My alter ego’s name is Sylvia.
She’s about 4 feet, 10 inches tall, wears coral-colored lipstick — a little bit outside of the lines — and sandals with stones in between the toes. She likes pedal pushers paired with a cropped mink coat. And now 80 something, has recently taken up smoking again.
I’m not exactly sure when Sylvia came into my life. However, I distinctly remember when she came into the lives of others.
I was 25 and living in San Francisco. A single girl.
My friend Teresa was performing a one-woman show, The Life and Death of Stars, at The Marsh. And Sylvia appeared in a cameo role.
“Men are not magical beings,” Sylvia said through Teresa, taking a long drag off her Virginia Slim 120. “They’re just people. With penises. And problems.”
She appeared again when I was dating Alex, who Teresa fixed me up with. He was a foot taller than me, from my home town and said he couldn’t wait to get old because he was going to wear “Sansabelt pants up to my tits and the biggest fucking gold Chai I can find.” He seemed like a good match for Sylvia, if not for me.
He wasn’t…for either of us.
Sylvia was wise. Loving. Kind. Funny and to the point. A straight shooter.
I had not thought about Sylvia in a long time, until last Thursday — watching Birdman at the Davis Theatre — Artist Date 98.
Riggan Thomson’s (Michael Keaton’s) alter ego, reminded me of my own. Except mine is more gentle and far less destructive. And I found myself wondering what she might be whispering to me right now.
I do not even have to ask.
“Honey, go!,” she says, in a voice much louder than a whisper. “Why are we even talking about this?
She is referring to my noodling — or, as she calls it, sitting — on TEFL (Teaching English as a Foreign Language) certification and moving to Spain or Italy or Portugal, to teach.
She reminds me that I am husband-boyfriend-booty call-child-pet-plant-mortgage free. But that I might not always be. That my parents –now both in their 70s — are in good health. That they do not need me. That I have no obligations or responsibilities. And that this may not always be so.
But what about finding work as a trainer and facilitator? What about making money? Being fully self-supporting?
What about sloughing off the title of chronic under-earner? About being a responsible adult?
She brushes me off — literally waving the back of her liver-spotted hand dismissively as if I were a waiter asking if she’d like more decaf rather than her uncertain, 40-something self.
“All the time in the world for that…” she says, adding that the two are not mutually exclusive.
It seems that what I know if my head, Sylvia knows in her heart, in her bones. She’s lived it. And then some.
She knows there will always be jobs. And, God willing (She puts up her hand again, this time her palm out as if testifying. “Preach.”) there will always be Italy, Spain and Portugal. France too, she adds. But that time and ideal conditions are not similarly static truths.
She knows that security is an illusion. That the work will come. That the money will come. And yes, and even though I didn’t ask, that the man will come too.
It always does.
So what am I waiting for?