out puns from her smart phone.

 

     “Two peanuts were walking down a dark alley.  One was assaulted.”

     I snort and pull up a chair.  Reaching over to grab a nearby bottle of wine I scan the faces of this rainbow coloured Brady Bunch I proudly call my family, and I cannot help but grin, not at the life I imagined…

 

     ...but at this life I have chosen.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

*names and some details have been changed to protect the privacy of those involved.





TELL ME YOUR STORY

 

 



“Tell me your story. For that’s where I’ll find your heart.” – James Simmons 

 

The question was: High heels, Pencil skirt, 1 km to the post office, 15 minutes before I had to be back in the boardroom for my next meeting.  Could I make it?

As usual, I had left things to the last minute. I am an artful procrastinator who has unconsciously made “Works well under pressure” a personal mantra. I am forever rushing out during my lunch hour to try to bite off a morsel of my never-ending list of personal chores. On this particular day, my chosen destination was the post office, where I hoped to mail off a stack of soon-to-be-due bill payments.

Off I went, the clickety clack of my heels accompanying the rhythm of my panicked heartbeat as I flew down the hill to the main street. (Ok, ok, “flew” might be a slight exaggeration.  I admit my skirt had me doing more of a thigh-chafing shuffle than any kind of graceful gazelle-like stride…)

My mind raced faster than my feet. If I didn’t get back in time for my meeting, my boss would think I was irresponsible. If I didn’t mail off my car registration it would expire in two days.  Without a car I’d have to take the bus to work.  If I had to take public transit I’d be an hour later to the office every morning.  If I was late every day I would lose my job.  If I had to look for a new job, I’d have to explain why I got fired…and so on and so on.

My hyperactive brain barely registered the shops or passers-by that streamed by me.  There’s the eclectic corner store that sells cigarettes and sushi.  Here comes the neighborhood dog-walker (Hmm, I wonder how much a dog-walker makes?  An alternate career if I got fired…?) There’s the ‘artisan’ bakery that sells $5 cake-pops (Is it just me, or is someone making a whole lot of cash off ten cent donut holes...?) Here's that Goth-styled street kid, laughing it up with her friend.

And that’s when I skid to a stop.                          

At first, I wasn’t even sure what it was that made me take a second look.  I had seen this homeless teen plenty of times before.  She sat outside the pharmacy most days and stood out on this trendy street with her worn army surplus fashion, charcoal lipstick and requisite piercings. Her scraggily-looking dog rested his chin faithfully on her lap. Goth Girl was a fixture on this corner.  Most passers-by bent their heads to avoid eye-contact. Sometimes I would dig in my purse to drop a few coins in her black manicured hand.  Other days I uttered an awkward “Sorry, not today” as I strode past.  But this day I stopped.

I had never heard her laugh before. Though her ever changing cardboard signs sometimes hinted at a hidden sense of humor; “Bet you a dollar you read this sign”, “Spent my last cash on this cardboard and marker", “Obama ain’t the only one who wants change,” I had always taken her defeated cynical expression for granted. But today her eyes lit up as she recounted some hilarious episode to the young woman beside her.

From where I stood, I couldn’t hear what she was saying.  Was she explaining how she ended up here and where she slept at night?  She had not always been here on this street corner.  Once, she was like any other child.  Like my child.  I pictured her as a baby, being held by her mother. I imagined the butterflies in her stomach on the first day of kindergarten. I saw her close her eyes to blow wishes over her birthday cake. She, like all of us, had her own story. I glanced at today’s cardboard billboard. 

“Have you ever felt invisible before?” 

I felt the weight of her words in my chest. But the truth is, it was neither her painfully honest question nor her unexpected laughter that stopped me in my tracks. In fact it wasn’t even Goth Girl herself at all. It was her companion.

Goth Girl’s friend was no street-kid. I estimated that her recently highlighted hairdo must have taken a good 45 minutes with a high-end flatiron to achieve. And here she was, parked unselfconsciously on the grimy pavement in her pristine pink Lululemon pants. She had torn her ham sandwich in half to share, all the while listening intently to Goth Girl’s animated tale.

It was her story that really piqued my curiosity.  Were they friends from before?  She struck me as half of the oddest lunch date ever. I wondered what chapter of her past compelled her to squat and randomly chat with a homeless kid on the sidewalk. Was it just some instinctual adolescent affinity or was there an event in her own story that had shown her with clarity what really matters.

Mostly, I wondered how she knew that hope could be found in half a ham and cheese and that all it took to expose another’s heart was to stop for a minute and ask that simplest of questions,

“Tell me your story.”



HALLMARK'S REJECTED VALENTINE'S CARDS

Roses are red,

Hydrangeas are aquamarine.

If you’re looking to turn me on,

Try running the washing machine.



Roses are red,

Fuschias are magenta.

If only like Jaime Oliver,

You could sauté up some polenta.
 

 

Roses are red,

Tree bark is tan.

Ok, so maybe I talk a lot and a lot and a lot and a lot,

But what’s up with your attention span?

Roses are red,

The wings of the Ara glaucogularis(??) are teal.

Suppose this year you remembered our anniversary,

Seriously, what’s the big deal?
 

Roses are red,

Fluffy Labrador puppies are golden.

If you’re seeking a new form of foreplay,

Just show me the laundry that’s folden.
 

Roses are red,

Our dried out lawn’s an odd hue of chartreuse.

If you’re hoping I’ll excitedly kiss you,

Maybe don’t come home reeking of booze.

Roses are red,

Pea soup’s a light shade of pistachio.

Unless you’re auditioning for the role of Rhett Butler,

Think about shaving off your mustachio.
 

Roses are red,

Lilacs are purple.

This stanza’s duller,

(‘Cause nothing rhymes with that color…)
 

Roses are red,

Adam Levine is maroon.

You sure are a regular prince charming,

On the couch, scratching like a baboon.
 

  Roses are red,

Before she died, Bambi’s mother was taupe.

Honestly when I’m bloated and so damn tired.

I’m really not looking for a late night grope.
 

Roses are red,

Those beans are white; they’re not really navy,

But look baby, don’t be judging me,

When I order poutine with extra gravy.
 

Roses are red,

Overcooked asparagus is khaki.

Somehow in the end I just love you,

Maybe ‘cause like me, you’re also kind of wacky.
 



WORK IT, BABY!

 

 

     I am a beach baby.  I love the soft gritty feel of sand between my toes, the warmth of the sun on my face, the sound of the surf coming in.  But nothing makes my heart flutter more than the sight of a man in a speedo.

     Only, I don’t mean Daniel Craig’s rippling body  emerging out of the water after working out for six months with a personal trainer.  I’m talking about the middle-aged bald guy whose belly rests boldly over the elastic of his barely-there trunks as he strolls down the beach on his annual vacation.  The quiet man who stands alone, facing the waves , soaking in the rays on his wrinkling skin.  Packs of spring-breakers might snicker from their beach chairs as he walks by.  They may whisper sarcastically as if reviewing red carpet arrivals for MTV.

     But I love him.

     Nothing says life is good like a man in a bikini brief on a public beach.  I am in awe of his intrinsic self-confidence.  I admire his complete comfort in his own skin.  He inspires me with his authenticity.  He knows who he is and hides nothing. He is just a content, regular guy enjoying a day in the sun. Work it, baby.

     As time goes on it’s an attitude I try to adopt.  These days I mostly choose joy over convention, but it hasn't always been so easy. For the longest time I worked hard to conform.  I'd read an article that said grey and navy inspired confidence and I'd promptly invest in a wardrobe of monotone suits.  I was convinced they would give me the self-possession I needed to achieve my dreams but more often they just gave me heat rash and high dry-cleaning bills.

     And then I met Rachel.

     Rachel was a young doctor I worked with.  She was top of her class.  A brilliant and funny woman whose dedication and compassion led her to excel in her field.  She was friendly, humble and always ready for a good time.  She loved to travel and meet new people. She seemed to have it all.

     But not everyone felt that way about her.  Because as smart and successful as she was, Rachel looked an awful lot like….Barbie.  Not millennial Barbie whose proportions and corporate look have been updated to appease feminist groups.  I’m talking platinum blond, micro-skirt-and-stiletto- wearing Malibu Barbie whose figure defies the laws of physics.  Some of it was God given, but the rest…well that girl just knew how to work it.

     Rachel would show up to work with her bleached hair freshly blown out, in a body hugging sweater-dress and thigh high boots.  Her patients  adored her.  She was great at her job and made each of them feel as though they were all that mattered. I loved hanging out with her.  She was generous, interesting and hilarious. We would go dancing, dissect books over coffee, dish about men.   She had a string of boyfriends with whom she was always going on exotic vacations.  Each was hypnotised by her but none seemed to be quite the right match so they inevitably faded away only to be replaced by another.

      But behind her back, colleagues and strangers  gave her a hard time.  Judged that she did not look “professional”, gave the “wrong impression”, was "attention-seeking", "couldn’t be taken seriously". Eventually her supervisor made her put on a lab coat but it only seemed to accentuate the low cut of her shirt and the remarkable “junk in her trunk.” 

     I asked her about it once.  Asked  if she ever thought of wearing her hair up for work.  Maybe exchange her red Lee Press-On nails for a sporty French manicure.  Maybe she should leave her false eyelashes and stilettos at home sometimes.  She countered simply,

     “Why?”

      The higher the heel, the happier she felt.  To her, airbrushing butterflies on her nails was artful expression.  How would trying to be someone else make her a better Rachel?

     I tried to explain, “But maybe others don’t understand that.  Maybe they don’t always respect you the way they should.”  For a few minutes, I wasn't sure she had heard me until she finally concluded,

     “I don’t think that’s my problem.”

 

     Eventually Rachel moved away.  She was looking for a new career challenge, and yet another romance had fizzled out so she decided to try her luck in another city .  I lost touch with her, but have tried to hold on to her message. To  joyfully just be myself.  To not let others’ expectations wash out the colours that are me.  And like Mr. Speedo on the beach, I find myself drawn to those who are true to themselves.  I am the first to happily consider a job candidate with a pierced bottom lip, to silently cheer on the cashier with the beehive and fishnet stockings , to be fascinated by the stories behind people's tattoos.

     I haven’t seen Rachel in over ten years but still think of her from time to time.    I wonder where she is and how she is doing.  I wonder if she is still as self-assured.  Did she ever find true love?  I like to think that she did.  That she hasn’t changed.  I hope she is still rocking her Pamela Anderson hair right through middle age. That she still likes to travel, and that one day I will run into her while on vacation, and will see her walking down the beach arm in arm with her soul-mate, her hand resting lightly on his snug little speedo.