It’s been a few months now that I’ve been wrestling with the “c” word. Every now and then it surfaces in my mind and I shudder. Such an awful word. Such horrible images.
To avoid ambiguity (or innuendo), I am not referring to anything that rhymes with “hunt” . . . The “c” word rhymes with “dancer.”
No sooner had a friend’s father passed away from cancer than my friend Priscilla Worthington* announced she too had cancer. I wish she had given me a heads up—I was somewhat hung over from a Saturday outing when she confided the news at Sunday brunch. I can understand why she was taken aback when I asked if it was malignant (in my muddled state, I had insensitively confused the concepts of “tumor” and “cancer,” which really are profoundly different).
Fortunately, by the end of brunch, like truly hardened NYers, we managed to laugh—hard—about the “c” word. First, most obviously, was the fact that the whole process would lead to weight loss, the obvious goal of any NYC woman. I was envious. Then we analyzed other angles, including the time I would have to take off from work to care for her post-surgery (translate: go to kick-ass resorts in the South or on the West Coast to ensure an optimal climate and maximum pampering for her recuperation).
Of course, I was assuming that (a) anyone in corporate America would give a damn that a colleague’s friend had cancer and (b) she didn’t really have cancer. Wrong on both accounts.
Last week I tried hard to escape the office to visit her in the hospital only to remain trapped in a partner’s office running in circles over something he was too lazy to think through on his own for what must be the firm’s tiniest and most clueless client.
Trapped again the next day, I announced that I had a hard stop, because I was visiting a friend in the hospital who had cancer. He must’ve thought I was playing the “c” card because he immediately countered with the sympathy card (or was that empathy he was aiming for?). He digressed for all of 10 seconds about a family friend who had had cancer before trapping me for another few hours so he could resolve a matter before he left for vacation, thereby eliminating any possibility of my going to the hospital.
He may be a chump who earns little respect at the firm but he’s still senior to me so even the least valuable of his clients and his vacation will always be a priority over any friend or relative of mine with cancer. Ah, the warmth and support of corporate America.
Corporate America cares. It throws money at the problem, buying tables at benefits. It doesn’t matter if it’s solely because of the competitive instinct it incites,* companies support these efforts and they are to be lauded, don’t get me wrong. It’s just a shame that so few support giving time rather than money, which not everyone has to give in the first place.
It’s not until you spend some time up close that you begin to have a sense of what the “c” word is about anyway. You have no idea how fragile and complicated our carcasses can be until you see one that’s wounded and ailing. For example, I thought laughter might help, but post-op, even a slight giggle might upset the flesh that’s been torn apart and sewn back together. Laughter, like many other things, will have to wait.
What shouldn’t have to wait, however, is making the time to sit still and talk, which despite this being one of the most social cities in the world, is something we don’t do as well as we think.
And so, after Priscilla had left the hospital, I spent one evening at her beside. Fortunately, not even nine hours of surgery and a bottle of percocet could make her forget the importance of a glass of pinot grigio—there was a glass of wine in my hands within minutes of my arrival.
To pass the time and distract her, together with her family who were visiting, we reviewed and analyzed exhaustively the most noteworthy dating episodes and incidents from the past six months of our lives, inevitably concluding that NYC-based men are truly a troubled and troublesome breed.
By the time I left Priscilla’s, it was late, past dinnertime. So I slipped into a neighborhood pub on my way home to grab a bite and review the draft of a short story a friend was writing before heading to bed.
I wound up sitting at the bar, stuck between Duane, who kept telling me he loved me because I had agreed to edit a friend’s story (with such a low emotional threshold, I imagine he falls in love at least 4 times a week—how exhausting) and George, who was desperate to tell me about how he’d recently been dissed by a potential suitor. Was he looking for sympathy or did he think this was the best way to recommend himself? I kept my mouth full so I would be excused from any obligation to respond.
Although the sight of Priscilla’s fragility and the signs of the obvious pain she was in (before she slipped another valium) made me flinch, I’d take an evening chatting with her and her family, completely isolated from the hustle and bustle and general chaos outside, over the company of NYC men anytime.
Notes
*Some of you will remember Priscilla from an earlier post: http://penelopefrost.blogspot.com/2010/11/case-of-priscilla-worthington.html
*If you’ve ever attended a benefit with a corporate group, you know the first thing every one does when they sit down at their $15-20,000 table is open the program and figure out which organizations gave more.
Sunday, March 27, 2011
Monday, March 21, 2011
Of Mice and Men . . . and Invisible Suitcases
As I wait for winter to end and for life to begin, I keep returning to the same topic: Why am I still single?
As a girlfriend observed, until I’ve bagged a man, I’ll have no one to kill mice in my apartment. Hmm, not my immediate concern (nor necessarily my measure of a man), but I do appreciate her unusual perspective.
I’m not deluded enough to believe winter would be less depressing if I had someone special. Chances are someone “special” would exacerbate my cabin fever, compete for the remote control, and desecrate the toothpaste tube. Yet these aggravations seem like inconveniences I should be experiencing at this point in life.
Did I miss a turn? Am I wandering along the wrong life path? It’s fine if my path is “less traveled,” but what if my path is deserted and leads to a dark cave inhabited exclusively by trolls and other social pariah?
Despite many promising starts in 2010 (remember: 2.25 boyfriends!), 2011 has disappointed so far. As I approach the end of Q1, I am at a loss to explain Penelope’s poor results. The company’s fundamentals are still quite solid: reasonable looks; athletic; sense of humor; employed, etc. I’ve seen companies with far weaker fundamentals attract strategic partners and double their growth in just a two year period. But I guess I'm not a company listed on the NY Stock Exchange.
There was that one promising encounter in mid-January . . . I was approached by a handsome young man (yes, I still think 45 is “young”) at my local pub. Five minutes of conversation yielded an unprecedented number of coincidences: a former member of my golf club; friends with my college squash buddies; and resident in an apartment across the street from me.
Before long, I was basking in his attention. The late night emails following our impromptu drink didn’t hurt either (“That’s the best time I’ve had in a long time;” “I think you’re beautiful and sweet;” and, “Can I take you to dinner?”).
At last, I had incontrovertible proof that a man was interested in me. And he was a scratch golfer. It seemed too good to be true. And so it was . . .
There was no follow up, despite my accepting his dinner invitation. The acceptance hung out there awkwardly as a testament to our uneven expectations: his, a diversion to perk up his nightcap; and mine, an exciting new beginning to something/anything, which might even culminate in the first real date of 2011.
Most who have analyzed the incident have concluded that Scratch Golfer was not ambivalent about his level of interest in me but was probably married. Married? Only a dog would send emails like that if he had a wife at home! I’m not fool enough to believe men stop being dogs when they marry, but I thought they respected the borders of their marital kennels with a bit more subtlety. Apparently not . . .
With my one lead for 2011 gone, I pondered how I would avoid another decade of eating alone.
At this point in life (long in the tooth but not totally out for the count), people tend to form bonds based on their baggage. I don’t mean by whining over what’s flawed in their past, but by tactfully comparing select life-transforming experiences that felt gut-wrenchingly awful while being experienced.
By way of illustration . . . : a few years ago I invited a girlfriend to join me for drinks with a handsome Swede I’d been spending time with recently. Within three sips, I morphed from the object of his focus to an unnecessary third wheel, as he and my girlfriend swapped notes over their respective divorces. As they discussed the division of marital assets, their eyes lit up in shared understanding. I knew by the way they regaled each other with tales of ceding furniture to their ex-spouses that they were already imagining sharing certain assets with each other. I had nothing to contribute to this exchange. My baggage looked nothing like theirs and was clearly not worthy of discussion.
But what is Penelope’s baggage anyway? I see obtuse career decisions and some low grade anxieties, but that's the stuff of petite French handbags and silk evening purses, nothing like the large suitcases most of my contemporaries are carrying. No divorces, no ex-spouses, no stints in rehab, not even a stalker in my past. Have I been living under a rock?
The thing about baggage is that while we can easily identify others’, our own remains invisible to us. How can I make sure my baggage is neatly tucked underneath the seat (as baggage should be) if I don't even know what mine is?
Whether I like it or not, 20+ years living solitary—while others married, divorced, remarried, became felons or joined a cult—has probably left some scars that others can see and that I’ve never noticed.
Maybe my baggage is not as grand as it should be, but with some luck, maybe I have just enough baggage to meet a kind-hearted man with a large invisible suitcase and a good golf swing.
As a girlfriend observed, until I’ve bagged a man, I’ll have no one to kill mice in my apartment. Hmm, not my immediate concern (nor necessarily my measure of a man), but I do appreciate her unusual perspective.
I’m not deluded enough to believe winter would be less depressing if I had someone special. Chances are someone “special” would exacerbate my cabin fever, compete for the remote control, and desecrate the toothpaste tube. Yet these aggravations seem like inconveniences I should be experiencing at this point in life.
Did I miss a turn? Am I wandering along the wrong life path? It’s fine if my path is “less traveled,” but what if my path is deserted and leads to a dark cave inhabited exclusively by trolls and other social pariah?
Despite many promising starts in 2010 (remember: 2.25 boyfriends!), 2011 has disappointed so far. As I approach the end of Q1, I am at a loss to explain Penelope’s poor results. The company’s fundamentals are still quite solid: reasonable looks; athletic; sense of humor; employed, etc. I’ve seen companies with far weaker fundamentals attract strategic partners and double their growth in just a two year period. But I guess I'm not a company listed on the NY Stock Exchange.
There was that one promising encounter in mid-January . . . I was approached by a handsome young man (yes, I still think 45 is “young”) at my local pub. Five minutes of conversation yielded an unprecedented number of coincidences: a former member of my golf club; friends with my college squash buddies; and resident in an apartment across the street from me.
Before long, I was basking in his attention. The late night emails following our impromptu drink didn’t hurt either (“That’s the best time I’ve had in a long time;” “I think you’re beautiful and sweet;” and, “Can I take you to dinner?”).
At last, I had incontrovertible proof that a man was interested in me. And he was a scratch golfer. It seemed too good to be true. And so it was . . .
There was no follow up, despite my accepting his dinner invitation. The acceptance hung out there awkwardly as a testament to our uneven expectations: his, a diversion to perk up his nightcap; and mine, an exciting new beginning to something/anything, which might even culminate in the first real date of 2011.
Most who have analyzed the incident have concluded that Scratch Golfer was not ambivalent about his level of interest in me but was probably married. Married? Only a dog would send emails like that if he had a wife at home! I’m not fool enough to believe men stop being dogs when they marry, but I thought they respected the borders of their marital kennels with a bit more subtlety. Apparently not . . .
With my one lead for 2011 gone, I pondered how I would avoid another decade of eating alone.
At this point in life (long in the tooth but not totally out for the count), people tend to form bonds based on their baggage. I don’t mean by whining over what’s flawed in their past, but by tactfully comparing select life-transforming experiences that felt gut-wrenchingly awful while being experienced.
By way of illustration . . . : a few years ago I invited a girlfriend to join me for drinks with a handsome Swede I’d been spending time with recently. Within three sips, I morphed from the object of his focus to an unnecessary third wheel, as he and my girlfriend swapped notes over their respective divorces. As they discussed the division of marital assets, their eyes lit up in shared understanding. I knew by the way they regaled each other with tales of ceding furniture to their ex-spouses that they were already imagining sharing certain assets with each other. I had nothing to contribute to this exchange. My baggage looked nothing like theirs and was clearly not worthy of discussion.
But what is Penelope’s baggage anyway? I see obtuse career decisions and some low grade anxieties, but that's the stuff of petite French handbags and silk evening purses, nothing like the large suitcases most of my contemporaries are carrying. No divorces, no ex-spouses, no stints in rehab, not even a stalker in my past. Have I been living under a rock?
The thing about baggage is that while we can easily identify others’, our own remains invisible to us. How can I make sure my baggage is neatly tucked underneath the seat (as baggage should be) if I don't even know what mine is?
Whether I like it or not, 20+ years living solitary—while others married, divorced, remarried, became felons or joined a cult—has probably left some scars that others can see and that I’ve never noticed.
Maybe my baggage is not as grand as it should be, but with some luck, maybe I have just enough baggage to meet a kind-hearted man with a large invisible suitcase and a good golf swing.
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