“Nothing’s gonna change my world ...”
The combination of Beatles music and Greenwich Village drew people to our little corner of the park, and inspired wishing well-like coin tossing. I stared at the ground to forget that people were watching, and tried to escape into the lyrics of this beautiful song and an even more beautiful memory.
Like my mother, I love to sing. It is my one true way of forgetting about the outside world and connecting with my core. I guess music does that for everyone, but singing is a special memory of my mother, who had one of the most intoxicating voices anyone had ever heard. She was a classically trained vocalist who everyone expected would sing for the Metropolitan Opera or something equally impressive. Instead, she sang lullabies to a house full of hippie kids. I sang in the shower. I sang in the car. But that night in the park was the first time anyone had ever heard my voice.
“Monique, you got some fine pipes on you, sweetheart.” My Romeo laughed. “The people, they love you.” He motioned to the crowd.
“Oh, they want weed,” I dismissed.
* * *
As I relived last Christmas season, my only audience was the Pacific Ocean, quietly cheering me with its crashing waves. I raised my hands above my head. “Thank you. Thank you, Coronado. You’ve been great!”
Greta gave me two gifts for Christmas and my birthday—both self-help books.
Getting to Know You: A Woman’s Guide to Self-Discovery
and
A Road Map to the Soul
. “Please take these in the spirit I give them,” Greta half apologized as I was unwrapping the books. At least she had the good sense to give them to me privately, and not humiliate me in front of her fabulously well-adjusted family. Their book selections were certainly titles like
Being Perfect in an Imperfect World
and
We’re Okay; They’re Not
. Greta laughed at my characterization of her family. “Every family has its own issues,” she said. “I’m not exactly the daughter my parents expected.”
Greta’s family didn’t seem terribly disappointed with the way she turned out. There were at least a half dozen toasts celebrating her return to San Diego and her overdue breakup. Greta seemed uncomfortable the moment Terry’s name came up. Her breath seemed trapped in her lungs and she shot her mother a look that pleaded to change the topic.
It had been more than a month since Greta returned from Texas and I still had no idea what had gone so wrong in her relationship that she had to leave. My guess was that Terry was unwilling to marry her, and after three years together, Greta probably realized it was never going to happen. If Adam and I shared so much history in one city, it would be hard to stay there with the constant reminders of places we’d gone and things we’d done together. Then, of course, there would be the biggest reminder of all—him.
After dinner we sat in front of an understated Christmas tree decorated with small white bulbs and tasteful glass balls buried in the branches. Flames in the fireplace struggled to stay alive and chattering became quieter and less frequent.
A Very Perry Christmas
filled the air as Greta’s mother handed us each a glass mug of spiced cider to “take the chill from our bones,” she said, laughing.
“Would you ever consider playing soccer again?” Greta asked.
I laughed. “If you called what I did in high school playing, then no. I’ve never considered it.”
“You weren’t
that
bad.” She teasingly shoved me.
I was a second alternate fullback, and the three times I actually made it onto the field during a soccer game, our opponents whipped right past me. Sometimes I lost my balance and fell just watching the other players running by. All the faking this way and cutting that way was dizzying. Our school made room on sports teams for every girl who wanted to play because extracurricular activities looked good on college applications. Greta was our starting goalkeeper. In fact, she was recruited by several colleges and earned a full scholarship for soccer.
“Why do you ask?”
“I’m joining a women’s league and thought you might want to get into it again. It might be good for you.”
“Better mental health through soccer?” I joked.
“Well, the goals
are
loftier than marrying a stranger,” was Greta’s retort. “Seriously, it’ll be fun. You’ll meet nice women, get some exercise. Come on, you always say you have no life. Get a life. It’s a social thing. No one’s expecting you to be a star.”
“I don’t know,” I hedged.
“When I signed up, a woman on the team told me that in addition to their regular games, they have scrimmages for women who aren’t able to join the team for whatever reason. Why not give that a try?”
I scrunched up my nose. “I’ll watch you play.”
“Stop watching and start doing. Isn’t that what this early retirement is supposed to be all about?”
Soccer sounded about as appealing as an afternoon of mowing the lawn with my teeth, but I agreed to play in the following Saturday’s scrimmage for a few reasons. It would burn a few hundred calories. I really did want to start making new friends. But the real reason was that I could use it as collateral with Greta. Or rather, I could prevent her from using my refusal against me. If I declined, she almost certainly would cite it as an example of my unwillingness to work on my own life. If I went to her soccer game, she couldn’t say that I’m solely focused on Adam. I looked at Greta, eagerly awaiting my response, and was overcome with guilt. What a shitty friend I was, attending a soccer scrimmage as a preemptive strike. For whatever reason, it was important to Greta that we play soccer together again. I could extend myself in this way for one day.
“Okay, but they better know that I suck,” I said.
“Fabulous!” She clapped. “This’ll be
such
fun.”
“And they’ll know I suck, right?”
“Mona, I will most assuredly tell them that you suck, happy?”
“Not just yet.”
I crawled into bed at midnight and had a great deal of trouble drifting off to sleep. I flipped from my back to my left side, then to my right I spent a few minutes on my stomach before deciding my problem might be temperature. As soon as I opened the window, I realized it needed to be shut again. I conceded that perhaps I simply wasn’t tired yet. I scanned through a few pages of Greta’s pop psych books she selected for my lost soul. Road map to the soul. Puh-lease!
Too many women today are looking outward for wholeness. What they have not yet realized is they are already whole and this God-given wholeness can only be actualized from within. There are so many distractions from the self. Yet if we spent as much time looking at ourselves as we do turning to the mall, the bars, the office and the dating scene, we would discover that we do not need all of these outside sources to complete our lives. We are already complete. The truth is that it’s easier to look outside ourselves for happiness. The hard work is looking at what we could do to make our lives better. The hardest work is really digging deep and figuring out what’s missing within us that makes us seek validation from outside sources. The more women look outside themselves, the more they really ought to be looking within.
Yawn! If Greta’s agenda were any more in my face, it would be my skin.
I logged on to Google.com to see what I could come up with if I typed Adam’s name. In ten seconds, there were thousands of references to Adam P. Ziegler listed before me. I giggled, almost guiltily, as though I’d accidentally caught a glimpse of his naked body. I couldn’t contain my grin at the sight of his name emboldened on every blurb I saw.
“Let’s see where you’ve been all my life,” I said to no one.
“Gave a lecture on Congress’ Corporate Auditing, Accountability, Responsibility and Transparency Act.” I continued to read. “Death and Taxes: Tips for CPAs who file 706 forms on behalf of the deceased.” I wondered if we’d have to file one of these for Grammy this year.
“Oh my God, how cute. Seen on the street. Says, ‘I go for comfort before style.’ The word he uses to describe his clothing choices: ‘Sensible.’ He is so unpretentious.” I scrolled further.
“Wow, he wrote an article praising Bush’s tax cuts for the middle class.” I read a few paragraphs. “Hmm, someone needs to clue my sweetie in on what middle class means.” I smiled. At least he has an opinion and isn’t afraid to publish it. Grammy was a Republican, too, and she was perfectly wonderful.
“Stanford, okay knew that from the degree on his office wall.” Then a surprise. “Of his generous gift to the San Diego Chamber Music Society, Adam P. Ziegler says it is incumbent upon arts patrons to give all they can to this fine organization. Without music, our culture is a poor and soulless place where people simply exist but cease to live.” Wow. A tad dramatic, but what passion he has for music. Who knew?
A two-note chime came from my computer, like the arrival of a fairy. In the corner of my screen, a note alerted me that I had an instant message from [email protected], and asked if I would accept it.
“Um, okay,” I said before realizing I had to respond through my keyboard.
Hey. What are you doing on the computer on Christmas night?
Mike?
I replied.
Yeah, sorry. I put you on my Buddy List so I can bug my friends when I get tired of working.
Oh. I was just doing a little work myself. How was your Christmas?
Average. Yours?
Okay. I got suckered into playing soccer next weekend, which I’m not looking forward to, but other than that, nothing unusual.
A soccer player, ay?
I actually suck, but my girlfriend wants me to play.
Your girlfriend? Soccer? Did my invitation to this year’s Dykefest get lost in the mail?
Don’t I wish? Then I wouldn’t need to rely on the likes of you! Imagine paying you to show me how to land a girlfriend! Seeing how you do such a great job at keeping the women hooked.
Ha! You’ve read January’s column.
I’ve read every month’s column.
Impressive.
Well, I wanted to know what I was buying.
A strong back and a good set of teeth.
And an ego that never quits.
That’s called endurance, and believe me it ought to be on your checklist.
You’re terrible!!!
You need a good helping of terrible. Hey, did you sign up for that class?
I’m not stripping!
Hold on.
I waited as Mike undoubtedly went to the bathroom or grabbed a beer.
Okay, I’m back. Mark January 8th on your calendar.
How come?
Stripping class. I enrolled you.
I can’t do that!!!!
What the hell are you paying me for if you’re not going to take my advice? You told me you were Claudia Fucking Schiffer to get my attention, then nearly blockaded the door to get me to sign on as your Guy Coach. I cashed your check. Take my advice. It ain’t cheap.
I smiled at his rogue persuasion.
Okay. But let me seriously think through the stripping class.
It’s one night, Mona! Three hours.
I suppose I could get through three hours. Do you really think this will help me?
Of course, I’ll need a full report of everything that goes on in strip class. So I can do my job better, of course.
I’ve got to get some sleep. It’s nearly two.
Night. Merry Christmas.
Good night, Dog.
The morning grass was slick with dew and sunshine was fighting its way through a mild fog. I adore San Diego, where my biggest weather complaint was that it was too bright and a bit nippy in January.
Seven women, including Greta, stood in a circle passing a neon yellow soccer ball to each other. A guy in a rugby shirt was fixing the net to the goal box, shouting at two dogs that chased each other around the field. As I approached the group, I couldn’t hear exactly what the women were saying, but it was the cadence and tone of sports taunting and bravado. That friendly ass-slapping banter among comrades. Several of the women wore sports bras and one had the most perfectly sectioned abs I’d ever seen. It was perfection beyond human capabilities. Like the physical specimen posters from high school biology classroom posters.
I entered apologizing. For being late. For sucking. For not having cleats. “Hey don’t worry about it. We’re just kickin’ the ball around today,” said the abs set, Brooke. “Get in here,” she coaxed. I tried to pass the ball to Greta but it flew toward Lucy. The upside of passing the ball in a circle is that no one was sure where I was aiming, and by default, it always wound up in the general vicinity of someone.
During the game, Brooke ran down the field on a breakaway so I shadowed her, desperately hoping she would never pass the ball to me. Of course, she did. It came straight to me and I surprised myself when I stopped its course with my foot and gained control. With a clear field in front of me, I began to dribble the ball as fast as I could. I ran full throttle toward the goal and felt the sheer exhilaration that comes with the potential for victory. I saw myself at the net, shooting the ball past the goalkeeper. I saw her dive toward my cannon shot and land on the grass just after the ball grazed the tips of her gloves. I saw my team carrying me off the field on players’ shoulders. I saw a microphone and a television camera in my face, asking “Mona Warren, you’ve just won the World Cup. What are you going to do now?” I saw myself with perfect abs, mugging to the television cameras. “I’m going to Disneyland!”
What I didn’t see was Jenna barreling toward me to steal the ball about two feet from where I’d taken possession of it. Our shoulders bumped, which left me on the ground watching Jenna run toward the goal. Although I was playing offense, I couldn’t stay in my zone. This was personal. I ran as fast as I could toward her and tried to recapture the fantasy she’d so cruelly snatched from me. My determination and skill were not well matched though, and I ended up sliding into Jenna’s back, then onto the grass and scraping the entire top layer of skin off of my right knee. It was one of those injuries that no one can really see, but hurts like hell. The skin looked as though it was just a bit tender with hair-thin scratches of blood extending down the shin. After the fall, there was no longer any skin to protect my leg from the sting of the elements. Clean water and fresh air felt like acid tearing the paint off of a car. The nearly invisible blade etchings sliced straight through my leg with pain.