Halfway There Read online

  It was about five when we finally finished. Ellen poured us a couple of iced teas and joined me on the back porch.

  “It looks pretty good, huh?” she asked.

  “Yeah, it does. I think this turned out to be a good day.”

  “Better than sitting on the couch?”

  “I suppose.” I didn’t want to give her too much credit.

  “You know what would make this perfection?”

  “I think we should take a walk up to that coffee shop you like so much. Maybe we could have dinner up on Grand.”

  “That sounds almost as good as barbecuing the hamburger we’ve got in the fridge.”

  “Ah, even better.”

  We sat down to dinner at our own table on our own porch at sunset. The burgers were juicy, the fries were crispy, the tea was cold and sweet. I savored the moment with deep satisfaction. My body had earned it. I stretched out my sore muscles with a yawn. I hadn’t felt so relaxed and deeply tired in years.

  I raised my glass. “This was a pretty good day.”

  “Yeah. Yeah, it was. Let’s do it again sometime.”

  7

  A Little Snow Above and Below

  I like my bathroom time. In the bathroom, I can read, think, relax, and basically close out the world with the simple words, “I’m going to the bathroom.” To pretty much everyone I know, except for my sister, these words mean keep out. I like it that way. It’s important to have, as Virginia Woolf once wrote, a “room of one’s own,” even though I’m sure she didn’t have the bathroom in mind. That doesn’t matter. It’s my space, and I’m keeping it.

  One morning while I was enjoying my private bathroom time, getting older stopped being a foreign concept, something that happened only to other people. It came home. It became real. It came in the form of a gray pubic hair which stood out proudly from among the normal black ones I was so used to seeing when I looked down.

  Oh my God. I couldn’t think. I couldn’t react. I could only stare at it. What was it doing there? Should I pluck it out? Would seven more grow back in its place? Could I dye it? What would it look like when they were all white? Maybe it would go bald like my grandmother’s? Oh my God.

  Ellen knocked at the door. “Hey, what are you doing in there? I’ve got a flight to get to. Stop hogging the bathroom!”

  “Honey, I’ve got a gray hair.” My voice was even and flat.

  “So?” She paused. “Wait, where do you have it?”

  “I wasn’t looking in the mirror when I found it.”

  I could hear the snicker from the other side of the door. “Can I see it?”

  “No! You can’t see it. In fact, next time we screw around there won’t even be candlelight.”

  “When was the last time we screwed around to candlelight?”

  “I don’t know, but I’m just saying that I’m not letting anyone see it, especially you. From now on, fun time is lights-out time.”

  Ellen peeked in through the door. “Is it safe in here?”

  “Yes, except for the giant, scary, white hair between my legs.” I wiped quickly and pulled up my pants. The hair was still there, but it would have to wait until I figured out what to do about it.

  “Hey, I wanted to see it.”

  “No, no, and no. And you may never see it.”

  “Good God, honey, it’s only a gray hair. I’ve got them all over the place.”

  “I haven’t seen them anywhere else other than your head.”

  “So?”

  “This is a little more personal.”

  “So?”

  “Don’t you have to get ready for work?”

  “Yeah, as soon as you stop admiring yourself.”

  I went downstairs to make some coffee and figure out what I was going to do with my day. I refused to think about the unwelcome addition to my body. I actually needed to think about getting a job. This wasn’t as easy as it sounds. I was over forty. I had a history of job-hopping. I hated regular hours. I had a low tolerance for stupidity, and above all, I had a giant gray pubic hair. No one was going to hire me. They would know just from looking at me I wouldn’t be right for the job. They would be able to sense it, to see age and discontentment oozing out of every pore. Who in the hell would want to be around that? Confidence, at this point, was not my strong suit.

  In the few minutes it took for me to shatter my own sense of self-worth, the coffee finished brewing. I poured myself a cup and sat down at the kitchen table. I stared down at the green tile and stained grout that was our tabletop. I liked the blankness of it. Certainly thinking about nothing was better than most of the somethings that actually needed to be thought about. Thoughts, however unwanted, still crept through the depression of my morning haze.

  How did things get this way? Why didn’t I end up where I had planned? That’s an easy one. You didn’t plan. You just partied and screwed around through your twenties with no idea of what you wanted. Wait, that’s not true. I finished college. But it wasn’t Ivy League, so who cares? What about my Master’s? No one wants someone with an advanced degree in English, especially from some city university.

  Inner voices suck. There ought to be a pill you can take for them.

  There is, stupid. You’re schizophrenic, and there are drugs for people who hear voices.

  I’m not schizophrenic.

  Then where do these voices come from? And why are you talking back to them? It’s because I’m a forty-something loser with a gray pubic hair.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I’m going toe-to-toe with my inner demons. How about you?”

  I was more than glad that Ellen had interrupted my thoughts. They were getting dangerously out of control. Damn them. Then, for some reason, for an instant it seemed as if Ellen was responsible for all of it. She was responsible for the lost jobs, the bad schools, the voices of reproach in my head. Hell, she was even the reason I was over forty. It was just that easy to lay it all at her feet. I was grateful that just as quickly, that thought was gone.

  “What in the world are they telling you now? Do you know how many people would want your life? You’ve got a great house, a nice car, pets, me.”

  “Was that list in order of importance?” I tried to bury my thoughts beneath an enigmatic expression.

  “Unfortunately, I think it might be in the order you’d put them.”

  “You’re not funny. I’m very glad to have a car.” I laughed. It was a weak joke, but the best I could do under the circumstances.

  “Jackass.”

  “Love you too, honey. When are you coming home?” I reached up and straightened out her tie. She had to wear one as part of the flight uniform. I hate women in ties, but this one with its Peanuts theme was pretty cute.

  “It’s a quick turn. I should be home by tomorrow night, so we’ll have the weekend.”

  “Wow, you’re getting a lot of weekends off.”

  “Seniority has its advantages.”

  I frowned. “Yeah, it sure does.”

  Why did it bother me that my lover’s career was going well? She was doing what she loved, and it was working out for her. It’s not as if we were competing, and honestly, if she wasn’t working as a pilot, we wouldn’t have the house, the car, hell, even the pets. I should have been grateful. I wasn’t.

  The problem was I didn’t know what I wanted. I wanted more. I wanted freedom. I wanted out. Out of what, though?

  “Wow, where did you go?” Ellen’s voice was soft, but worried.

  “I was just thinking about how much I hate looking for work.”

  “Then don’t do it. We don’t need the money right now. Just enjoy the break. We’ll do something when I get back. Honey, there’s no rush.”

  Easy for you to say, I thought. I tilted my head toward hers. We exchanged a light “See you soon, I’ve known you forever” kiss, and she was out the door.

  I sat at the kitchen table for a long time. As I pondered my life, I realized I was in a hurry. There were things I wanted to do,
places I wanted to go, things I wanted to accomplish. Instead, my career had stagnated: I was wallowing in a deep narrow ditch dug of my own devices from which there was no escape. No matter where I went or what I did, it all ended up looking the same, feeling the same. That’s where the analogy broke down. It wasn’t a ditch, but a giant hole, a grave. Whoof. That seemed a bit dramatic, but all the same—time didn’t care I wasn’t where I wanted to be, that things weren’t going my way. The more I thought about it, time was precisely the problem. I was running out of it. I looked down at my crotch. Time wasn’t going to let me forget it was a limited and valuable commodity I was just pissing away.

  I went upstairs to the bathroom to have a good hard look at myself. This was going to be a “Come to Jesus” moment. I was determined not to hold back, to be honest with myself, to find some answers. I wasn’t really sure what I thought I was going to learn, but damn it, I was going to have a long talk with myself and get this shit straightened out. Surely, I could face the truth. Couldn’t I?

  The mirror never lies, even when you desperately want it to. I turned my face toward the glass. For several seconds I stared into my own hazel eyes seeking confidence, and then slowly looked up. I started with my hair. Of course, the first thing, or should I say things, standing out—way out—were curly white hairs. There weren’t many, but the ones that were there weren’t lonely outliers. There were more than you could comfortably count in one sitting. They were scattered around the top of my head, a few along the sides. I went to pluck one but stopped. There didn’t seem to be any point. I looked at my forehead. I took note of a few lines here and there. Below my eyes were a few “wind wrinkles,” as my grandmother called hers. My cheeks were ruddy and the pores seemed large and deep, the result of too much drink and too little sun. Below that, my jawline sagged and my neck seemed to have grown grooves. What happened to the twenty-something? The teenager? The little girl with such big hopes?

  “She got old,” my sardonic inner voice said.

  “Fuck you,” I replied.

  I sat down on the toilet to consider my options. I could get severely depressed and stay in bed for a couple of weeks. This option had merit. I could even muster up a convincing suicide attempt, but that seemed a bit too theatrical. Besides, Ellen would come home, and she was getting on my nerves. What I really wanted to do was pamper myself. I wanted a long bath, a massage, a facial. I wanted to be taken care of for an entire afternoon.

  This all sounded really good in theory, but I had no idea where to get any of these services. I stood back up and looked again. Maybe I could dye my hair. That could work. It would be so simple, so easy. In a few simple steps, I could have new young hair, all shiny and brown again. The whole idea was invigorating. If I could get rid of the shit that was making me look old, I’d feel young. I nearly ran out of the bathroom.

  It was a quick trip to the grocery store. I wanted to do it myself. I wanted the control. If I was going to be young again, I’d do it with my own two hands. I strode past the personal hygiene products, then the products for incontinence (stopping for a moment to wonder why Ensure was on the shelf next to the Depends), then on to the hair-care aisle. What an incredible array of products! I began to feel a nervous ache in my stomach. This wasn’t going to be as straightforward as I thought.

  I looked over the options. There were too many to count, so I focused on the variations of brown. This seemed logical until I realized how many “browns” there actually are in the world: dark brown, dark auburn, medium brown, light brown, ash brown, light auburn, and on and on. It was too much. Maybe I should change the color altogether. No, that wouldn’t work because then there would be even more options.

  Time stood still as I stared at the seemingly infinite array of choices. Then, out of nowhere, my hand reached out and grabbed a box. Dark brown. This was it. This was the answer. I took my selection to the checkout counter and drove home as excited as a kid at Christmas.

  It wasn’t long before I was back in the bathroom thinking how much more fun I was going to have dyeing my hair instead of job hunting. I ripped open the box and took out its contents. They seemed innocuous enough—a couple of bottles, gloves, and instructions. I glanced at the instructions. They were pretty basic.

  I stripped off my shirt and put on the gloves. With steady hands, I shook up the mix. It was a really nice color. I started squeezing it on my head and rubbing it into my scalp. I wanted to make sure the color stayed with me as long as possible. I pulled it through my hair. I washed my hair in the color. It felt cool and made my scalp tingle. I looked up at the clock. The instructions said something about how long to leave the stuff on my head, but if half an hour was good, an hour would surely be better. I ran my fingers through my hair one more time and dropped my pants. It was time to color the lower parts as well. Once that was done, I settled down in front of the television to wait.

  After about twenty minutes on the couch, I noticed some itching; then, my head felt hot. It was uncomfortable, but not really bad. I went back to the bathroom to see how the color was taking. I looked at my reflection in the mirror. Did my eyes seem a bit swollen? I scratched my head. It was starting to burn. I rubbed my hand across my forehead. This didn’t seem right.

  I pulled the instructions out of the trash. At the very top was a warning about allergic reactions. I looked back in the mirror. My eyes were swollen. There were some red blotches forming on my face. My thighs felt hot. I shimmied out of my pants. What I saw was enough to get me to strip and jump into the shower. I wanted this stuff off my head and certainly off my crotch.

  I turned on the shower. The cool water felt good on my burning scalp. I closed my eyes. When I opened them again, I realized I hadn’t washed the stuff out so much as spread it all over the place. I was now streaked dark brown with rosy spots of red mixed in for good measure. To make matters worse, things were getting a bit blurry. I grabbed a towel and went to the phone.

  “Beth?” I tried to keep my voice calm, but if there was ever a time I was glad to have close neighbors, this was it.

  “What? You sound awful? What’s wrong?”

  “I’m dyeing my hair.”

  “Well, what does it look like? It can’t be as bad as you’re making it sound.”

  “Is my face supposed to swell up?”

  “What? Don’t answer. I’ll be over in a minute. Mom’s here so she can watch the baby.”

  I didn’t feel well. I went to lie back down on the couch. I closed my eyes.

  “Oh, my God!”

  “Beth?”

  “We’ve got to get you to the emergency room. Come on, get up.”

  “What? How did you get in?”

  The rest of it is really a blur. The next thing I remember clearly was Ellen talking to someone.

  “Hey, what are you doing home?”

  “We’re not home. We’re at the hospital. You’re in the hospital.” Ellen smiled down at me.

  “What happened?”

  “It appears, my sweet, that you weren’t made to color your hair. You had the worst reaction to hair dye the doctor has ever seen.”

  “I’ve always been an overachiever.” I sat up.

  “How did it come out?” I lifted my hand up towards my head.

  “Let’s say, uh, it looks fine.”

  “I want a mirror.”

  “No, you don’t. You’d rather hear me tell you about what happened.”

  “Not really. Give me a damned mirror.” Ellen brought a rolling table over and lifted the top. I looked at my reflection. My face was swollen and brown. My hair was brown, black, and red. I lifted the sheets and pulled up my hospital gown.

  “Yeah, the doc got a real kick out of that. They had to give you a shave, to, ah, well, anyway—the swelling’s gone down.”

  I dropped the sheet and pushed the table away. I started to laugh. I couldn’t help myself.

  Ellen shook her head and laughed with me. She sat down on the edge of the bed.

  “Something like th
is could happen only to you. It’s kind of funny.”

  “No, it’s all pretty horrible, but what the hell am I going to do about it now? I guess being shaved is one way to feel young again.”

  “You should have seen it with the ice pack.” Ellen touched my hair. “I’m just glad they didn’t have to shave your head.”

  “Now I know you’re lying. I think I might have to, just to be consistent.” I cringed. “When can I go home?”

  “You’re out of here tomorrow.” She paused and looked directly at me. “I just want you to know that it worked.”

  “What worked?”

  “I don’t see one gray hair on your head”—she lifted the sheet—“or anywhere else for that matter. Besides, it’s a lot better than the perm you had when we first met.”

  “I’ve known you way too long.”

  “Love you too, honey.”

  8

  Getting Older in a New Body

  Getting gray hairs is inevitable. We all know it. We’ve all seen it. We all fight it in different ways despite knowing full well it’s a losing battle. What we never hear about, what people don’t talk about, is that getting older for women means that—I’m not sure how to put this—but getting older for women means we are slowly turning into men. Yes, this sounds shocking, but someone should say it. So there, it’s been said. This realization started with my annual “boob squish,” otherwise known as a mammogram.

  Let me be upfront. There’s a lot for the technician to squish. The size of my boobs has convinced me God has a sense of humor. I mean, seriously, why does a somewhat butch lesbian need a set of double Ds? The contradiction between their size and my personality is too much to be mere coincidence.

  Anyway, I went in for my mammogram, and I’m standing there in front of what looks like a medieval torture device, half-naked with that stupid paper shirt on when the technician asks me if I’ve had any problems or changes in my breasts. I look down inside the paper folds. There are my breasts. They are still big. They are sagging without their necessary support and they have hair.