Real. With Most of Her Hair Loved Off

February 8, 2014March 31, 2014 LesleyPearlLeave a comment

I’m sitting in a big upholstered chair at The Book Cellar, a stack of children’s books in my lap. Tears streaming down my cheeks – red from the warmth inside.

There is a discussion panel about the Arab Spring just a few feet away from me. Every seat is filled – except for mine, tucked away at the end of the stacks. A couple of people are standing.

I’m supposed to be choosing a gift for my friend Clover’s yet-to-be-born baby. Her friends are throwing her a shower this weekend. And she and Andy have asked guests to bring a book for the baby’s library. I’m pretty sure I’ve chosen hers – Friends, by Eric Carle’s. The words are simple, the illustrations lush. I think about our friendship. That my wish for her child is to have a friendship like ours.

On the inside back cover is a photograph of Carle and his friend. They are three-years old. The month it is taken is written in German, by his mother. Carle never saw his friend again. “I often wonder what happened to him,” he writes.

Tears.

I think about people leaving and having no say in the matter. Powerless. My adoption shit is all stirred up.

I am reading The Velveteen Rabbit. I sort of know the story – my friend Rachel used to reference it, talking about being real and having all the fur loved off of you. But I don’t think I ever actually read it. Or had it read to me. Until now.

“ ‘What is REAL?’ asked the Rabbit one day…’Does it mean having things that buzz inside you and a stick-out handle?’ “

I smirk.

“ ‘Real isn’t how you are made,’ said the Skin Horse. (Named for his bald brown coat and missing hairs of his tail.) ‘It’s a thing that happens to you. When a child loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with, but REALLY loves you, then you become Real.”

Loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with…I let the words wash over me.

“ ‘Does it hurt?’ asked the Rabbit.”

Yes, I whisper, to no one in particular.

“ ‘Sometimes,’ said the Skin Horse, for he was always truthful. ‘When you are Real you don’t mind being hurt.’ “

Bullshit.

“ ‘Does it happen all at once, like being wound up,’ he asked, ‘or bit by bit?’ ”

All at once. Wound up. That is my history – mostly. All in love. Insanely inside one another’s skin. Until now. I’ve been getting to know some new someones, bit by bit. It is new.

“ ‘It doesn’t happen all at once…You become. It takes a long time.’ “

Amen.

“ ‘That’s why it doesn’t often happen to people who break easily or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept.

So we don’t all become real?

Do I break easily? Because I cry easily. Because I hurt easily. I decide that it is not the same thing. Although pieces have certainly chipped off in transit. I am soft, at times ridiculously so, free of sharp edges. And despite my seemingly fragile nature, I do not have to be carefully kept.

“ ‘Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby. But these things don’t matter at all because once you are Real you can’t be ugly, except to people who don’t understand.

“…but once you are Real you can’t become unreal again. It lasts for always.’ ”

Yes. I think so.

Except for when I am not. Not Real. Twisting myself inside out to be who I think you want me to be so that you will love me. It is more infrequent now. Subtle. But it still happens. Awful.

The way I make myself small, without even knowing it, so you won’t feel overwhelmed by me. My desires. My needs. My emotions. I found myself doing it today. Unconscious. Until I wasn’t.

“How sick to be small and to sit by and wait until you can accept more of me,” I wrote in my notebook.

The Skin Horse tells his story. Illustrations, William Nicholson. — Skin Horse tells his story. Illustrations, William Nicholson.

“The Rabbit sighed. He thought it would be a long time before this magic called Real happened to him. He longed to become Real, to know what it felt like; and yet the idea of growing shabby and losing his eyes and whiskers was rather sad. He wished that he could become it without these uncomfortable things happening to him.”

Me too. But so far, these “uncomfortable things” have been the wellspring of change in my life.

I remember once saying to my girlfriend Julie, having again gained back all of the weight I had lost and then some, that if someone could wave a wand and make me a healthy weight, I was certain this time I would maintain it.

I doubt it.

The Rabbit does become Real. Not just to the child who plays with him, but to everyone. Real with real hind legs – no longer made from just a single piece of fabric – the kind that allow him to jump without the boy tossing him in the air.

And one day, when Autumn became Winter became Spring, the Rabbit saw the boy again – playing in the woods.

“ ‘Why, he looks just like my old Bunny that was lost when I had scarlet fever!’

But he never knew that it really was his own Bunny, come back to look at the child who had first helped him to be Real.”

Come back to look at the child…yes, sometimes they come back. High-school friends I never really knew. Birth parents. And old boyfriends – 18-plus years later – just to say they are sorry.

Sometimes.

I pick up both books and take them to the register. I have one gift wrapped for Clover’s baby. The other I keep for me – the one with most of her hair loved off.

Becoming The Man I Wanted To Marry

January 3, 2014 LesleyPearl3 Comments

In the past 48 hours, I have found myself thinking, “My ex would be so proud of me.” A lot.

But the truth is, I’m so proud of me.

I’ve been doing a lot of the things he used to do. And doing them well. Or well enough. Most of them, weather related.

I grew up in Michigan and lived there until I was 24 years old. So by rights, I shouldn’t be phased by snow. But I am. Especially driving in it.

Living in California for 14 years meant I didn’t have to concern myself with it. Except in the mountains, and only then when there was accumulation. Climbing the winding roads to Bear Valley, I would pull to the side when we hit the snow line in Arnold, and without a word, hand over the keys. Without even asking. It was just understood.

When we moved to Chicago in 2007, it was similarly understood that he would drive when the roads were dubious. That he would dig the car out, if necessary, and carve out a parking space on the street — “holding it” with random household items that would not blow away.

This is no longer an option.

I realized this on Tuesday afternoon, New Year’s Eve, as I watched big, fluffy flakes come down in sheets, sideways. I had made a commitment for the early evening and invited a friend to join me. It was her first New Year’s Eve single again, and without her children.

And so, with no one to hand the keys to, and a strong desire to make good on my word, I got behind the wheel. The side streets were a mess. The main roads weren’t much better. Snow was falling faster than the plows could pick it up. And it seemed there were precious few out on the roads.

As my friend Chris often advises, about most everything, I “took it slow.” Like most everyone else on the road. I didn’t hold the wheel with a death grip. I didn’t take silly risks either. I met my obligations, but also made it an earlier night than originally planned.

Feeling bolstered by the experience, and also frustrated by letting the weather dictate my social calendar, I drove to the South Side on Wednesday for a New Year’s Day party – filling the hours with good friends and good conversation, and my belly with black-eyed peas and seven greens, for health and good luck, as is the tradition in the south.

Driving home I could feel the snow rising under my car. Gliding on top of it. It felt scary and kind of fun at the same time. And I was both pleased and relieved when I parked the car for the night.

Luck ran out this morning when the Honda couldn’t quite make it over the inches of fluffy powder that had accumulated around it, and that continued to.

I sort of expected this and took the train to work. On the way home, I bought myself a spendy new pair of winter boots, as the ones I was wearing had begun to leak. After dinner, I went back outside. Started the engine, brushed the snow off the car and shoveled a pathway out from the white swath that neatly tucked it in. I knew I had to before it froze overnight and I was stuck until spring’s thaw.

I know this all seems terribly basic. But the truth is, I haven’t done it in more than 20 years. Since I left Detroit. And there, I depended on my father to crowbar open the occasionally frozen-shut door. Or I skipped work entirely if the roads seemed questionable.

It all sort of reminds me of this great line from Torch Song Trilogy. In the final scene, Harvey Fierstein tells his mother, Anne Bancroft, “I have taught myself to sew, cook, fix plumbing, build furniture – I can even pat myself on the back when necessary – all so I don’t have to ask anyone for anything.”

My foray into shoveling and driving in inclement weather doesn’t go quite that far. Nor would I want it to. I’m ok with asking for help. And I’m grateful for the people who do for me what I truly cannot do for myself.

It’s more like the postcard I have stuck on my white board. A Lichtenstein-style cartoon of a woman, her word bubble reading, “Oh my God! I think I’m becoming the man I wanted to marry.

It’s true. I have. And not just when it comes to snow and cars.

Further From The Flame Than I Knew

December 26, 2013December 26, 2013 LesleyPearlLeave a comment

I sometimes have a one-plate rule. Actually, it’s not even a rule, it’s just how I eat. Except for when I don’t. Today is one of those days.

The table at Martha's, post meal. The pies have been put away, but my copy of "Love, Sex and Astrology" has not. — The table at Martha’s, post meal. The pies have been put away, but my copy of “Love, Sex and Astrology” has not.

It is Christmas and I am at Martha’s house with her son Louie, his girlfriend Katie, Jack and Jonnie. There is enough food in the kitchen for triple the size of our party. I have reloaded my plate, even though I have not finished what is on it, adding a second piece of ham and a small spoonful of macaroni and cheese, which I did not try the first time around. I pile it on top of my salad – greens with roasted root vegetables, gorgonzola cheese, walnuts and pear.

The macaroni is delicious. Made with sour cream, cream cheese, and cheddar and parmesan cheeses. I say it is perhaps too rich, and laugh, thinking about those people who say that foods are too rich or too sweet. No such thing.

Except for when they are. This is one of those times.

I put my fork down. My brain wants more but my belly says no. Or perhaps it is not my belly but some higher-self that is constructed of painful memories. The higher self that says don’t put your hand on the hot stove.

Trouble is, I’m the type that likes to bring my hand really close to the burner, to see how close I can get, to feel the heat without getting burned.

It is this second plate. It is the boy I spent the night with several months ago. And, knowing he could not possibly give me what I want, and that once I am physically involved my perception gets blurry, spent a second night with him anyway.

It is my years of vain efforts to try to drink like other people.

The higher self speaks to me. Passover. 1990-something. I still live in Detroit and my parents are still married, but they do not live in my childhood home. Neither do I, which means I am somewhere between 21 and 24 years old.

I am thin for the first time in my life. Really thin. I am rigid about my eating and exercise. The kind of rigid that makes me not all that much fun to eat with. I feel like I have cracked the code. That I will never be heavy again. That I am fixed. I am mistaken.

My mother has made some sort of gelatinous kosher-for-Passover dessert. It is an experiment, as is every kosher-for-Passover dessert, where chemistry and good taste are at odds in the never-ending quest to make tasty sweets without flour.

I have one. Then another. And another. They are not even good but I cannot seem to stop myself. My mother clears the table and brings them into the kitchen and I follow, secretively, wolfing down a few more. As if anyone is paying attention.

Next I know I am in the upstairs bathroom, on the floor, trying to make myself throw up. But I cannot. My mother asks if I need to go to the hospital. I say no because I cannot imagine what they will do to help me. I lie on the cool tile with my pants unzipped and wait for this feeling to pass.

I tell Martha and Jonnie this story, and that eating too much feels scary. Which is not to say that I don’t overeat, because I do. And today is likely to be one of those days. But I do not eat to sickness and have not in many, many years. The desire has been taken from me. It is a miracle.

As is my reaching out to that dear, sweet boy only one more time. And when the response was tepid, not returning to him, trying to convince him, or myself, that it, that we, could be otherwise.

As is my not trying to drink like other people for more than six years. Instead, putting down the drink entirely.

I finish my plate. Slowly. A bit later I have a sliver of pumpkin cheesecake and one of chocolate pecan pie. I tell Martha to cut them as wide as her finger and she does. I am breaking one of my holiday rules. Kind of. I do not eat anything not homemade.

The pies come from First Slice – a not-for-profit which sells “subscriptions” for homemade meals and uses the money from those subscriptions to feed the same meals to hungry families in Chicago. Martha assures me the pies are more homemade than if she made them herself.

I have a second round of slivers. Am I playing with fire?

Walking home, the streets are freakishly quiet. I am carrying a bag of leftovers – salad, ham, roasted roots, sweet potatoes – leaving the pies, and the Lindt truffles at my place setting, on Martha’s table.

I feel the snow on my face. I feel my gut. Satiated, but not stuffed. I have “broken” several of my “rules,” and, miraculously, feel further from the flame than ever.

Artist Date 53: You Don’t Say

December 21, 2013 LesleyPearlLeave a comment

I used to swear like a sailor. It was part of my tough-talking, cigarette-smoking, don’t-mess-with-this-Jew personae – affectionately known by my newspaper colleagues as “Brooklyn Les.”

Until I got hired by Weight Watchers. My friend, and mentor Stan told me I would need to watch my mouth. That I might think people thin-skinned, but that not everyone cottons to the liberal and casual use of the word fuck.

I trusted him, and learned to curb my four-letter tongue. I found the more I didn’t use those words in the workplace, the more they slipped away from my vocabulary entirely.

Don’t get me wrong. I still like a well-placed fuck. (Double entendre not intended, but appreciated.) Especially the unexpected sort that shocks.

Like in Tribes. Artist Date 53 at the Steppenwolf Theatre.

The word punctuates each breath of the play’s first lines, followed by cunt and a graphic, fairly vulgar description of the much-older object of Ruth’s affection.

Uproarious laughter covers a collective gasp. There is a shared sense of ok-ness. That we have chosen our mores. That we have agreed upon this use of language.

I am a part of this conscious collective too. But I don’t feel that way. I am self-consciously aware of feeling “not a part of.” Disconnected. The word rattling in my head since I lost Internet connectivity minutes before leaving the house.

It is exacerbated by the series of phone calls I make while driving that dump me into voicemail. And even more so by the conversation to my right, once in my seat. Flanked by two couples, I listen as they share highlights of their collective creative genius. She leads workshops teaching artists how to write grants. He is a photographer. The other she is an actress.

I am envious. Irritated. It does not occur to me that I am a writer. That I too have a creative genius. One that connects me to others every time I engage it. I am, as my friends like to say, looking for the differences. All of the places where I don’t measure up. At least in my mind. I have been all day.

This afternoon, interviewing with a recruiting firm — really more of a temp-to-permanent staffing agency.

I went in worried about not wearing a suit.

I haven’t owned one in more than 12 years. Ever since I traded prestige for peace of mind and left a nearly six-figure job to answer phones at a massage school for $12/hour and 50 percent off future classes – supplementing my new cobbled-together career as a massage therapist and Weight Watchers leader.

It had not occurred to me that my plaid, Pendlelton coat and patterned spectators might be the least of my concerns.

All around me – on both sides of employment table – are “kids.” They appear to be born the same year I graduated from high school.

I lose myself in self-conscious concern. About my age, my appearance, that I have not looked for work in 12 years. And when the questions come about desired salary, and ideal work environment, I stammer.

Like Daniel in Tribes, when his sense of security – false or not – is taken from him and he reverts to old patterns.

The old tendency to try to be what you need me rushes in. People pleasing. Like Billy, learning to read lips rather than pushing his family to learn to sign – which seems selfish, at the least inconvenient, and might make them uncomfortable.

It is an old behavior and yet it sneaks back in as effortlessly as the fucks that can still fly from my mouth. I feel tired and small. And sort of stupid. Even though I know that none of that is true.

But suddenly not so separate. I see myself in bits of the universal dysfunction unraveling on stage.

I am like Beth. A tentative, later-in-life writer. Like Christopher. Using bluster and swagger to cover up my own not knowing. Like Ruth. Looking for love. Except I no longer ask “What is wrong with me?” while sobbing in my mother’s arms.

Nor do I succumb to the urge to call a boy I know while driving home, when the separateness has returned to me. A boy fighting demons far greater than my own right now. A boy who could never give me what I want – which right now is nothing more than to be held. I know that this is beyond his capabilities – so I think better than to ask for it.

Age, experience – it is grace.

Once home, I write a note to my friend Melinda, as I do most nights – sharing an inventory of my day via email. I will receive hers in the morning.

Connectivity has been restored. To the Internet. To my friend. To my truth.

Pajamas of One’s Own, With Apologies to Virginia Woolf

November 30, 2013 LesleyPearlLeave a comment

I threw away my ex-husband’s pajama bottoms.

I know…why did I have them in the first place?

The night before I left Seattle, I asked if I might take them with me. The thin cotton ones, navy, with a drawstring. Somewhere there is a matching top. Somewhere.

I turned my ex on to men’s pajamas years ago, as I had been turned on by the man I dated before him. Mornings I would pad around his house in Berkeley, wearing his pjs while he made us French-press coffee. I liked to wear his overalls too.

He often remarked that I should get my own – of both. That year for Hanukkah, I bought him a pair of silk pajamas. Inside the card I wrote, “A room of one’s own. Pajamas of one’s own. I promise I won’t touch these.” Then I opened his gift to me – my own pair of overalls.

We laughed. A sort-of modern twist on O. Henry’s Christmas tale, The Gift of the Magi. Except neither of us had to give something away something we loved, to give something to someone we loved.

I stopped wearing men’s pj bottoms some time ago and had taken to wearing short, boy-short underwear and a wife beater – which was fine when it was just the two of us. But I was about to go on the road, traveling with my divorce buddy – a man – and staying with friends along the way. And when I arrived in Chicago, I would be living with a male friend of mine, temporarily.

Modesty, not something I usually subscribe to, grabbed hold of me, and I asked my ex if I could take his bottoms.

He looked at me sorts of sideways and said yes.

I have slept in them every night since. Loosely tied and rolled down twice at the waist so I don’t trip on them. They remind me of the pants my friend Tim’s roommate wore when he returned from Thailand, when he cranked the heat to 80 degrees and blasted the soundtrack to The King and I nonstop.

My mom attempted to buy me a new pair when I visited her in Tennessee in the spring. We picked some up at Target, just bottoms, but I didn’t like how they fit. Too much bunchy elastic at the waist. So she returned them for me. But we agreed I had to stop sleeping in my ex’s. My best girlfriend Julie and I had the same conversation when I stayed with her this summer.

I’m sure I would have had this conversation many times over if I had shared this with anyone else. But I didn’t. I was too ashamed. I knew it was kind of odd. Palpably and painfully so, pulling them on after sleeping with someone else.

Ten days ago, I threw them out. Crumpled them into the kitchen garbage bin, covering them with food scraps so I couldn’t pull them back out – fearful of a George Castanza-éclair-at-the-top-of-the-trash lapse.

A few days later I began sleeping for the first time in more than a year and a half. Really sleeping. Through the night, uninterrupted, for more than six hours. Waking up with the alarm, and longing for more.

Not long after I found myself crush-less, and for the first time in my life, not looking to conjure up a love interest.

I told a friend of mine I didn’t want to talk about the boy I slept with – the one with whom I pulled on the pajamas in question. The one who isn’t the one, but still takes up some residency in my head and in my heart from time to time. I told her that talking about him wasn’t helpful. In fact, it was painful. So I’d rather not do it.

And then I said no to being fixed up with a man who was recently divorced. I believe my exact words were, “Are you out of your mind?” I know the desperate crazy that is his life right now and I don’t want to be a part of it.

My words surprised me. But they felt like ridiculously good, albeit not-so-sexy, self-care too. Like sleeping. Like throwing away pajamas that belonged to my ex-husband.

I’ve returned to sleeping in the short, boy-shorts, but am on the lookout for a new pair of loose, drawstring bottoms. The kind that feel lived in, or have the potential to, and that are not flannel. Pajamas devoid of history. Pajamas of one’s own.

A Wandering Jewess

My Journey Back To Self

Tag: growth