Balancing Acts (19 page)

B
ess sat at her kitchen table, staring morosely at the small tape recorder in front of her. She pushed
PLAY
, suddenly bringing Sabine's slightly high-pitched voice into the room. Bess put her chin on her fist and cocked her head, closing her eyes to listen to their conversation. There was sweet Sabine, guiltily discussing the lack of creative inspiration in her life, and there she was—a rabid dog, hot on the scent of vulnerability.

I sound like Linda Tripp,
Bess thought to herself, horrified at the thought. She was practically attacking Sabine, Naomi, and Charlie with her questions. Bess wondered if she was just particularly sensitive to the sound of her own voice or if she really was that much of a piranha. She suspected that it was a little of both. Subtlety was not her forte, true, but this technique was laughable. She supposed it was fine if her subjects knew they were being interviewed, but any undercover work required a more delicate touch. She made a mental note to ease up on her pitbull routine.

“I mean, do I even want to be writing anymore?” asked Sabine, her voice barely registering against the drone of the busy bar, “or do I just think I do?”

Bess sighed deeply and pushed the
STOP
button.
What am I doing?
She had come home from yoga, determined to make some headway on the article, but had only become more and more unsure of it as she plunged in.

It was becoming pretty obvious to Bess that these women were not the weak links she had first mistaken them for. Their sacrifices had nothing to do with the hope of landing men or decomplicating their lives for the sake of comfort. They were just trying to get by—make a living, pay their bills, maintain relative sanity in a city that never stops moving. These were struggles that Bess was all too familiar with herself. And in Naomi's case, she was trying to raise a kid, for God's sake! That was a struggle of such epic proportions that Bess couldn't even pretend to understand it.

Bess got up from the table and sat on her living room floor. She channeled Charlie and straightened her spine. “What are you going to do, Bess?” she asked aloud. Such was the beauty of living alone—you could talk to yourself with abandon.

She closed her eyes and thought about Sabine, Charlie, and Naomi. How could she write an article about their lack of creative drive, when her own hardly existed? It was a glaring hypocrisy that would no doubt taint the article. She opened her eyes and moved back to the table.

“I'm going to make a list,” Bess revealed to the empty apartment. “Who these women are, what they're missing, and what they're doing or not doing about it.” Bess was a big fan of lists, as a rule. Whenever she became too overwhelmed by or irrational about something, they always calmed her down and kept her eyes on the prize. She picked up her pen and stared forcefully at the yellow legal pad in front of her.

“NAOMI,” she wrote in capital letters. She underlined the name with a sharp line. Underneath her name she wrote “photography.” Then she wrote “graphic design.” Although these two were not exactly one and the same, they weren't apples and oranges either. Next, Bess wrote “Noah” and the words “guilty about her past.” Bess put her pen down and looked at her makeshift diagram. Naomi's reasons for putting her photography on pause were certainly understandable, and maybe even a little bit noble. Who was Bess to say that this was the passion that was missing from her life?

Bess picked up her pen again and wrote “CHARLIE.” This was a tough one. She still had no idea who Charlie really was. She wrote “yoga” underneath her name. Here was a woman who went against the grain of her article's thesis. Charlie had switched the direction of her life to follow her dreams—she had uprooted all that she knew to take a gigantic risk. Bess thought about the Charlie that she had known vaguely in college—the driven, all-business girl who had seemed to know what she wanted out of life from the very beginning.

Now she made illusive references to an epiphany that had taken her from finance to some sort of spiritual awakening, but she had yet to elaborate on what exactly that epiphany entailed. Bess suspected a man to be at the root of such a life change, but Charlie had made no mention of such influence, and Bess highly doubted that she ever would. The obvious choice was to set her up as the example that the other women should follow, but how could Bess designate her as such when she had no facts to go on? That was the very definition of poor journalism.

And then there was Sabine. “S
AB
INE,” she wrote. Beneath her name she scribbled “writer.” Sabine had said herself that she wasn't even sure she wanted to be a writer anymore. The jump from writing to editing wasn't the least bit suspect either, it was perfectly viable as a by-product of growing up and figuring out what your strengths were. Sure, Sabine didn't love her job, but she could always switch to another publishing house with a little—or a lot—of grunt work. What seemed to be a lack of follow-through creatively could simply be part of Sabine's journey.

Jesus, this article is falling apart at its seams,
Bess thought. There was no meat to it at all.

She wrote her own name, “BESS,” and eyed it warily. She paused before writing “journalist” underneath it. She thought about her desire to transcend her tabloid existence. On one hand, she was making a concerted effort here, with this article, to break through the ceiling her nine-to-five job created. On the other hand, this effort—the very idea of her article—was still safe. There was nothing groundbreaking about her thesis. In essence, it was just an extension of the sensationalism that she was constantly surrounded by. She had only further ensconced herself in the very jail of her career predicament.

Bess threw her pen across the room. “What the hell am I going to do now?” she asked no one. “What am I DOING?! THIS ARTICLE BLOWS!” she yelled, fighting back tears of frustration. “I DON'T EVEN LIKE YOGA!”

She got up from the table and curled herself in the fetal position on her couch, feeling sorry for herself. She closed her eyes and thought of Dan. Sweet Dan. She disliked showing him her tender underbelly in moments like this, but if he was really around for the long haul, he needed to see it. She picked up the phone to dial him, hoping that her frustration would not elicit an “I told you so!” from him.

“Hello, gorgeous,” he answered.

“Ooh, cheesy,” Bess replied, grimacing and smiling at the same time.

“I love cheese. I would put cheese on everything if I could. Have you ever simultaneously eaten cheese with a banana, by the way?”

“Dan! That sounds disgusting!”

“Don't be so judgmental,” he teased. “It is actually quite delicious. And I know this because that is what I had for a snack this afternoon. They were the only two items in my fridge, besides salsa.”

“Dude, you need to go shopping. That is just sad.”

“I know! I need a little lady out here to take care of me. Someone to cook for me and to clean the linoleum in my bathroom with a toothbrush.”

“Wow, that sounds so romantic. I'm on the next plane out.”

“You are!? Jesus, it would be so good to see you right now, Bess. I miss your face.”

Bess tingled at the thought of lying beside Dan. As of late, it was her favorite feeling in the world. Which brought her back to the article. Writing articles used to be her favorite feeling in the world. Would it ever be again?

“Why so quiet? You okay?”

“I'm okay. I'm just really at a roadblock with this damn article.”

“What's the matter?” he asked.

“I just. . .” here, Bess hesitated. It was never easy for her to admit that she was wrong about something, and this article was no exception. She took a deep breath and continued. “I just don't think it's working. Please, please don't say ‘I told you so,' Dan. I beg you.”

“Bess, c'mon now, I would never do that.” He sounded hurt by her request. “What's the roadblock about? Maybe you can take the article in a different direction.”

Bess was relieved to hear him say that. There were so many perks to dating a fellow writer, and brainstorming about ideas was at the top of the list. “You think?” she asked.

“Yeah, sure. Tell me why you're stuck.”

Bess explained her predicament to Dan. “How can I present these women as drones with no creative drive, when that simply isn't the case?”

“How do you mean?”

“Not only are Naomi and Sabine still cognizant of their shelved dreams, but their everyday lives and choices aren't so far off from their original aspirations, you know? They're still swimming in the same pool, just in different lanes.”

“Ooh, nice analogy.”

Bess laughed. “Okay, okay, I know that was a bit of a stretch. Work with me here!”

“I am! And I like where you're going with this. What about Charlie?”

“Yeah, she's a tough one. She is the exception to the rule. Her dreams changed so dramatically. . .. She really bucked the system, instead of playing along with it, by opening her own studio. Her risk was a massive one.”

“So how come she can't be the example that Naomi and Sabine idealize?” Dan asked.

“Because there's more to her story than she's letting on,” Bess explained. “I mean, I think that Sabine and Naomi—and hell, even I—idolize her to a degree. But there's something to her backstory that doesn't add up. She doesn't own her decision somehow.”

Bess paused, considering what she had just said. She had had such a difficult time pinpointing what it was about Charlie's demeanor that didn't quite jive, and that was it exactly. Sure, being prideful about her ballsiness wouldn't exactly be an endearing trait, but some sort of confidence from Charlie in the strength of her convictions would be nice. Bess never felt that from her. She made a note on her legal pad.

“Huh,” said Dan. “I wonder what that's about. Do you think that it's just an example of how women have a harder time than men singing their own praises?”

“Maybe. But I think there's more to it than that.”

“Maybe you could turn the article into a positive piece,” suggested Dan. “You could focus on the pool analogy; talk about how these women are trying to realize their dreams in a different lane, so to speak.”

“Look at you, loving the pool analogy! That's not a bad idea, actually. Maybe I could write about how diversified the female journey is today. . .focus on how Sabine, Naomi, and Charlie are all captains of their own destinies. . .trying to balance what their former, naïve selves wanted out of life with what their wise, weathered, thirty-something selves know to be reality: bills to pay, kids to take care of in Naomi's case, stress levels to maintain. . ..”

“Yeah, you could call the article ‘Balancing Act' or something.”

“Hmmm, that's a little much. But I see where you're going with that. The only problem with the new scope of the article is, who's going to publish it?
Redbook,
for chrissake?! I was hoping to break out of the women's magazine box.”

“Don't be so negative!” reprimanded Dan. “I think there's plenty of room in the
Times
for a positive piece about the anti–Carrie Bradshaw gang in New York. Considering the sad state of the world at this point, I have a feeling the paper is open to some inspiring and uplifting articles. They can squeeze it in between the latest death toll from Iraq and an announcement about how gas is now going to cost $10.57 a gallon.”

Bess laughed. “Oy, gas. How are you driving out there?”

“Easy, instead of eating, I drive. I'm going to pen a new diet book and share my groundbreaking technique with the rest of the world.”

“You'd better be eating!” Bess said, in her best “concerned girlfriend” voice. “You know, that's a really good point about how a positive article has just as much likelihood of being published these days. Thanks, Dan, you really turned this around for me.”

“No problem, sweets. I really like this version better. This way, nobody gets hurt and you don't look like a sneaky, selfish asshole. Plus, I think your thesis will have more backup in this vein. Before, you were kind of treading water.”

“Tell me what you really think,” teased Bess. Dan had been against the article from the beginning, but somehow Bess had convinced herself that it was because he was trying to hold her back and stifle her career. Turns out it was the other way around. Her heart surged with warmth for this man, who suddenly felt nine billion miles away.

“I miss you,” said Bess. “A lot.”

“Jesus, I know. I really miss you, too. Everything is just better when you're around.”

“I feel the same way about you, D.” Bess paused, surprised by the thought that leaped from her like a cartoon lightbulb.
Fly out there. This weekend
. “Hey. . .what are you doing this weekend?”

“You mean, the one coming up? No real plans at this point, I guess. It's Sunday, babe. I don't even know what I'm doing tomorrow.”

“What if I came out? To visit?” asked Bess, hardly believing that the words were coming out of her mouth. Spontaneity was not her specialty. And the rational ramifications—she would have to miss class, obviously—did nothing to sway her need to see Dan. As soon as humanly possible.
This is what love is all about, right? Taking risks. . .throwing caution to the wind?

“Are you serious? Really?!” asked Dan, his excitement lifting his voice a decibel.

“Yeah. I really am.”

“Are you kidding me? I would love it. I've been dying for you to come out here, you know that.”

“I'm not!” said Bess. “I'm going to take Friday off and come out. Leave Sunday.”

“But wait, won't you miss class on Saturday?”

“I will, but that's okay. I just. . .I really want to see you.” And she did. The weight of missing him overwhelmed anything else. The article, work, her class, her reservations about losing herself in him—her voice of reason was drowned out by her emotional connection to Dan. And he was so good to her, so supportive and helpful of her article and her work. Maybe she really could have it all. The creative fulfillment, love, happiness. . .ponies, rainbows, kittens. She certainly owed it to herself and to them to give it a real shot.