Over the last few days I had several conversations with friends that began with “So, uh, did you break it off with Biff?”

“Huh?” I said each time, truly perplexed.

“Well, I read your blog and it sure sounds like you broke up. You should read it.”

There’s something funny in there with a friend telling you to read the blog you just wrote. So I did read it. Oh. Okay. I see where you could infer that. No. I didn’t break it off. I was ready to. Internally, I had my car keys out and was making all the leaving noises I could: “That was fun. See ya later! Take care!” But then something stopped me. Two things, really. First I talked to Biff again. And secondly, I talked to myself.

I’m not like those circus people, you know half-man, half-woman…with one side looking like Diana Ross and the other just looking like a prepubescent teen with a bad mustache. I mean, I let myself get quiet and I figured out what I wanted. Did I want to give up on Biff because of a few things he said? No. I didn’t. I don’t. And why? Because he’s human. And so I am.

In an effort to be fair, all my blogs and experiences are from my perspective. And while I try to be honest, I haven’t been 100% honest, because who can do that? Here, then, is a list of my faults:

1)         I’m neurotic. I think Woody Allen actually vacations in my brain.

2)         I’m emotional and sensitive. Good things usually, but sometimes it gets me in trouble.

3)         I have Trust Issues. What this means is that I expect people to let me down. Childhood thing. So sometimes it’s easier to break something off first or get all cold and sort of force them to lose interest, than it is to risk getting hurt.

4)         I want to give up gluten because like 4 people in my family have issues with it. They gave it up and lost their belly fat. But every time I decide I’m going to give up gluten, I somehow drive to Kentucky Fried Chicken and eat chicken and biscuits and then have a side of biscuits and then I have biscuits for dessert. When I decide to eat gluten, I don’t want KFC or biscuits.

Sirens have nothing on a biscuit.

5)         I’m high maintenance. This is progress actually. I used to be low maintenance which means I did what everyone else wanted me to because I didn’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings. Now, when something doesn’t feel right, I say so.

6)         I’m honest. Is this a fault? It is when socially you’re supposed to keep something to yourself, but you just blurt out your emotions. An example of this is over a perfectly nice dinner telling your boyfriend “I don’t think this is working” simply because you sort of feel that way at that precise moment.

7)         I worry that I don’t know how to make the right decision on anything from choosing the right bra to the right partner in life. I’d really like someone to give me a rulebook. I’m great at rules.

8)         I’m creatively cocky. I like what I’m working on, I like the stuff I’m creating and if someone gives me grief about it, I get cranky.

9)         I’m cranky 80% of the time.

I’m not going to do a #10 because a redheaded vixen told me that 9 is a magical number.

So. No. I didn’t break it off with Biff. Before we made any big decisions, we decided to figure out just exactly how long we’ve been dating. “It was cold when we went out first, wasn’t it?” I asked.

“I’m pretty sure,” he said.

Silently, we counted the weeks together on the calendar. Huh. Six weeks. “That’s it?” I asked. “Feels like longer.”

“I know,” he said. We didn’t mean in a bad way, it just felt like we were more comfortable with each other than just at six weeks. “You really can’t have this serious of a freak-out right now,” he said.

“I can’t?”

“No. It’s too early. See?” He pointed to the calendar. I thought about that. It sort of made sense.

“When can I have a big freak-out, because I’ll tell you right now, I’ll have one.”

He didn’t even pause. He said: “Week sixteen.”

“I can have a big freak-out at week sixteen? Is that a promise?”

“Yes,” Biff said.

That made me smile. That and he mowed my lawn.

That’s not a euphemism people. He actually cut my grass.

Still sounds like a euphemism.

He tended my lawn with care? He trimmed my bushes?

Aw, fuck it.

He made me laugh is reason enough.

Saturday morning of my mini-vacay started with waking up slowly next to Biff. I thought, “Hmmm. It’s awfully nice waking up next to him,” but he couldn’t stay for breakfast. He had to meet his dad in the morning. My morning was spent, then, slowly on my own. I went for a run in the mist and fog. It was only my second time running on my foot. I felt heavy. My body moved in ways I didn’t like. It’s the extra 7 pounds I put on since breaking my foot. If I don’t suck in, it looks like I could be pregnant. Bluh. The run, though, was lovely. I toured the town and houses, imagined getting a cottage someday. Half an hour later, I was back at the B&B in the shower. Then it was breakfast on my own. I grabbed a paper and sat at my own table. I ate berries with cream. I liked the quiet. I actually need solace now and again so I just savored my mimosa and homemade pecan roll.

Every morning should begin with a mimosa.

An hour or so later, Biff came back and met me at the coffee shop where I was working on the next book. (It’s a memoir. I know. I know. But it is.)

We walked the town. Went shopping. I bought a little picture of a cottage surrounded by red flowers. We ate lunch. We took naps. We ate dinner. And at dinner, I had all these thoughts that were coursing through me and they sort of went like this:

What am I doing here with Biff? We’re so different. He hates his job. I love mine. I have kids,  he doesn’t. He smokes and likes American food. I run and have a sick fascination with lentils. He’s skinny; I’m a little tubby right now. He doesn’t want to be married. I do.

Wait a minute! WHAT?

I don’t know how I started the conversation but I said something like “We’re so different. Do you really think this is working?”

He looked dumbfounded. “What do you mean?”

“I mean that I don’t know, you said you never wanted to be married and I have to think about the kids. I mean, if you’re my boyfriend, then I should introduce you to the kids, but what does that mean? I don’t want them to start to count on you.”

And then he said something about the truth was that if he were called on a movie in Prague or New York he’d go. That the truth was that he was a ‘live in the moment’ guy, but he didn’t say he NEVER wanted to get married.

I nodded. What else do you do? “Okay,” I said.

“I’d really like to meet your kids. I’m nervous about it, but I’d like to.”

“I know,” I said. “But you can’t meet them yet.”

The thing is, I’m a mom. And I can’t risk introducing them to someone who lives only in the moment. That’s my truth. And it’s so hard that I can’t just do what I want and live in the moment and not think about tomorrow and tomorrow, but that’s because I’m a parent. And being a parent and being single means there’s a real possibility I’ll spend the majority of my adult life alone.

There was deep awkwardness after the conversation and though we didn’t decide anything, something in me has shifted and shut down. I have let’s say ‘trust issues’ and need very tender handling. The subtext of the conversation, what I heard was “I’m having a great time with you, Tanya, but when something better comes along, I’m out of here.”

It’s okay. It’s sad. But it’s okay. We walked out of the restaurant. “You okay?” he asked.

“Yep,” I said, and smiled.

By 8PM we were sitting in our cramped little room, Biff typing on the computer, me trying not to fall asleep when I blurted the truth I’d been struggling with for most of the day. It had to be said. Best to say it in one breath. “Biff, I’m bored.” I flinched as I waited for him to go on and on about a waste of money and only boring people are boring (like my ex used to do.) Instead he said, “Thank god. I’ve been bored most of the day.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“Well, let’s go home then.”

By 8:30 we were in the car. By 9 we were at home. By 9:30 we were in my basement watching Battlestar Galactica. The next morning, we did super fun stuff like go to Lowe’s and lawn work. Biff helped. I loved it. I really did.

So what’s the moral of this mini-vacay? There is a moral, or at least some lesson I learned. I learned that I am not a good fit for a Bed and Breakfast. I want more attention from my vacation. I want a big tub with jets and room service. I want a workout room. So now I know.

But I also learned something bigger. I want to be married again. I didn’t know that I did until this weekend, but the truth is, I do. Talking to Biff just crystallized it. The sad thing is, I don’t know what that means for me now. I have an image of my future husband and he’s crazy about me and we understand each other and we have passion. And he’s a hard worker and he wants to be not only a good friend to me and the kids, but he also wants to be a good role model. He likes my cooking. He doesn’t mind when I don’t wear makeup and I put on my crazy plastic boots to feed the birds or water a plant I neglected for a month. Sometimes he’ll grab me and kiss me just so that I don’t forget that even though I’m his wife and a mom, at the heart of it, I’m also a woman.

This is a surprise to me. I thought I’d given up on that idea of love and marriage, but I haven’t…it’s just changed form within me. I no longer feel like I have to be in a relationship just to be in one. And I know that the relationship I want is waiting for me. It’s just not the time yet. So for now, I’ll simply enjoy my life as it is. And avoid B&B’s at all cost. Literally. They’re expensive.

After two weeks solid of narration, and three busy weeks with the kids, and starting a new session of classes and one I haven’t taught before…well, I was feeling way overwhelmed and desperately needed a vacation. But where can you go when you really only have a day and a half off? I decided to book an expensive inn in Saugatuck, Michigan. I could pick up Biff after work, drive twenty more minutes, and we’d be there. Romantic inn, walks along the beach, total relaxation.

Now I’ve stayed at B&B’s before and I always found them a little creepy, but this one was highly recommended and from the website the rooms looked pretty spacious and private. More quirky hotel than creepy inn. When I talked to the innkeeper I told her I was a writer and needed a room with a desk, something private and relaxing. “We have just the room for you. It’s called the Kyoto.” Okay. I envisioned a spacious room and a bubble jet bath and me lounging around in my bathrobe while Biff volunteered to give me body rubs. Mmmm.

Walking up to the inn felt pretty okay. We walked a lilac lined sidewalk and past giant white tulips, a beautiful miniature Japanese Maple, and into the inn. We were welcomed by a little old woman with snow-white hair. She complained of allergies. Suddenly, there was a twist in my stomach. It felt a little creepy. It felt like staying at your grandparents’ house, if you have grandparents you don’t know very well and are afraid might punish you if you’re too loud.

The Inn felt a little bit like this.

Up the creaky stairs and into the spacious Kyoto with….wait a minute…it wa a teeny, tiny room loaded with wicker furniture and a shower that (as Biff said) you had to battle to get into because of the hundred curtains. It was also 80 degrees. “A little trouble with the heating,” the innkeeper said then she adjusted the thermostat. I think she turned it up.

It was okay. We were having hor dourves and wine in half an hour and it was my mini-vacay, time to relax, be romantic, and eat.

I’d envisioned a group of hip thirty-year-olds (like us, yes?) in town for min-vacays too. Maybe we’d meet other writers and movie people and artists. Then I got the second twinge in my stomach. We were the youngest (by decades) of the twelve couples. And everyone was having an anniversary or a wedding. “Someone’s going to ask us if were married,” I said. “Tell them that we are married but not to each other. We’ll say we’re here to have an affair.” Biff agreed.

Later as Biff stood in line for seconds (the appetizers were good: bruschetta with lots of garlic, zucchini straws, fancy cheeses) I heard someone ask him if we had just gotten married. “Noooooo,” he said. “Been there, done that, don’t think I’m doing that again.” And that’s when I got my third twinge. Not that I want to marry him, for god’s sake, it’s even too early to even think such a thing, but there was something in that phrase that scared the crap out of me. Will need to see my therapist to figure it out.

...but at least they had my favorite flowers.

“I don’t want to talk to people,” I said.

“That’s okay, me either,” Biff said. We ate. We smiled. Then listened as the old people around us talked about the massive infestation of tent worms, how you can here them crunch under your feet. At the time I was crunching bruschetta with garlic chopped in pesto. I imagined crunching caterpillars. I set it down.

Then we went to dinner. We walked the block into town and settled in at Phil’s, a local pub/bar type restaurant with brown paper on the tables. It smelled like fish. I like fish so that was okay. We sat reading the menu waiting for our portabella fries to be delivered.

“They have chicken, Biff. Look!” I pointed to the fried chicken platters at the bottom of the menu. Biff does a good job of trying all the weird kind of food I like, but at the heart of it, he’s a simple man. Not simple as in, uhm, mentally challenged, but as in a Midwestern eater. That sounds bad. I don’t mean it to. At any rate, I pointed to the chicken.

He looked at me intensely. “I’ll take a leg and a thigh.”

I blinked. Why was his voice all low? I lowered mine too. “Ohhhhh, that sounds good. You must be a dark meat man. I prefer white meat. I like wings the most…” I was purring it, channeling Eartha Kitt.

He just looked at me, exasperated like. “Tanya, no. I was flirting with you. I wasn’t saying I wanted dark meat. I was saying I want YOUR leg and thigh. Can I have YOUR leg and thigh please?”

Oh.

I laughed for about five minutes over that one and then said “Sure.” He ended up having an open face steak sandwich, and to broaden my horizons I ordered a steak salad (it still had spinach and goat cheese so I was comfortably within my safe zone.)

We walked back to the inn. Crept quietly up the stairs. I took a shower.  A perfectly nice shower but I still mourned that there was no tub shooting massaging water. I put a robe on. I kissed Biff a little bit. And then fell deeply asleep. It was 9PM, and I was tired. Exhausted. But relaxed.

I recently had a suggestion from S. Esperanza to blog about what it’s like being a narrator. Funny, I’ve never really written about it…mostly because I thought it would be boring. Then I stopped to think, well, just because I do it and am used to it, doesn’t mean it’s necessarily boring. If you were watching me narrate it would be. I’m not supposed to move because every movement projects a sound, so basically you’d just be looking at me sitting perfectly still while my face contracts and pinches. Not pretty. Still, though, maybe it is interesting.

A day in the life, then.

A standard book takes about three days to narrate. Think of the books you see in gas stations or grocery stores, you know, the New York Times bestsellers. All about three days. Longer ones, especially fantasies, can take much longer. As a narrator, the actual reading aloud of the story is really a unique experience. It feels really intimate to me. Not in a naughty way, but in a deeply personal one. When you read out loud, you somehow crawl inside a story, you inhabit it. You try to become the characters and the narrator, and for a while, the whole world slips off your shoulders and you’re just transported. Books that I wouldn’t necessarily choose to read on my own, have been delightful surprises. I’ve been inside romances and adventures, terrifying chases, car crashes, breakups, and I’ve fallen in love over and over and over again. And everytime it’s something new. I’m getting off track though.

SAMPLES OF MY NARRATION

So the day starts like this: Coffee and food. Coffee for energy and food, lots of it, so that my stomach doesn’t start growling at 10:30am. I’ll wake up at 5:30AM, write, coffee up, and then in the car by 7. Sometimes I stop and get a big breakfast sandwich, or I’ll eat something at home. And I have to pack a snack. Yogurt and berries. A pb&j sandwich. I love crunchy vegetables and vegetarian food, but when I’m narrating, I can’t eat those things. My stomach works to hard. It’s embarrassing how many sounds your body makes while you narrate. You swallow so much air while reading you start to burp like Homer Simpson. So, I stick to sandwiches. Or, sammiches, as I call them. It’s a good thing I’m a fan.

In the studio at 8:15. There’s four studios to choose from A, B, C, and D. A is freezing, B is hot. C is pretty okay but there’s a ghost there. D is cold and hot and there’s ambient noises from the shipping area RIGHT NEXT DOOR. You get a director and an engineer. They air lock you in the room, you have a stack of pages in front of you and you read. You try to avoid falling into a pattern with your voice or the narration will be monotonous. They give me a special S filter because I happen to be a little sibilant. I don’t use my talking voice. It’s too high and whiny. I slip into my lower register. It’s comfortable there…like slipping on silky pajamas.

Not my voice, but this is what it looks like.

I used to highlight all the different characters in different colors and assign descriptions to them: High & Whiny, Pinched Nose, Side Talker, Sexy, With Gravel. Just little clues to help me figure out which voice to read. You don’t want every man to be deep, or that’s boring. And if you listen to people, you realize there’s a whole range of voices besides high and deep. There’s breathy, and tentative, fast talkers, and enunciators. There are speakers who sound angry, and speakers who have voices warm and round as honey flowing. Now I don’t highlight. I’ve gotten enough practice that when I read aloud something, my eye skips ahead for any descriptions or what’s coming up next. It’s weird and hard to explain.

We break for lunch at 12:30. Sometimes I hang out with the engineers and other narrators where we talk about books and issues with words (is ‘angst’ really pronounced ‘ahhhngst”) or we talk sci-fi or movies. Many of the conversations start with “Did you hear about…” and it’s a superhero character or a weird fact or something about food. They always make me laugh.

Or if I’m stressed or tired from talking (it happens) I head over to Panera bread where it’s soup and sandwich and internet access. At 1:30 it’s back to the studio, and I narrate until about 4:30 when my energy bar is so zapped I can’t read a sentence without screwing up. I can read 4 or 5 pages without a mistake if I’m on a roll. That’s like 7 minutes. Dick Hill and Sandra Burr, narrators extraordinaire, have been known to read over twenty minutes without a mistake. Not sure how long Joyce Bean or Laural Merlington can go, but I’m sure they’re in the twenty minute range too.

Hmmm. Taken out of context, you might be confused about what I’m talking about there.

Then I pack up and head home. An hour drive. I listen to NPR so other people can talk.

I listen to audiobooks because I love them and I’m trying to get better. The first two books I narrated a decade ago were such colossal bombs that they almost destroyed my career. In fact, after reading Seven Up by Janet Evanovitch, there was so much hate mail against me they actually pulled the narration. I didn’t work again for 6 years. But I have gotten better. If anything, that’s a story of how you can come back from the brink of disaster. They gave me another shot with the Meg Gardiner series following cool chick Evan Delany. Fast paced action, murder mysteries. Loved that series. Then I was given a book called “The Post Birthday World” by Lionel Schriver with a story so beautiful I actually cried in the studio. You can hear it on the recording. Deen Koontz chose my voice once, as did Philip Roth. And now my favorites are the Susan Mallery series and I highly enjoyed the Nora Roberts book. Plus books by Alex Kava and Tess Gerritsen. I do worry that the authors won’t like my voice. Sometimes I wish I could talk to them directly so I’d know what they want, but we’re not allowed. Seems funny to me, but I guess I get it. Every once in a while I hear from an author, but it’s rare. I do try to make them proud.

I don’t know if this is interesting to anyone or not…but sometimes I look around in the studio and I think “I actually get to do this? Who gets to do something so cool?” And, of course, how did I get so lucky. I don’t know the answer to that, but I do know that every book I read, I fall in love a little bit more…with language, and stories, and just the creative spirit.

I’m a lucky girl. And it’s time for me to eat a sammich.

Has it really been ten days without blogging? Really? Well, no wonder I’m crabby. It’s certainly not for lack of topics. I could blog about any number of things, which is why I haven’t blogged about anything. I’ve been too busy curled up in the fetal position, rocking back and forth. I do this when I’m stressed.

Actually, that’s not an accurate description. A more accurate description is I put on an old pair of pajamas, put my hair up, take off my makeup and then I schlep around my house, open the refrigerator and just stare—trying to will food to appear. That’s how I handle stress, by general schlepping and staring. I’m like a Tennessee Williams heroine that way.

Here’s what’s got me acting like a crazy lady: (AKA stuff on my mind.)

1.

Last week I couldn’t walk in Kendall’s graduation. Even though they cashed my rental check for the gown, somehow it didn’t appear. One of the professors said, “Oh, don’t worry about it. It’s not personal.” Today I got an email saying that I wasn’t qualified to be interviewed for the full-time teaching position. I can teach there full-time and fill in where they need me, but for a sustained job with benefits, I’m not good enough. Talk about a blow to the ego. Beyond a blow to the ego. That’s a karate chop to the groin.

2.

I’ve been narrating for two weeks straight. Three books. This means driving an hour there and back every day, through crazy construction, while trying to take care of my two kids and cook decent food and make sure I’m there for them. It’s sucked up entire days and brain cells. This isn’t a complaint exactly. I love narrating and being inside a book…I just wish that the timing had been different.

3.

Went mushroom hunting this weekend. It was great, but sucked up my entire weekend from book prep and prepping for the next class that (apparently) I’m not qualified to teach. It took 3 ½ hours to get up there and another 3 ½ back. On the plus side, I had a great time with the kids and remembered why I love my family and the woods and the lake.

4.

Just had a conversation with Biff. We’re having a mini-vacation this weekend. Basically, I need to get away before I explode, Monty Python character style. Then he asked (half-jokingly) if I were his girlfriend. He doesn’t really like the term girlfriend because it sounds teenage-y. But then, what do you say? “Here’s the person I’m involved with”? That sounds medical. “Here’s the girl I’m seeing”? No soul to that. “Here’s the person I have fantasies about and occasionally sleep with”? Hmmm. That’s nice, but doesn’t quite cover it, and it leaves too much interpretation as a booty-call only. I told him to think about it and see what he comes with. Translation: Yes. I’d like to be his girlfriend but only if it’s because he wants, specifically, me…and not because I’m currently the only option. If that’s the case, if he’s got feelings for, specifically, me…then I’m just fine with the teenage term. Let other people be uncomfortable with it. I’d be too busy giggling to care.

5.

I have three grants to write for nonprofits that I support and no time to do it.

6.

I can’t feel my toes. This isn’t a medical concern. It’s because I remember the scene in Die Hard where Bruce Willis walks on his toes to give himself a massage and I tried that to relax, but then my foot cramped. Further proof that I’m old…maybe even too old to be a girlfriend.

7.

I left my cell phone charger up north. I’m about to lose power in 3, 2, 1….

8.

And did I mention I didn’t get interviewed for the dream job I’m currently in? You know, the one I’m doing but am not qualified for? Oh. Yeah. I did mention it.

Sorry for the bitch fest here, but seriously, sometimes a girl gets so overwhelmed she can’t even breathe. And by girl, I mean me. I mean I’m overwhelmed. And now entirely freaked out about this mini-vacation I’ve planned.

Breathe breathe breathe.

I think I’ll walk around talking in Southern accent for a while. That always helps Tennessee Williams characters. That and saying “I am so hot. Boy, is it hot in here.”

Harrumph.

I’ve been blogging a bit about past loves. I left off at college and I might return to that story, but right now, it’s current dating I’m thinking about. So, at 36, I’m finally dating again. I’ve met men over the last year and had a sorta relationship for a few months, but this is different. This is old school nervousness, sweaty palms, and general stuttering. You’d think that with all my ‘life experience’ I’d be a pro at this.

Okay. If you read my blog, you probably would not think this at all. The truth is, I’m just as awkward at this as everything else in my life. The only difference is that now I can laugh about it.

So, the guy’s name? Biff Turlington. Yeah, that’s right. Biff. Turlington. (No way is that a pseudonym, is there?) He’s not my usual type. I tend to be drawn to dark, short Italian men for some reason. And they’re usually stocky, like they could probably lift dead bodies over their heads and drop them off at the wharf. This guy? He’s tall and thin and equally awkward. A little neurotic. Sometimes pretentious. Funny. (And I know you’re reading this. I’ll expect a list of return compliments.) I won’t go on with the list, but I will say I feel really comfortable with him. Even when I totally make an ass of myself.

Apparently, there are all these hidden dating rules that I’d either forgotten or was just never been clued in to. Take for example the night when we were acting like teenagers (do I need to go into detail?) and there was a pause and I said breathlessly “You could stay over if you want.”

Biff said, “I’ve really got to go. I have to work early in the morning.”

I thought, oh, okay, so I did the most natural thing. I quickly walked him to the door, told him good night and then shut the door firmly so that no passing marauders could bust in to my house.

Days later, I was at dinner with a girlfriend, a lovely red-headed vixen who really could be my sister. (I don’t mean we look alike. She’s cuter than me, but we’re so similar it’s possible our parents dated.) Biff then tells her the story and she bursts out laughing. “What?” I asked.

“Tanya, he didn’t really want to go to work.”

“Didn’t he?”

“No. You were supposed to convince him to stay.”

“Or at least walk me to my car and give me a long kiss,” Biff interrupted.  “Not shove me out the door.”

Really? “But you said you had to work. I was being respectful.”

Apparently, in dating, you’re not supposed to be respectful. See, you make an offer, the guy tries to be polite, and then you attack him. I get it now. Really.

It took me a couple of tries to understand though.

On the day of my potluck, Biff came over to help set up. He yawned and said, “Boy, I’m tired. I think I’ll go upstairs for a nap.” Then he just sort of stared at me.

“Okay. Enjoy!” I said, then I happily went about making my pavlova.

Later I find out that here again was another subtle ploy. He meant to say: “I’m going for a ‘nap’.” Subtext: come upstairs with me now.

Subtlety just doesn’t work for me. I’ve talked to him about it. We now have a secret signal that when he’s following these unwritten dating rules of not saying exactly what he means, he’ll give the signal and I’ll know “Okay. This is flirting.” and/or “It’s time to attack him”.

I can do this. I can totally learn this new way of flirting. And if not, then he’ll just have to spell it out for me. Literally. He might have to write it down, and then I’ll understand it. I told him last night that there was a Lover’s Lane when I was growing up. I never went there but I did give other people directions on how to get there.

Maybe now, I’m hanging out there. I don’t know quite how it happened or what to do now, so I’m sort of just stumbling my way through it, sweaty palms and all.

College years. I chose Grand Valley because they gave me a scholarship and said I could be in their Honor’s College. I liked the sound of that. Plus, I could commute from Coopersville, and ‘save money’. That was a serious mistake, but, hey, I was 18.

So after my final day of working at the Dairy Queen, I packed up, and entered school with two goals: 1) To have all night conversations about poetry and 2) To finally Do It. And by Do It, this time, I mean, Do It. According to my timeline, this is what you did in college. And you learned how to drink coffee.

Classes were fun, important. There was one super cute guy I followed into my first class: The Renaissance. He had floppy hair and wore plaid, flannel shirts. (This was 1991-92 and that was the thing.) I stared at him, enamored. He also wore Polo and was extremely smart. Clearly out of my league. I gave up on that idea and focused on where I belonged, the dark recesses of the theater.

And in the dark recesses of the theater I met my First Love. Honestly, he wasn’t even a First Love. He was more like the First Time. He was perfect. He was tall, and dark, and tormented. He smoked. He wore a long dark trenchcoat. And they called him Darkman (after the movie) .

My first boyfriend looked like this.

I’m not even kidding. He also had a girlfriend. It didn’t matter. Torment called to us. One night, we bonded over coffee and cigarettes while Nirvana played on my boom box. I read my poetry to him. He nodded in the right places. He listened. And then Darkman showed me his arms.

He’d carved LOVE on one arm and DEATH on the other. I traced the red lines with my fingers. Here was a boy whose torment was deeper than mine. And while it’s sort of funny and dramatic now, at the time, it was rather heartbreaking. Actually, it still is heartbreaking. He told me that he was a Jehovah’s Witness and his parents had disowned him. He’d never had a birthday, a Christmas. He felt invisible.

I didn’t have scars to show him, but I had stories. I felt invisible too. And I told him about my parents and the house and the fear. It was comforting meeting someone equally damaged. We took off our cardigan sweaters, our plaid shirts, our baggy jeans. Put “Prospero’s Books” on the VCR and that was my first time. It was heartbreaking, and dramatic, and filled with angst and I remember thinking while it was happening “This is a really weird movie” and “This is what all the love poems are about? Really?”

By the time Kurt Cobain committed suicide, Darkman and I broke up. I got that Cobain’s death was sad, but I also thought it was stupid. Darkman felt like his world was shattered. Mostly, I wanted to get away from the darkness. I wanted something happy. Something secure. I didn’t like coffee and cigarettes and even poetry was beginning to bore me. So I fixed Darkman up with another girl, and then went back to school.

The next semester, the cute boy in the Polo shirt knocked on my desk. “Hey, Tanya,” he said. “I was hoping I’d have you in another class.”

“Really?” I said, and what I meant was “You noticed me?” It seems he did. We were together 5 years. We moved to Detroit and Miami. We were engaged. I broke his heart. He wrote a New York Times Notable Book. And, yep, that’s another story too.

Obvious admission: I spend a lot of time roaming around in my own brain. I think that writers become so because their minds just won’t shut up and it’s the only way to quiet themself down. My mind has a frequent mantra: “What will everyone think?”

I hate that mantra, even more than I hate What Would Jesus Do?

“What will everyone think?” is something I’ve repeated in my head so often and for so long that it’s actually had a deep affect on my life. Some of it’s good like, “what would people think if I shaved a bald spot onto the top of my head just to see what it would be like?”

What Would People Think If I Had This Haircut?

But then that same annoying thought has stopped me from other things like: “What would people think if I didn’t do all the things I’m supposed to? What would people think if I hurt someone’s feelings by saying no? What would people think if I lived exactly the way I want to…”

What would people think if you became the Authentic You? If you stopped pleasing everyone and started pleasing yourself? Huh. Not talking masturbation, here, but you know what I mean. What if instead of taking the tiny overcooked piece of turkey on the plate, you took the most succulent, the one you’d usually save for someone else? You know what would happen? You’d have a great dinner that you didn’t have to drown in gravy.

I’ve got lost in my own metaphor here.

FLASHBACK:

High school. Me. Poetic girl trying to hide in baggy clothes with half my hair shaved, the other half long and covering my eyes. (I looked like the guy from Simply Red, and that was not hot, let me tell you.)

Me in High School (Actually Guy from 'Simply Red')

I could hide behind my hair, my clothes. I could be quiet. Because, you know, what if someone saw me? What if they knew what kind of family I had? What if they saw how scared I was all the time?

In my senior year, I met a boy. He was two years younger, which seemed an impassable ocean of time. We had Spanish together. We hated each other in public. In private, I’d drive over to his house at night, sneak past his parents’ window and creep up to his room. We’d make-out for hours. Every time I felt nervous and sick with the thought of “What would people think if they knew?” I also felt alive because for once, I was doing something I wanted to do.

One night, lying in his bed, he lifted the hair from my eyes, pushed it back so he could stare at me. He said nothing. I was terrified of what he was thinking. What would he think of me? “What?” I asked. It was all I could manage. I couldn’t say: “What are you thinking about me?” All I could say was “What?” my voice quiet as a butterfly fluttering, as if the words themselves hurt.

“You’re beautiful,” he said.

It was the first time anyone had ever called me that. And I felt like it was the first time someone really saw me and told me not what they thought of me, but what I wanted to think of myself.

I’ve learned over the years that it doesn’t really matter what people think. What matters is what you think about yourself and your actions. There are so many ways we can be controlled: by rules, by families, by our passions. It’s all outside stuff. So that constant mantra in my head—I’ve reworded it. Now I say: “What do you think, Tanya? Are you okay with this?” And it’s transformed me. It really has.