I See You Made an Effort: Compliments, Indignities, and Survival Stories from the Edge of 50 (17 page)

“Why does it bother you that I’m laughing?” I ask between snorting giggles.

“You’re making fun of me!”

“Oh, I’m not making fun of you.” That stops my laughing cold. “That’s the last thing I’m doing,” I say with real compassion. But he’s still mad at me and when I stumble and fall, he throws the beach ball at me and I think of the Botox I had injected into my forehead the week before. “Not the face, it’s very expensive!”

“You can still win, Mom; it’s only seven to minus one!”

“I can’t win, Ezra, and it’s okay.”

“Why can’t you just dive for the ball, Mom, why can’t you just dive?”

That’s just it.
Why
can’t
I dive?
I repeat to myself as we bounce up and down, not daring to fling myself across the trampoline. It’s been years since I’ve flung myself at something, or someone. I don’t fling anymore. I’ve spent the last year, really the last few years, trying to feel safe, making safer choices; the last thing I want is to dive. Flinging is for the young, right? I flung myself into my career, waiting for hours in lines at cattle calls, leaving my picture and résumé under the door at casting offices up and down Seventh Avenue, dancing in the background of early MTV videos for fifty dollars cash in the hopes of being discovered. I
dove into relationships for the most minimal reasons. Julian. His hair was dyed my favorite color of red in the eighties. I saw him riding a bike through a park in London during my study abroad summer. When I spotted him again riding through Washington Square Park in New York, that shock of stop-sign-red hair was enough to make me dive. Had I bothered to investigate a little more carefully, I would have discovered he was in high school the day we met, instead of three months into sleeping with him. That may not be the most flattering of examples, but still. I don’t dive for sex after fifteen years of marriage. If our son is asleep, if the door is locked, if I haven’t eaten too much for dinner, if I didn’t have cheese that day, if the vibrator next to the bed has new batteries in it, then maybe.

Dive, Annabelle, dive
, I tell myself. What good is it to still be here if you’re not going to dive in? As I bounce higher, I think about how much I hate Anna Quindlen, her early success, her Adirondack chairs, her backyard pond and her slow-cooked stews. I’ve never had the patience to make a cold soup. I’ve had to reinvent myself professionally several times, reinvention being the last resort of people who didn’t hit the jackpot in their twenties, thirties or even forties. I have an old wooden camp-style picnic table with rotting benches, and the only pond in my backyard is a green plastic ice tub that has filled with brackish water.

I switch into gear. Getting a good hate going propels me into action.
Thanks, Anna!
I dive and I’m giddy, and it’s the best feeling in the world. I bounce harder and I feel like I’m drunk. I’m pacing the ring like a prizefighter that has gone too many rounds. My son says, “Mom, you look sore,” and because I know him so
well, I know he means “sour.” He makes a face at me, but I’ve lost my facility of speech. I’m Raquel Welch in
One Million Years B.C.
, or Mike Tyson, and for a minute I think I could bite someone’s ear off right now.

“Mom, you’ve got something hanging out of your nose.”

“Uuurrrrrrrggggghh!!!” A guttural shriek comes out instead of words.

“Mom, you’re like an athlete now.”

I want to win. It starts to drizzle and the tarp becomes slippery. I dive. The score is now seven to three. My mascara is running and drool is forming in a line down the corner of my mouth. I bounce over and push a fart out in his direction. “Mom, what are you doing? You’re crazy!” My hair is matted with sweat. I’m stumbling, propelling myself across the tarp, and I’m in it to win it. But his thirteen-year-old body carries the day. It’s over, and it’s only when he taunts me with his win that I heave myself across the tarp and tackle him. We’re wrestling, something we haven’t done in years. I’m clinging to his back. I’ve wrapped my arms and legs tightly around him from behind.

“I still have power over you.”

“No, you don’t.”

“Yes, I do—the power of the purse,” but that doesn’t make any sense to him. “I can still take you down,” I growl, gripping him with a ferociousness that seems wildly inappropriate.

Even when he says, “Mom, my leg hurts,” I don’t believe it.

“I’m not falling for that,” I say, squeezing tighter as he thrashes around on all fours.

“Mom, I mean it, my leg hurts,” he whimpers.

I ease up and in that brief moment he throws me off and springs to his feet. “Welcome to Loserville, loser.” He laughs, and with a bounce, he’s off the trampoline and heading across the lawn.

“Those were some nice saves,” I hear him say as he pads inside.

“Thanks, Ezra,” I yell after him.

I’ve deliberately farted in front of my kid. My face is a mess and I feel every one of those fifty years, and it feels kind of satisfying. I have no idea what the future looks like but I can still dive in and I intend to keep doing it.

So, fuck you, fifty, I own you. You’re my bitch.

There is only one thing I know for sure. Everything is going to hurt like hell tomorrow morning.

JILL:

It’s not enough.

I’m not a good enough parent.

Holocaust.

I’m so sick of myself.

I hope I can fall back to sleep.

GIA:

If I could just lose these ten pounds . . . would more people come to my funeral?

MAUREEN:

I hate this pillow. . . . I also hate this pillow. . . . Why don’t I have
any
good pillows?

I will probably never be able to afford to go to Venice before it sinks forever into the water or I’ll be too old to enjoy it.

As I lie here not sleeping, I’m getting fatter.

Why didn’t I take some kind of computer programming class?

Please let me live until my kid becomes a grown-up.

My joints hurt—is that arthritis? Or cancer? Or menopause? Or because I spent hours walking up and down the aisles at Costco buying things I didn’t need?

What’s the least amount of money I need to live on?

MAGGIE:

If I watch some porn, will my kids wake up and walk in on me?

SUSAN:

I dream that I am looking in the mirror and notice a couple of long chin hairs. As I look closer, it
becomes dozens of really long hairs, so much so that I look like Fu Manchu. I am distressed thinking that I’d been walking around like this for who knows how long, and no one bothered to tell me. Then I come up with the idea that to spare the expense of having to get my face waxed, maybe I could just wrap it around my neck like a scarf. I wake up convinced it wasn’t a dream, but reality. I have to check the mirror several times to make sure I’m not wearing a hair scarf.

CAROL:

This would be the perfect time to go through my ex-husband’s phone and email.

LESLIE:

Why didn’t I answer the phone and go with Michael to D.C. that weekend in 1986? If I had just answered the phone, we would have fallen in love and married, and I would have a law degree and lots of money and a husband and a great job.

Why did I have sex with John when I really didn’t want to? And because I didn’t really want to, does it count as cheating?

Why did I tell my professor in college that we made hot cocoa and peppermint schnapps in our suite at 4 p.m. every day? I wanted to sound sophisticated, but I just sounded like an idiot.

Why do I feel like I have to answer every question? Can’t I ever just say,
I don’t know
??? I try to come across as smart and I end up being an asshole!

STEPHANIE:

I look at the clock and then do a countdown to when I have to get up.

4-5-6-7-8. Four hours. Good. Get to sleep.

I get something to eat and feel horrible regret in the a.m. when I see the empty container of almonds out on the table.

I think about my mortality and feel nothing but my existence and its finitude

and talk to God.

I imagine a world with no famine or mass prison incarceration. I seek out God for unity, prayer and
divine company to bridge the solitude I feel as a singular human being.

I am an amoeba floating through the vast, infinite inner space.

I look at the clock and then do a countdown to when I have to get up.

5-6-7-8. Three hours. Still some time left. Get to sleep.

AMY:

I come home from work to my family, which consists of my husband, my teenage children and the dog. I get the most affection from the dog.

CHRISTINE:

I wake up sweating, thinking that I forgot to put a postage stamp on an envelope for my boss. . . . Panic sets in. I can’t sleep so I get dressed and go to the post office and rummage through bins of mail. I find the letter . . . with the stamp on it.

In the morning I can’t remember whether this was a dream. I spend at least an hour tracking down the mail when I get to the office.

CINDY:

I can’t fall back to sleep. It’s the middle of staffing season for TV writers and I am trying to get a job. I am so worried about money that I turn on the TV to distract myself. I turn on an episode of
The Waltons
. What could be more comforting and conflict-free than a soft seventies family drama? The entire episode was about how John-Boy would not make it as a writer—how it was too hard and he should basically find a new dream job. It was worse than any horror movie. Those damn sincere mountain people scared the shite out of me.

TINA:

It’s too late to take an Ambien now. . . . I’ll be a mess in the morning. (I should have taken it with the two glasses of wine that helped me fall asleep in the first place.)

I’m soooo hot. Get this blanket off me!

Did I pay the water bill?

Did I send an invoice to my clients in the Philippines? How much money would I need to retire in the Philippines?

It’s freezing in here!

What would I be like if I
didn’t
have this hormone patch on what was once my bikini line?

How can my boyfriend sleep so soundly?

JUDITH:

I think about what a fraud I am and what happens when I’m found out and whom I could entrust to take and destroy my computer in case of my impending illness and death.

And then I play Scrabble.

BRENDA:

My mind lasers in on revising my living will’s medical directive. Since seeing the movie
Amour
I realize I need an ironclad agreement with someone.

KRISTIN:

I relive the scene when I confronted a friend who was sleeping with my husband . . . ten years ago.

MARLA:

I take my age and estimated life span and calculate how much time I have left on the planet. I try it with different combinations owing to various medical conditions, likelihood of automobile accidents and natural disasters and still get the same approximate answer—less time ahead than behind me!

Will I ever have sex again, and why would God want to limit the amount of sex I have?

I think about the wrongdoings of the traffic patrol and envision retribution for the two tickets I recently got. I could take that department down. Stage a Twitter campaign—write to John Stossel on ABC’s
20/20
. He will want this story! I will become a hero to drivers nationwide.

KATHLEEN:

Why did I major in the humanities? I should have majored in the amenities.

MEREDITH:

I’m wondering what alternatives there are to elementary school for my kids. Wouldn’t it be way more educational and fun to travel around the world experiencing different cultures? Then I think that’s ridiculous—too difficult, too expensive. I should move to a farm or the mountains, where people are less cynical, but what would I do? I would be bored because I enjoy cynical people. Wait, I’m thinking crazy thoughts because I’m so tired. I should try to go back to sleep, but I’m thinking of all of the things I have to get done and then I’m irritated because I need to go back to sleep or I’ll be a wreck and I try to make my mind go blank. And that’s when I start playing solitaire.

MICHELLE:

I will never have hot sex again, or, let’s face it, even lame sex.

I won’t remember anything funny that my kids ever said that I didn’t write down, because how could I ever forget that?

What the hell did I eat? Because I have the most obnoxious farts, and I fan the covers so my husband may sleep through it and spare me the indignity.

Will my kids ever aspire to more than landing a trick on a skateboard?

ERIKA:

I obsess on the man who done me wrong. I yearn for him. I stew over him. I imagine his head on the pillow next to me. I see the long curve of his back, I can hear him breathing. I imagine throwing my arm over him and running my fingers through his chest hair. I hear him saying, “Curl into me, baby.” I can see the crease where his bald head meets his neck and I can smell his neck and imagine laying my lips on his cool shoulder. I write letters to him that I will never send. I lecture him, grab his cock, kick him out, roll him over, cry all over him and beg him for more psychological abuse. I’m so riled up, I stagger over to the drawer where I keep my Ambien, bite one in half and swallow it. As I wait for it to rescue me, I may let my mind wander over to my empty bank account, my empty nest, my empty bed and the last episode of whatever TV show I’m obsessed with, and then . . .
zzzzzzzz
.

JANE:

I think about living only five to ten more years and missing Audrey’s high school graduation, Ellen’s
first job, and not being a grandmother or being able to attend my daughters’ weddings.

Was I a good mom? Was I a good wife? Why didn’t I enjoy more of the small things? How do I do that now?

Why did I end up with two grade-two inoperable brain tumors? Reality sucks.

I will get through this. I can do it. I can do it.

SAMMY:

I wonder if my son will be a genius or end up in prison—because anything other than those extremes does not occur to me. I wonder about my marriage and if it is worth having one at all, even though I love my husband (mostly). I wonder if I will die before my son is old enough to not be damaged by the death of a parent—although I am seemingly in fine health. I am haunted by dying polar bears and children in Haiti to the point that I think there is something wrong with me—I mean more than the obvious.

I fantasize about what I would look like if I could afford a trainer and Botox.

I wonder about God.

ALI:

I make lists and more lists. I make lists of the lists I need to make. I combine the lists and prioritize them into one master list, but I realize I’ve forgotten so many things that I start the whole process all over again.

DEBBIE:

I am so fucking exhausted by my life that I sleep like a drunken whore.