An Acquaintance Reveals Her Emotional Behavior and I See Myself

So, there’s this woman I know. She’s more acquaintance than friend. I’ll call her Georgie. This is not her real name. Georgie is an…acquired taste. She believes what she believes and believes that it’s the truth. For instance, it doesn’t matter that she doesn’t know if the willow trees alongside the Kennedy Center in Washington D.C. were cut down with permission or without. She believes they were cut down because the Orange Fool, as she calls the current President of the United States, doesn’t care if he has permission. So, it makes sense to her that he does whatever he wants, everyone else be damned. 

 

I’ve glimpsed a little of Georgie’s personality, but I was curious to know more. On a recent reconnaissance mission, we meet for an afternoon cocktail at a bar on the Upper East Side in Manhattan. Georgie’s a smoker so we sat outside at a café table after confirming she would be allowed to smoke. The manager on duty brought out an ashtray and gave us both a conspiratorial wink as he placed it in the center of our table. A comrade-in-smoking, I thought to myself. And don’t bombard me in  the comments section for the name and location of this rule-breaking restaurant. I’m not going to tell you.

 

Thankfully, the day we meet up is beautiful. A rare cool summer afternoon. While waiting for our drink—Georgie an Aperol Spritz and me a French 75—Georgie reveals to me, rather freely, that she looks at the world through anger-colored glasses. 

 

“What color is anger?” I ask her. I need her to elaborate.

 

She thinks for a few seconds then a smile relaxes her face. “It’s a murky greenish-gray. Like…a cloudy eye. But it’s crystal clear.” She’s eerily convincing. I nod, internally debating the conundrum of murky and crystal clear. “And sometimes, if I’m particularly angry, there are toxic-yellow flares—brain cataracts, I call them—that obscure my thinking.” I couldn’t help but appreciate her metaphorical prowess.

 

She further explained that she knows she’s probably going to get angry when she reads the current headlines on any given day, admitting that sometimes she reads them for the express purpose of doing just that. She said she rarely reads the articles attached to those headlines, choosing instead to stay uninformed.

 

She then tells me she recently began to feel ignorant. Not from a lack of  higher education. Georgie has a college degree, and I personally wouldn’t consider her ignorant and I tell her so. She clarifies that she feels ignorant due to her lack of knowledge regarding current events in the country, the world, which she avoids by not reading those above-mentioned articles. She does not like feeling stupid, her word not mine, but she has chosen willful ignorance. And you know what, I understand that. Sometimes knowing can wreak havoc with my own anxiety.

 

“I have somehow found comfort in my anger,” she says to me while lighting another Marlboro Light. “I can’t remember a time in my life when I wasn’t angry. When I wasn’t playing some sort of victim role of my own creation.”

 

I ask Georgie to explain how she how she is playing a victim of her own creation.

 

“I’ve spent a great deal of my life believing that my perceptions about something are the truth.” She takes a drag from the cigarette. It feels like a moment of deliberate pause instead of a need for nicotine. “I don’t have conversations where I seek to understand why someone believes what he believes.” I notice the change in her body language as her hands become more animated. I hope the ashes don’t hit me as she gestures. The cigarette smoke spirals away as she exhales. “I don’t try to understand the why of the differences. I avoid them. Yet I have no problem recounting the actions of this person or that family member to likeminded friends with a woe-is-me tone in my voice.” She shrugs and looks at me matter-of-factly. “It’s victim-y. I can hear it. I can feel it. But I don’t stop doing it.”

 

I ask her to connect the dots between the ignorance and the victimhood. But before she can, a man walks by us playing music loudly on his phone, filling the world with his choice of music. Georgie turns to look at him as he passes, staring like she’s trying to burn a hole through the back of his head. As she returns to me, I can barely discern, “I hate people.”

Georgie fascinates, and annoys, me. But I don’t disagree with her. People are awful. Especially those who think the world belongs to only them and their iPhones.

 

She took a drink then began to connect the dots.

 

“I live with a lot of fear. Fear of the truth especially. I realize anger is a byproduct of that fear. And now I feel like I’m allowing my willful ignorance to mix with the fear and increase my anger exponentially.” Here she turned her face away from me and sighed deeply. “I don’t even know if I’m making sense.” She ashes the cigarette in the ashtray but doesn’t wait for me to respond. She makes eye contact and holds it. “I have lived with my fear and my anger for so long that I’m comfortable there. It’s safe. I know how to navigate the world.” She takes a final drag and presses the cigarette into the ashtray. It lies bent atop a bed of gray ash next to its stubbed and crooked sibling. Her exhale dissipates in my direction.

 

A breeze blows past us in that moment, and the ashes begin to disseminate proving to be as fragile and fleeting as I imagine Georgie to be behind her protective wall.

 

“I think I’m arrogant.”

 

She seems proud of this statement. She takes a drink so I do too. 

 

“I think my opinion is the correct opinion.” She lets that gem sit between us. I was nodding at her, a sign that I was listening. But I will admit I was surprised. I wanted to say Really? or Why? but kept my mouth shut. Thankfully, she went on. “I believe I’m a good person. I think about right and wrong, yet I don’t take the time listen to another person’s point of view nor do I create opportunities to do so.” She contemplated another cigarette but seemed to decide against it. “I struggle with empathy. I’m a rule follower and I don’t understand why people can’t follow the rules. I don’t like living in the gray area. It makes me feel out of control. Being angry and fearful seems black and white to me.” She absentmindedly took the previously avoided cigarette from her black-lacquered cigarette case. “I struggle,” she said, then lit the cigarette. 

 

The conversation with Georgie tapered off after a bit more bitching and moaning, a little more venting. She seemed to have done what she admitted she does. She played the victim. Before she left our table, she gave me a look that all but asked me to console her. I did. 

 

After I paid the bill, the waitress took away the empty glasses and the ashtray. Anyone passing by at that moment would have thought I had been there alone. All traces of Georgie were gone. 

 

I strolled along the sidewalk, contemplating what had been shared, and my thoughts about what I’d heard. My ear locked on the sound of singing. I saw three street performers ahead of me. One with a guitar. There’s a hat on the sidewalk at their feet. The closer I got the clearer the harmonies became. I recognized the lyrics: “I went sky diving / I went Rocky Mountain climbing.” I knew the song—“Live Like You Were Dying” by Tim McGraw. Isn’t it funny how the Universe works? Giving you something you didn’t even know you needed? I hadn’t heard that song in years. And I didn’t stop to listen to it then. But I could still hear the singers belting the chorus as I turned the corner to walk in another direction.

I share some of Georgie’s traits. I can be sullen. Why am I saying, “can be?” I am. And my expectations run high. The political divide also makes me angry. And there are things from my past that I know I should let go of. And my own fears make me crazy. I don’t want to be like Georgie. Sure, I think she’s a good person. But I also think she’s stuck, unable to move forward. Maybe by choice. 

 

The first thing I did when I got home that afternoon was listen to “Live Like You Were Dying.” (If you don’t know the song, give it a listen. I’ve linked it here.) Anyway, I thought about how difficult it must be for Georgie to be Georgie. I thought about my own issues. Silly, most of them. I smiled when the song’s key changed and Tim soared right along with it. I thought about the man in the song choosing to live. Then I sent my sister a text asking if we could talk.

Subway Stories: An Observation Toward Forest Hills

He sat next to her on the hard, orange-colored seat in a Queens’s bound subway car, fanning her with a bright pink fan covered in white leaves. He was 65 if a day. The light glinted off his 80s style herringbone necklace. His beard and mustache were close-cropped, well taken care of. His backwards facing cap said Nike.

Her age was indeterminate. She might have been younger than he but from the looks of her, cigarettes and, I don't know, drugs maybe, had taken their toll. She was still attractive in a worn kind of way, but she seemed worn down, tired, but more than tired. She seemed spacey. She grabbed a scarf from her backpack and dabbed it across her face. I couldn't see the wetness she must have felt.

Her bleach blonde hair was brushed straight back from her face and gathered into a short ponytail. She was wearing all white. She looked fragile and vicious all at once.

The sores on her leg could have been from over-scratched insect bites. Or cigarette burns. Or they could have been the broken skin of a shin bashed too hard against a coffee table. But to me those glaring sores looked like puss-filled ulcerations the can result in over-active drug use.

Her face was made up. She seemed the type to never leave home without it. But it wasn't garish. Just enough. She knew what she was doing. Her eye lids were lined with long fake lashes that didn’t quite fill the expanse of the full lid. They were generously covered in black mascara, which accentuated the empty spaces on either side.

She leaned over to him and kissed him gently in the cheek. He turned his face so that his lips met hers. Another kiss. He loved her. I could tell. And she loved him. He continued to fan her, loose wisps of her bottle blonde hair blowing back and forth in his created breeze. 

I had heard her mention Forest Hills in her cigarette-choked voice when they first sat down on the train. But Forest Hills didn’t seem like their final destination. 

I never heard his voice, but watched him listen intently to every world she said, fanning, fanning. She closed her eyes and lay her head on his shoulder. I watched as he pulled the bottom of her shirt dress down over a thigh he must have felt was too exposed. He would protect her until he died. I knew it. I bet she knew it too, even if she did seem slightly languid at the time.

I wonder where they were going with their five bags of stuff? I wonder who they were? I’ll never know. 

Exit

I Woke Before The Flood Could Take Me

photo from the film The Day After Tomorrow

I could see a crowd of people running in the distance. I was about half a block away from the bustle. I had an odd sense of déjà vu. I had seen this crowd, and their running, before. Yet I did not run...toward them, from them, or with them. I continued to walk as I always did until I reached the street corner. The crowd was running past me to my right. 

Where was I? Was this New York City? If so, these strangers, who seemed familiar yet not, were heading south. The familiarity with the scene gave me pause at the corner of Whatever Street and Something Avenue. Where was I going? What were the people running from?

I finally turned to see what the people were running from. I saw it. A wall of water cresting over the avenue’s hilltop maybe three blocks away. I stared in shocked fascination then turned to join the crowd moving away.

This was happening. My sense of déjà vu spiked even higher. 

This had happened before. I remembered it. I had survived it. I had lived through this destructively rushing liquid wall's twin in my very recent past. I had run with all the others who were trying to stave off mother nature’s attempted murder. I had run down the hill (down the hill? Was this San Francisco?) toward a building that housed a department store. It rose maybe four stories. It had been tall enough. I had managed to get inside and climb up, up, and away from the wall of death that threatened to wash me away without a trace.

This time, however, I could see a crowd of people standing on the sidewalk in front of that same department store. They were pushing, shoving, shouting, screaming, beating on the glass. From what I could see, no one was getting inside. The revolving door was not moving. 

We had all been here before, but this time it was different. We were either late or the water was early. 

Somehow, even at the distance from which I stood, I could see that the ground level of the department store was filled with people. Movement had ground to a halt. Others were trapped inside the triangular pockets of the revolving door, briefly surviving to ultimately die. I could not imagine their fear even as I felt the hand of dread clench my heart. I could hear the roaring surge of the water approaching. I recognized this water. I knew it was taking with it everything in its path even though I refused to turn and look my approaching killer in the eye.

There was no building high enough for me to save myself. I had been here before but not like this: outside, completely unprotected. The hand of dread did not release its grip on my heart nor did it tighten any further. My terror was calm as I tried to accept my impending doom.

I heard myself say aloud,  “I guess I’m going to die today. I love you, momma.”

Then I woke

My Day at Dior: A Liaison Between Desire and Jouy

The champagne may have been joyful with bubbles, but it was I who was bursting with effervescence. 

It happened on December 30, 2018. I bought my first piece of Dior. A bag, of course. Specifically, the Dior book tote in canvas embroidered with a burgundy Toile de Jouy motif. Happy New Year to me!

I’d been thinking about that Dior book tote for days. To be honest, the book tote in general had been on my mind since it premiered as part of the Spring/Summer 2018 collection: a new bag with style to spare using a vintage pattern--the Oblique--culled from the House of Dior’s archives and reintroduced by current creative director, Maria Grazia Chiuri, for a new generation. I was enamored. So were a lot of other people. The Dior Oblique book tote was immediately sold out with a waiting list on which I did not wish to put my name. 

Fast forward to late fall and the release of the Dior Cruise 2019 collection. Once again the archives of the House had been culled. But this time inspiration was found in a toile that had originally been created for the walls of Monsieur Dior’s boutique in 1947. 

For those who don’t know, toile can refer to the fabric or the pattern on the fabric. A toile pattern is usually a pastoral scene repeated over and over. But Maria Grazia Chiuri updated this toile with lions, snakes, monkeys, tigers, giraffes. Those quiet pastoral scenes are now dotted with danger and the allurement of adventure.  

The Toile de Jouy book tote--which takes its name from the French town of Jouy-en-Josas, where toile has been produced since 1759--arrived just before Christmas. I couldn’t get it out of my mind. The pattern and the color had woven themselves together so completely in my brain that no matter how I tried I could not release myself from their grip. I checked dior.com almost daily to see if the availability at the 57th Street boutique in New York City had changed from “in stock” to “limited stock” or worse, the dreaded “out of stock.” 

I was a man obsessed. I even dreamt about it…twice. I woke from that first dream remembering the joy I felt from owning it. Every person I encountered as I walked down that dream street admired its beauty. Even awake, I could still feel the joy in my chest. Upon waking from the second dream I was left with no memories just a feeling of happiness.

A Dior bag does not come cheap. And it was an expense that I could not expend blindly. It's an investment. I mulled it over. I weighed my options. I talked to friends. I longed. I obsessed. I annoyed myself. 

In 1946, mere weeks shy of turning 42, Monsieur Dior founded his famed, and fabled, fashion house. He wasn’t a man in the midst of youth. He was a man 41 years wise and determined. World War II had ended. It was his time. He’d spent many years honing his skills in the French fashion Houses of Robert Piguet and Lucien Lelong. He even turned down an offer to breathe new life into the waning House of Philippe et Gaston. He knew what he wanted: his own House, his own name, his own rules, his own designs. 

Christian Dior is synonymous with glamour, beauty, style, strength, courage, and fearlessness.

I have long admired the man that I became aware of through my love of his gorgeously realized creative imagination. And the fact that he was 42 years old when he launched his first line only strengthens my admiration. It has long given me hope that anything is possible at any age. I’m 47, and while some see me as courageous, I’ve let fear get the better of me for more years than I care to think about. In Christian Dior, I see a man possessed with courage to start something new and a fearlessness that boldly transformed fashion. 

It was my time to engage with the glamour, beauty, and style. I was determined if not fearless.

As I walked east on 57th Street toward 5th Avenue, the awning, lighted in brilliant white illuminating the bold black name Dior, came into view. My pulse quickened. I was excited. I was nervous. I knew I didn’t have to buy the bag in order to step inside the boutique and see it. But I also knew I wanted the bag. My love affair with Dior goes way back.

As I stepped in front of the display window to the left of the entrance, I found myself relieved to see the mannequin I had seen on Christmas Eve still gracefully clutching the curved handles of the burgundy Toile de Jouy book tote. I felt an immediate sense of relief, as if I knew there would be a bag waiting for me inside, and that I would have no remorse in purchasing it. I walked through the glass doors.

Into the gleaming brightness I stepped, and there, past the towering red toile-covered giraffe, I saw the object of my desire. There were four of them beautifully displayed on a rack. I made a beeline. I asked the nearest sales associate if I could take one from the rack and was given permission. It was the first time I had admired its beauty up close. I already knew that each tote required more than 1,600,000 stitches and took over 42 hours to create, but as I held it in my hands I could see the artistry, and it was spectacular. 

I made my way to a woman standing at a display case behind me to inquire about some things of which I had questions.

There’s a certain expectation of bonhomie that comes with shopping in a high-end boutique like Christian Dior. But I never take that for granted. Probably because I don’t feel like I deserve it. I’m still a bit stuck in that stale mindset. However, I do deserve it as much as anyone else who desires that experience. So I proceeded, believing, if hesitantly, that I belonged.

That woman was Lauren, and it was serendipitous that she be my sales associate. You see, I had called the boutique the previous Friday to inquire about the bag. It was Lauren who had answered my questions. It was meant to be. 

Lauren was kind and so easy to talk to that she heard more about me than she probably wanted to hear. But she never let on that it was an imposition, choosing instead to participate with her own stories. She was generous with her time and attention. I felt like a queen. Say what you will about this being the sales associates job, I know when someone connects with me. I felt that she and I existed in our own little Dior world most of the time while I was there. 

A major desire of mine is to own my own “Bar” jacket. Introduced in Dior's inaugural collection of 1947, the “Bar” has been updated throughout the years by various creative directors during their tenure. It remains an iconic staple of the House. I felt comfortable enough with Lauren to ask her if she would help me figure out my size and fit. 

Up the stairs we went, past walls in motion with the Cruise 2019 fashion show. I took the bag with me. I barely put it down. Limited quantities and fear of loss can make one ridiculously possessive. 

Lauren indulged me in all things “Bar,” knowing that I wasn’t planning to buy the jacket, without a flicker of irritation. I’ve experienced that reaction before in an upscale boutique. It’s so disheartening. But on this day, the stars aligned to create for me the most exciting Dior experience I’ve had since my first trip to Paris when I stepped inside the Dior boutique at 30 Avenue Montaigne and breathed the air.

While my bag was being placed in its box--a piece of art itself--Lauren asked me if I wanted anything to drink: water, champagne? For a split second I thought “No.” I was feeling unworthy and undeserving; a waste of time. I quickly realized it, and that negative thought, of which I am so prone to default, was replaced with, “You’re in Dior! Have the champagne!” Lauren basically voiced that sentiment aloud.

Jouy directly translates to joy, and the liaison between my desire and the Jouy brought me nothing but. 

With my head swimming in champagne, I stepped into the chilled December air of a New York City evening and took my bag home.

Le reste c'est la beauté.