why don't I know you?

"You look like your mother."
I've heard it a hundred times, more, since I was 10 or so.
It never hit me one way or another.
Sometimes I thought so, sometimes not, depending on how my hair was styled or if I was angry with her that day.
I'm not old, but today the face in the mirror doesn't look so young anymore.
There are wrinkles around my eyes and hidden under my bangs, and they aren’t going anywhere.
I wonder when she decided she wasn't young anymore.
I wonder when she decided she was or wasn't anything.
We have had such different lives that I can't imagine I'm reaching the same stages at the same times.
But I see her in the mirror, in my face.
Did she feel this way? When? Did she tell anyone or simply move on, her heart just a little bit heavier for the silence?
What did she want when she was 32? Or 42? Or 12? Or now?
Why don't I know these things?
Because she's been only an extension of me my whole life.
Someone who did to me or for me or with me or because of me.
Who would she be if it hadn't been for me?
Her life began when mine began, and when her life ends mine will still mean something only if I truly knew her.
I stare in the mirror until my face is nothing more than a blur, looking for answers but getting only more questions.
I look like my mother.

lucky numbers

3, 23, 6, 21, 89

These are my lucky numbers. They weren’t always. My ultimate favorite number used to be 4, and I still really like it. It’s square, even. It satisfies my inner need (some call it a freakish compulsion) for things to be the same on all sides. Multiples of 4 are good, too. It made me very happy that my graduation years from grammar school, high school and college were 1980, 1984 and 1988, respectively.

I also like 914 and its handful of permutations. I thought it followed me around my whole life. It’s my birthday, as well as what I weighed when I was born (9 lbs + 14 oz = 1 big baby). When I moved into my first house, 914 was the area code to my new phone number, it was jumbled around to make up the address (149 Orange Turnpike), and all 3 digits were in my ZIP code (10974). And in 1994 the NY Rangers ended a 54-year championship drought when they won the Stanley Cup.

I thought it meant something that those numbers were somewhat of a constant in my life, related to things that made me happy, though I wasn’t sure what it meant. I’ve always had a weird "thing" about numbers, putting them in patterns to remember them, adding them up. I’ll always remember the last 4 digits to the phone number of the local garage in the town where I used to live (5861) because my brothers were born in 1957 and 1960; just add 1 to each and you have 58 and 61. Weird, yes. Convoluted, definitely. But I knew I would always be able to call for a tow truck. It’s a wonder I didn’t become an accountant or mathematician.

But I think my lucky numbers are changing.

I met him on March 23 at 6:00, at a bar on 21st Street. See? 3, 23, 6, 21. It’s as simple as that.

3 also works because, as "they" often say, the third time is the charm. It certainly is in my case. It’s a charm and a blessing and cause to actually reconsider whether there really is a higher power. 3 is also the number of people I am adding (hope to add) to my immediate family. (I said "people," so Maggie can’t be insulted or feel left out!) And 6 and 23 figure in again because he kissed me for the first time on the corner of 6th Avenue and 23rd Street.

89 is a little more unusual, but he’s the one who actually realized it. He told me when his daughter was born he added up the numbers of her birth date and year (3/11/94) and came up with 108; he did the same with his son (8/10/90) and got 108. Just a coincidence, probably, but it meant something to him. Add up the numbers to my birth date and year (9/14/66) and you get 89. Add up his (3/26/60) and you get 89. Does it mean anything? I don’t know. But it’s another case of numbers bringing me an odd sort of comfort. If nothing else, he’s as preoccupied with seemingly inconsequential numbers as I am.

I’ll always have a place in my heart for 914, and especially for 4. Its evenness still brings me comfort in an OCD kind of way. But I’m willing to make room for some new lucky numbers.

Maybe I should play the lottery. But really, I feel like I already won.

how long is a memory?

I know the pain. I still remember it, on my skin, in my bones. Like my flesh was peeling off and my insides were collapsing. You might not think so, but I do. And I ache for you, now that you feel this pain. I wish I could do something -- anything -- to take it away. I would. But I can't. Only you can. When you're ready. Clearly not yet. Nothing I do can make it better. And nothing I do can make it worse.

I understand that nothing makes sense to you. Your whole world is tainted and blurred. You see things through a cracked, distorted lens. Everything revolves around you and your pain. And again, I really, truly understand. At the same time, I can't be responsible.

Hard as it is to grasp right now, it's not all about you and your pain. It's not OK to use guilt and tears as weapons. It's not OK to be a victim to get your way. It's not OK to discount my feelings as less important. Just because you're hurting doesn't mean I can't hurt, too.

I'm a good friend. That's one thing I am absolutely sure of. You say so too, but still, you walk away, and I still don't understand why. Because I dared to not see my life through your eyes? But I'll wait. I don't know how long -- I'm a good friend, not a saint. In the mean time I have nothing to be sorry or forgiven for. No matter how you twist things to make sense in your head, to justify your words and actions, I haven't wronged you.

You say even though you can "forgive" me, you'll remember. That's OK. I'll remember, too.

mother figure, go figure

I don’t know why it happened. Or how or when. And I don’t really care. It just is, and it feels right. I’ve never felt maternal -- for anything with only two legs, anyway. I wouldn’t be good at it. You can’t go back on that decision; it can’t be undone. And I certainly didn’t want to screw up someone else’s life beyond repair. But I find it now in my thoughts, and it feels good. It comes out my pores and soothes my skin. I love how it washes over me. I love how I don’t always realize it in the moment because it seems natural. And I love later, when I do realize.

I know they are not mine. I’m not trying to make them mine, to pretend they’re mine. So how did this come to be? How did I come to feel so maternal, so protective of them? I want to nurture and teach and give of myself. But I’m afraid of trying to give too much, afraid they won’t want what I have to offer. How can I love without intruding? How can I fulfill that role without being a “replacement?” How do I walk that line? And do I have the right to even try?

I know some think not. They have doubts, suspicions. Maybe they even fear the role I'm hoping to carve out, fear I'm trying to replace them, too. But I can’t waste my energy on them. I know my intentions are true and real. I can’t worry -– I try not to, at least -- about what they think. Fear and hurt and anger can blur your perceptions, and I try to see it from that vantage point. But clearly they don’t try to see it from mine.

I do love those two. Like my own? I don’t know. I don’t have my own. But I do know that I look at them with pride. I want to see them grow and learn and love. I want to play some kind of role, to be able to bring some kind of joy or happiness to them. Maybe this is the way I was meant to play out my “maternal” self. Is that selfish, deep down, because I know it will make me feel good to do that?

I don’t know how they feel. They probably don’t even know, really. I hope we can talk about it some day. I hope I can tell them how I feel, how I loved feeling our relationships grow, even when I wasn’t really aware of it. I hope they can understand, and know I tried to walk that line the best way I could. And I hope they can tell me they felt it too, on some level, at least, and make a place for me in their inner circle.

That may never happen, but that’s another thing I can’t worry about. I can only give my energy to making sure today is taken care of, and to the people who feel the same way and believe that anything I can give isn’t meant to replace, only to enhance. I know that’s what’s most important. And I know he believes in my intentions. And I know he loves me.

So maybe that’s why. Go figure.

no more waking up alone

At the first sign of it, in that first breath of semiconsciousness, I think of you. I inhale and smell you on my pillow, even if you haven’t been in my bed for a week. I exhale and roll over into arms that aren’t there, content that I can remember what they feel like, counting the days until I’m wrapped up in them again. Then I smile. I wonder about the next time I’ll wake up with the actual scent of you, in your actual arms; the next time we'll make love to mark the sunrise and not the sunset. Then I sigh and get out of bed.

I never really wake up alone anymore. But it’s always better when you’re there.

I just surrender to this evolution

It would be so easy to make the title of this entry "ch-ch-ch-changes," but god almighty, how cliché and boring would that be? And then I would be quoting Bowie when I had the chance to quote Melissa.

Do people ever change? Can we, really? Is it possible to change? Not change who we are, but change our behaviors, our thoughts, reactions, opinions? Or are we just showing different parts of ourselves at different times of our lives. Do we rotate our "personalities" to conform to our situations, or to defy them, even?

I think true change, if it's at all possible, can only come when we're not actively trying to make a change. More like evolving based on our life experiences instead of consciously changing.

And is this all just a matter of semantics?

When you're trying to make a change, you are completely aware of the different courses of action you're taking, and I think I am of the mind that you can change something just by observing it, so maybe the power lies in others. Of course, that just might be a way to avoid the responsibility of making a change for yourself and pin your inability to change on someone else.

New Year's resolutions. Why not decide to make a change on August 17? Just an excuse not to make a change. Or if you make a change temporarily on January 1, and you fuck up in February, you can claim the pressure of a New Year's resolution was just too much. You'll do it next year, really, you will.

And why do we get uncomfortable when other people change? We may not realize it, but it happens, more than we'd like to admit. When other people change, intentionally or not, we have to accept that change, at least acknowledge it. If we don't, we have to be prepared to let them go. And why not? This new changed person doesn't fit the same profile anymore. She may not even meet the same needs. Sometimes we have people in our lives to fit very specific needs, voids, and if those people change and no longer meet those needs, why do we still need them? There are those people who will try to keep you from changing to meet your own needs so that you keep on meeting their needs. Those are the people you need to run away from -- fast.

Not to say you have to establish a whole new circle of friends if you go through some major change, but the ones in your current circle will show you who they are and why they're there. If they bolt, you're better off. If they try to keep you from changing, you should bolt, and you'll be better off. If you they accept you as you change and grow, then you made the right decision bringing them into your circle in the first place.

decisions, decisions

"You are everything I never knew I always wanted."

Yeah, another movie quote. So sue me. That's my thing.

What do you call decisions you wish you could have made but didn't because circumstances dictated they would have been the wrong decisions at the time, yet if you could make them now, in your current circumstances, you just might? It's not regret. That would mean that I wish I'd made a different decision, and I don't. It wasn't even a choice, really. It was simply not an option to be entertained. I just did what was right for my life at the time. Had I not, I most certainly would not have the life I have now, which is pretty good, and which, ironically, could possibly have afforded me the luxury of making that fateful decision. I'm being vague and confusing, right?

It doesn't matter. The point isn't what that decision was, but what you'd call this "what if?" feeling. Maybe it is just as simple as "what if?" Maybe I'm overthinking it. But that's just me. I like to think, "What would it be like now if things had been different then, if I'd been in a position to make different choices?" Obviously it would be different, but how? And what would my life be like if I were in a position to make that decision today?

It's not even a matter of "If I knew then what I know now," because it's not what I know necessarily. It's where I am, who I am. No matter what I knew back then, that decision, that "choice," as it were, would have been a bad one. Or at least not a good one. This is the first time in my life I feel as if I would be qualified to make that decision, and it's simply not an option, for many reasons. It's like saying "You can't get there from here." A Catch-22, even. Or like the cruel irony of youth being wasted on the young. Only this isn't exactly cruel. It makes me a little sad, maybe a touch melancholy. But that's not necessarily a bad thing. In fact, I think makes me appreciate the circumstances I've wandered into by not making that decision.

It's all good. The decisions (and lack thereof) that have led me to where I am now -- I'd consider them the right ones. For me. At the time. In my circumstances. If I had them to make now, in this life, in these circumstances, I might choose differently. And just knowing that, strangely, is enough. Maybe that's because it has to be enough; I'll never know. But it is, and that's OK. And it still makes me smile.

a year ... and counting

Not a day goes by. Not one. The thoughts aren't all sad. I mean, don't get me wrong. Lots of them are. I miss you so much it hurts, sometimes physically. And the tears come pretty easily. No surprise there. But I can usually chuckle my way through them. All my memories of you are happy, even the horror stories of the "early years." And just look at that face! So handsome and happy and sweet. That sweet face saved my life in more ways than one. I wish I could have saved yours. That last year it was as if you willed yourself to stay with me until I got my shit together. Holding out to take care of me while your poor little body was giving out on you. Somehow you knew I needed you, and you knew when I was ready, when I was finally strong enough, to let you go. I think you'd been ready to go for a while. I hope I wasn't too selfish for too long.

But I sleep easy knowing I made it better for you, knowing you trusted me, even with your last breath. I hope I gave back enough. I hope the Porterhouse and the popcorn filled your belly and lasted as a final treasured memory. I hope you know that I held your body and let go of your soul with all the love in my heart, and that you heard everything I told you as you left. And I hope I can become the person I was in your eyes all those years.

...speak and remove all doubt

Paul Moore: It must be nice to always believe you know better, to always think you're the smartest person in the room.

Jane Craig: No. It's awful.

That bit of dialogue is from one of my favorite movies ever, "Broadcast News." Holly Hunter plays Jane Craig, a high-strung TV news producer. At first you think her response is egotistical, that she's well aware she's the smartest person in the room and not afraid to let everyone know. But if you think about it, it shows vulnerability. It betrays the pressure on her, self-inflicted, maybe, but still, the pressure to be the smartest, the best, at everything, all the time. I can't stand people who flaunt their intelligence just for the sake of flaunting it, but her character doesn't do that. She isn't pompous, doesn't really have that inflated sense of self when you think of intellectuals. Because in my experience, the "intellectuals" are never the smartest people in the room.

When you're smart, you don't have to go around telling people you're smart. They already know. And talking about how smart you are, really, just shows that you're actually an idiot.

23rd and 6th

That's where it happened, on the southwest corner, just after dark.
Will he? Won't he? Should I? All these thoughts. It seemed like forever but couldn't have been more than 2 or 3 seconds, really, just played out slow-motion in my head. Then he moved in. Slight hesitation, but not awkward. Like the same thoughts were going through his head.

I felt a relief and a comfort and an excitement — a giddiness, almost — that I hadn't felt since I can’t remember when. (And that, amazingly, I still feel a year later.) I could tell there was intention. But not freakish intention (even combined with the mini Oreos). There was a truth. A seriousness underneath that said, "I've got no time to fuck around."

I felt myself smiling in the PATH station, until that ground-shaking rumble and hot subterranean wind brought me back. I turned and squinted to keep the swirling soot from blinding me. Then I was on the train, smiling again, past 14th Street, 9th Street, Christopher. My head was swimming, just a little, the thoughts in my head slightly foggy. I thought it was the wine — just a tipsy straphanger trying to get home after another first date.

I remembered how he looked when he walked in the door; again, the intention in his face, in his step. I remembered the iPod, the gray in his beard. I remembered walking to the train station, lost in surprisingly comfortable conversation down 21st Street, and realizing that he’d gone a block out of his way — an avenue, in fact! — to walk me to my stop.

These things stayed with me, stuck in my head and danced around, all the way to Pavonia and into Grove. Glimpses of promise; flashes of possibility. I felt my cheeks getting tired and realized it was from smiling. I wondered if anyone took notice of the light-headed woman weaving through the tunnel, smiling for no reason. No need to be a target. I stopped smiling.

And I wondered what was different. Why was I thinking of anything more than getting home, changing into sweats, and walking the dog? When did this thin line between angry cynicism and idiotic idealism become wide enough to tread on without falling over? Did it happen in the last 2 hours? What was different about this time?

And then I realized, it didn’t matter what was different, or why. What mattered was that it was different. It was him. And I was smiling again.

why write?

Blogging requires some effort, apparently. I’ve been thinking all week (yeah, it’s been a week) about what I might write about next, and I’ve yet to actually sign on and type anything. Til now. So many relevant topics. Relevant to me, that is. Maybe not to other people. But again, this is my space. If anyone else wants to hang out here, that’s great, but I gotta make it work for me. My own little corner to rant and be self-indulgent so I don’t inflict that on -- and alienate -- the rest of the world.

So, topics. What do I feel strongly about? Right now I feel strongly happy that the sun is setting later and later in the afternoon. I feel strongly worried about teenagers who make stupid decisions and don’t understand consequences. I feel strongly sympathetic for people who die young, and for the friends who are left behind to grieve and try to make sense of it all. I feel strongly nostalgic about the idea of a little girl -- a young lady, really -- dressing up like a princess for a big date with the coolest guy in the world: her dad!

My head spins sometimes and I wish I could write as fast as I think. I wish I could just pour it all out onto a piece of paper or a computer screen and then put it together later, spruce it up to make sense. Like creating a work of art from a big old block of stone or lump of clay. But when I finally do get that pen in my hand, or make it to the keyboard, the words seem to fade or meld into each other, the idea still there but the words lost. Kind of like the way a dog thinks. In ideas. You know, there aren’t words running through his head, like, “I’m hungry. Feed me, please,” or “I really gotta go out.” But those thoughts are there, the idea of an empty belly or a full bladder, and they need to be addressed NOW! So he stares at you in that way, or barks to get your attention, and you know exactly what he means, what he needs.

I wish I could just give someone a look to convey the way I feel about those sunsets, or those teenagers, or those grieving friends and excited daughters. Words don’t do it. I’m a writer, and I love words, but I know that sometimes they’re just not enough. Or maybe they’re too much.

opening day

My first blog entry. Not as momentous as I imagined. Huh.

I chose the title Trapped in the Body of a White Girl after a 1980s song by Julie Brown. Not the black Julie Brown with the Brit accent who used to be on Club MTV, when they actually still played music videos. The white Julie Brown. The one who co-wrote the movie "Earth Girls Are Easy." She also had a small role in "Clueless." You'd know her if you saw her. Anyway, she wrote a song called "Trapped in the Body of a White Girl." Actually it was a whole album. It had that novelty song "The Homecoming Queen's Got a Gun." Other songs on it were "Shut Up and Kiss Me," "Cause I'm a Blonde" and "I Like 'Em Big and Stupid." Great album. Fun. My college roommate gave it to me -- on vinyl -- Christmas 1987, and I knew all the words by New Year's Eve.

Anyway, in trying to come up with a blog title off the top of my head, something that fit me but wasn't too obviously cutesy or pithy, I thought, who am I right now, today? How do I feel, right this moment? I feel trapped, kind of. And the rest just fell into place. I'm trapped in the body of a white girl. I probably won't feel so trapped tomorrow, but the title's already in place, so I guess I'm stuck with it. That's fine. It will always make me smile.

I'm not sure who'll read this or who'll care, especially because I don't even know what I'll write. I love to write, but mostly just stuff about what I know and what I think, what's going on in my life and my head on a daily basis. (I'm a lousy -- and lazy -- researcher, so my writing skills did not lead me to a career in journalism.) I'm not so self-involved that I think too many other people will care much about my views on world politics or gridlock or why the hell Fox won't bring back another season of "Temptation Island." But once in a while I come up with a good idea or an insightful thought, so might as well put it out there. It's an outlet for me, a helpful one, I think, so anything else that comes of this blog will exceed any expectations I have.

Right now I'm looking forward to a relaxing evening of sushi, "What Not To Wear" on TLC, and perhaps a Vince Vaughn movie. That's the way I like to spend Friday nights. Low-key, almost banal. But that's fine. No one has to like it but me. Same way I feel about this blog.