Things have been a little crazy over here.
September's frenzy kicked my butt, and the new school year has had a less than glamorous start, and four major appliances quit on me, and the dog has punished us for leaving her each day by ruining two carpets and a new pair of sneakers, and oh yes, the world has gone STARK RAVING MAD.
And every day, before I can even leave my bedroom to make a trip to the coffee maker, I have to trip over this basket of unmatched socks, which now totals exactly 7,642 socks without a mate. How is this possible? To have THIS MANY SOCKS that cannot be paired with another? HOW IS THIS POSSIBLE, I yell out each and every morning.
No one answers me.
Cheap crew socks, lightly patterned Tommy Hilfiger socks that no one has any business spending money on, those non-skid socks they make you buy at the trampoline place, the long socks that barely fit over the soccer shin guards that shrink after the first washing, and more - all these socks are just peaking out over the top of an overflowing basket that taunts me day after day.
Sure, I could throw the whole thing away and start over, but there are risks involved. If someone is out of clean socks entirely, I can't point to the basket, and say: "pick two that are close." I keep the basket. It's the best option I have right now.
HOW IS THIS POSSIBLE?
The other day I thought, "My god. If I get struck by lightning today, someone will come to my house and see this basket of unmatched socks, and how embarrassing would THAT BE?!" I realized that the mess in my life just might be what's holding me together these days. I'm walking cautiously into the electrical storms of my life, because if I get struck by lightning, someone might come here and see my basket of socks, and you know what? That makes my mess just a little more palatable today than it was yesterday.
HOW IS THIS POSSIBLE?
It just is.
This picture? It's just a little glimpse of the mess. I can't show you the whole thing, and I won't ask you to show me your mess in return. But, embrace it. Let it keep you from standing under trees in the lightning. Take care of your messy self today.
If I can collect 7,642 unmatched socks, then anything is INDEED POSSIBLE.
The thing is.
Underneath all the discourse about Brett Kavanaugh and Christine Blasey Ford is a thinly veiled whisper of something else. Running through the rhetoric of “he said/she said” and “due process” and “presumption of innocence” is another thread pulled taut:
Even if she’s telling the truth, it’s NO.BIG.DEAL.
Boys will be boys.
I agree with that last point. I really do.
If we read to them from an early age - books of all shapes and sizes and subjects ... if we read to them about ballerinas and trucks and sloths and galaxies far far away and wizarding schools and llamas, boys will be boys who are literate and curious, interested and interesting.
If we teach our boys to respect themselves and their friends, to make good decisions in the face of temptations of alcohol, drugs, raging hormones, and a pervasive influx of societal pressures ...if we admit that we know and understand that these are not easy decisions and choices, and that we remember facing them, really we do, and that mistakes will be made, but those mistakes must be owned and regretted, not lied about, then boys will be boys that respect themselves and others.
If we show them that actions have consequences, and that a lifetime of good decisions has a certain trajectory, whereas bad decisions have a different one, boys will be boys who choose the former.
And if we discourage victims from reporting abuse and assault and injustice, by calling those that bravely tell their stories at the risk of losing everything - liars - then boys will be boys who don’t believe women.
And if we confirm a Supreme Court Justice, even if there are credible allegations that he attacked and sexually assaulted a 15 year old girl when he was 17, then boys will be boys who - rightfully so - don’t believe - US.
I spend a lot of time in coffee shops writing.
Maybe you'll say it's wrong, but I learned a long time ago in law school that when you enter the public domain, you sort of forfeit your right to privacy. (Granted, there have been much longer and more eloquent discussions of this premise and its nuances in various Supreme Court decisions, but allow me to cut through the layers for you: Coffee shop discussions are perfectly acceptable fodder for writer's block.)
Some of these discussions have made their way into my stories, and some have just made their way into my consciousness. And some have just entertained for a moment, and then evaporated.
But some stick with me. One overhead conversation still haunts me, not because of the speakers themselves, but because I can't stop thinking about the woman they were speaking about:
Woman: "You can't just drop in on her without calling first."
Woman: "Because you just can't. That's why."
Man: "But, why NOT?"
Woman: "Because, my God, she could be ...
who knows what she could be doing ...
she could be ...
I don't know ...
what if she's DANCING?"
I think about that woman often, at home where no one is watching.
And always, she is ... indeed ... DANCING.
Later I’d be doing anything I could to escape the city but a few minutes before 9 am that Tuesday morning, I was racing to make it into the city.
I backed into the curb in Brooklyn, claiming my usual street side parking spot outside the Sheepshead Bay Train Station. As I put the car in park, I heard the newscaster making an odd pronouncement. “If you’re near a television, turn it on. There’s a fire at the World Trade Center. Possibly some kind of kitchen fire or something.”
I paused at the strange news for only a moment, and then shut the car off. I wasn’t near a television. I was near the Manhattan bound Q Train, and I got on it.
As the subway came above ground in Manhattan, the Towers were in full view. By now they were both on fire. It didn’t appear to be a “kitchen fire or something.” Someone on the train whispered that they’d heard a plane crashed into the Towers. After that whisper, you could have heard a pin drop, as we stood on the train watching the billowing smoke in a collective daze.
At Times Square, I jumped off the train, and headed into the high rise that housed my law office. I rode the elevator up to the usually crowded and busy 42nd floor, but no one was in sight. I threw my bag down on my desk and walked to the nearest conference room where I found my missing colleagues. No one was talking. Everyone was staring at a flat screen on the wall. We all stared together. Not exactly sure what we were looking at, until …
“Oh my God. It just collapsed.”
A few moments of shock and paralysis and then we heard the news that more planes were missing.
Maybe I still wanted to believe this was some kind of freak accident because I was surprised when one of my friends turned to me and said, “We’re in Times Square. We might as well have a bullseye on us.”
We all decided to leave together and head to a friend’s uptown apartment, as far from the Towers as we could get. I left a message for my parents telling them that I was ok, and where I was headed. I called my husband – a med student doing rotations at a Brooklyn Hospital. He said he was helping set up triage for the overflow of wounded. (He would spend the day waiting. There was no overflow of wounded. There were simply alive and not alive.)
My law office comrades and I walked with the masses through Central Park. It was orderly and calm. No one was running or frantic. I was wearing linen pants and a lightweight tan sweater. It was unseasonably warm and the sky was blue and clear. My shoes were pointed flats, and they weren’t comfortable. I hadn’t been planning on walking 60 city blocks that day.
When we got to my friend’s apartment, we ordered Chinese, and had it delivered. I can’t remember who paid for it. Do I still owe someone money? We all sat in front of the television for hours. My friend and his partner debated using the sudden afternoon off to paint the guest closet. I looked at their choice of paint color and complimented it. Strange to remember these extra-ordinarily ordinary aspects of the day.
After lunch, we went up to the rooftop of the uptown apartment building and watched with strangers as the military jets flew in and over the city. A woman next to me with a vacant look in her eye, told me: “I was there. I got out. A lot of us got out.”
I wanted to believe her so I did.
And then suddenly, I needed to know something I hadn’t thought of earlier. “What’s today’s date?” I asked aloud. I looked down at my Blackberry and saw September 11 on the screen for the first time that day. And that moment on the rooftop, along with the Chinese takeout, the clear sky, uncomfortable shoes, and the linen pants, are what haunt my memories of that day.
I needed to know the date. So that I could remember.
How could I not know that I’d never forget?