It's In The Stars
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I swallowed the basketball I hadn’t realized was wedged in my throat and returned to my cubicle to wait for him to finish editing my story. I knew when he was finished it’d be riddled with red notes. I used to think my high school English teacher had a love affair with Red Pen, but Oyster Breath beat Mrs. Beshore by a mile.
I made the mistake of looking at Matt when I sat down. He stuffed a brownie into his mouth and chewed while he talked. “How was the fire?”
He was using small talk to make up for his loud-mouth episode the other day. Matt is just one of those people who irritate me. I think it’s because he reminds me of this bully in elementary school. Teddy was my nemesis. I think he made fun of people so he wouldn’t be made fun of. Sort of like beating someone to the punch. He was as skinny as a stick and had a cowlick that couldn’t be tamed. In other words, there was a lot of material to work with if someone wanted to make fun of him. Thing was, he never gave them a chance. Until one day I put him in his place when I overheard him making fun of Laura, who was a mouse of a girl.
I decided to be nice to Matt and not my usual curt self. I realized lately how much working in a newsroom has changed me and I’m not sure I like who I’ve become. I’m much more dismissive and abrupt. Maybe it’s a hazard of the job and the deadlines, because a lot of journalists I know are like this. I’m tough because I have to be, but that doesn’t mean I don’t care or I’m not dying inside. “The home went up fast,” I told Matt. “I’m just glad no one was hurt.”
It didn’t take Oyster Breath long to edit my story. I was right about the red notes. There were lots of them, but I appreciated being challenged. To be honest, I’d learned a lot from Oyster Breath over the past year. The guy was an editing guru and I loved that he challenged me and never settled for mediocre work. I knew I was a better journalist today than I was when I came here, and that meant the world to me.
After addressing his notes in my story, I took the long way to the women’s bathroom, hoping to see Hottie Advertising Guy. I cut through the advertising department, scanning the area as I went. Hottie wasn’t around. He spends most of his time out of the office so catching him is about as likely as Oyster Breath discovering mints.
I checked the clock. I’d almost forgotten about my doctor appointment. While showering that morning, I’d felt a lump in my armpit. I called Dr. Lerman’s office on the way to work and pleaded with the receptionist to fit me in.
“Please, please, please,” I said. When I gave her my name, she said “Oh,” as if she suddenly realized who she was dealing with. It’s not that I go to the doctor’s a lot, but maybe more than most people because I worry so much. Last month, I’d apparently pulled a muscle from running. It happened on a Friday. By the following Monday, I was convinced I had lung cancer and was going to die.
My grandmother died from lung cancer after going to the doctor about a back pain, so of course I figured I had cancer, too. By Monday my fears had spiraled out of control and I could hardly breathe it hurt so much. Dr. Lerman sent me for chest X-rays immediately and had me wait for the results. When I learned there was absolutely nothing wrong, it was like a huge weight was lifted off my chest. The pain just vanished. It was the weirdest thing. I never would’ve believed my fears and anxiety could actually produce phantom symptoms, but they did.
When I discovered the lump, the only thing I could think about was this tearjerker movie in which a young mother died from cancer that was detected during a routine office visit. The lump was near her armpit. So, knowing how my worries manifest into symptoms, I made the appointment.
When I arrived at Dr. Lerman’s office, a woman with a throaty Midwestern accent talking on a cellphone followed me in the door. Dressed in what I would classify as retro bohemian she looked like she was ready to smoke a joint and party. I swear she had a ring on every finger – even her pinkies.
I hate with purple passion people who talk on cellphones in waiting rooms, or anywhere I’m a captive audience. She sat beside me and put the caller on speaker. (No, I’m not kidding.) They talked about a guy (“He was a lousy lay anyway!”) who dumped the caller earlier that day. Thank God the nurse called me back to the examination room because I was about to go hang out in the bathroom.
Covered with a thin paper sheet, I drifted off on the examination table. Dr. Lerman startled me when she opened the door.
I sat up. “Sorry, Dr. Lerman. Tough day. I probably smell like smoke.”
She sniffed the air. “You do a little. Why?”
“Covered a fire today and didn’t have a chance to shower.”
She nodded and went over my medical history. “So, let me see this lump.”
I held my right arm straight up and the paper covering fell down around my waist. She pushed against the lump with her fingertips.
She pulled off her plastic gloves. “Nothing to worry about, Sydney. It’s just a pimple.”
I sighed. “Thank God, because I really thought it was cancer and that you were going to tell me I was going to die and never have kids and never grow old and never be a grandmother, even though I’m not sure I want kids and growing old isn’t bad because it means I’m alive but I don’t want to look old and I definitely don’t want to be a grandmother until like fifty years from now – if at all.”
“Wow, Sydney,” Dr. Lerman said. “How are you sleeping, by the way?”
“Well, since you asked – I’m having trouble. I just can’t shut off my brain. You know how I hate odd numbers, right?”
Dr. Lerman nodded.
“Except 666. I hate that number, too, even though it’s even. I got a receipt yesterday and it was for $6.66. I asked the clerk if she could add two pennies to it, but she said she couldn’t. I thought about buying something else, but then I added two pennies to the penny dish on the counter, figuring that covered me.”
Dr. Lerman cleared her throat. “Wow. Okay, then. And the sleep?”
“Yeah, that. So, as I was saying I hate odd numbers. Now I’ve been watching the clock and if the clock ends in an odd number, like 11:03, I have to wait until 11:04 to close my eyes. But if the time ends in an odd number but the two last digits add up to an even number, then I’m okay. So like 11:13 is fine because even though it ends in an odd number, one plus three equals four, which is even.”
“Sydney,” Dr. Lerman said. “Maybe it’s time we had a serious talk about your anxiety issues.”
I squirmed on the table. “Do we have to? I’m not crazy about taking medication.”
Dr. Lerman sat down across from me. “Would talking with someone help?”
I shrugged.
“Look,” Dr. Lerman said. “If we start you on a very low dosage of medication, just enough to take the edge off your anxiety, you’ll be able to sleep better. You want to do that, right?”
I nodded. “It would be nice to be able to shut off my brain and fall asleep when my head hit my pillow. I’m not sure that’s even possible.”
“There’s only one way to find out.” Dr. Lerman called in a prescription. “Let me know if it helps. I’m going to start you out on half a pill, but if it’s not enough, we’ll increase it to a whole tablet. How does that sound?”
“I’ll give it a try.”
By the time I got home, I had a little bit of a second wind, but not enough for Zumba. Maybe a walk. I hadn’t planned on confessing my odd, no pun intended, behavior to Dr. Lerman. But maybe she was right. Maybe I did need something to help curb my anxiety. It couldn’t hurt. Maybe this was the something new Horoscope told me to embrace. Besides, the whole odd and even thing was beginning to stress me out in other areas of my life. For example, I liked having an even number of pencils in my caddy at work. When I bought bananas, I looked for a bunch with an even number. It didn’t bother me that after eating one, there’d be an odd number left, as long as I started with an even number. I know, I’m a freak! I knew Dr. Lerman was right about my anxiety and obsessive behavior affecting the quality of my life and I definitely needed to get more sleep if I was going to function at my best.
Chapter Six
Tuesday, July 19
Someone close asks for your advice. Be honest. They’ll benefit from your wisdom and experience. Communication is key. Tonight: Make it early.
My BFF Jen called to complain about this guy she’s been dating. He has potential, but there are some things about him that bug her.
“He doesn’t call me,” Jen said. “He texts all the time!”
I laughed. “Sounds like you met your twin when it comes to texting.”
Jen sighed. “He texts way more than I do. Maybe he’s lazy.”
“Come on, Jen. Whether we like it or not, nowadays the default is to text. Running late? We send a text. Want to know what someone’s doing? Send a text. Besides, did you tell him how much it bugs you?”
“No.”
“Send him a text!”
We laughed.
“Seriously,” I said. “He’s not going to know you prefer he call, at least every once in a while, if you don’t tell him.”
“And another thing,” Jen said. “Why can’t he ask me before Friday if I’m free over the weekend?”
“Does he know you like to plan ahead?” I asked.
“No, but he should. What girl doesn’t know what she’s doing for the weekend by Wednesday?”
“Look, the next time you see him, tell him how you feel. That you want to talk more and text less and you usually have your weekend plans figured out by the middle of the week. Either he’ll get with the program or not.”
“I don’t know what I’d do without you, Sydney. I miss you. I wish we lived closer.”
“Me too. And you can thank my horoscope.”
“What?”
I explained how I was following my horoscope, using it as a daily guide.
“So today it said someone close would seek my advice and I should be honest.”
“That’s kind of creepy,” Jen said. “Do you think it’s because it’s at the top of your mind so you’re making a correlation that’s not necessarily there?”
“What do you mean?”
“Remember the time I thought I was pregnant and everywhere I looked there were babies? I’d open up a magazine and see a diaper ad or watch TV and a talking baby commercial would come on. I don’t think there were suddenly more babies around. I just think it was at the top of my mind and so I noticed them more.”
“In other words, you don’t want me to put too much trust in my horoscope,” I said. “It’s purely coincidental that my best friend called me for advice on the very same day my horoscope predicted someone close to me would. Maybe you’re right, but what the hell. I don’t have anything to lose.”
“True,” Jen said. “You don’t. So what’s up with the Hottie Advertising Guy?”
“Nothing! Zilch! Zero!”
“Hang in there, Syd. The right guy will come along.”
“You know, I’m beginning to not care any more. I mean, no guy is better than some guy. I’m beginning to think guys are just too much work.”
“You’ve got a serious case of relationship blahs.”
“Maybe. Or maybe I’m just coming to terms with the idea that my happiness shouldn’t be contingent on what a guy will or won’t provide. Single isn’t synonymous with desperate. I have my standards and I have to believe when the time is right, it’ll happen.”
“I wish I had a tape recorder,” Jen said.
“Why?”
“So I could record what you just said and play it when you’re back to totally crushing on Hottie Advertising Guy – which, if history repeats itself, will be by this time tomorrow.”
“You’re impossible!”
Jen laughed. “But I’m usually right.”
Ten minutes after I got off the phone with Jen, Jada called.
“Sydney, I need some advice.”
“I feel like Lucy but no one’s paying me.”
“Who’s Lucy?”
“You know. Lucy in the Charlie Brown comic strip. She sets up an advice booth. You’re the second friend who’s called for advice tonight. Anyway, what’s up?”
“My eggs. They’re getting old.”
“So throw them out, go to the store and buy new ones.”
“Not those eggs, dummy. My eggs. The ones in my body, the ones I was born with, the ones waiting to be fertilized by the perfect male specimen.”
“Whoa. Slow down. What in the hell are you talking about?”
“Okay. So you know I’m seeing two guys, Michael and Mitch. Two M’s, I know. Very confusing. Sometimes I find myself calling Mitch, Michael and Michael, Mitch. Anyway. I’m seeing both of them. Not sleeping with either. They both would make great dads, but they both have pluses and minuses.
I started unloading my dishwasher. “No one’s perfect.”
“True, but just listen. Michael is ready to take the relationship to the next level. He’s wants an exclusive relationship. Mitch is more willing to continue the dating game but seems to want kids more than Michael. Meanwhile, my eggs are getting older and time is running out.”
I stood on my tiptoes to put the cereal bowls on the top shelf. “What’s more important, Jada? Having a baby or finding the love of your life?”
(Insert pregnant, no pun intended, pause here.)
“My advice is to date a lot. Don’t let your eggs dictate your relationship. Take the time to find the right guy. Besides, I just read somewhere more and more professional women are freezing their eggs when they’re young so they have them later in life when they’re ready to have a child.”
“You’re not helping, Sydney,” Jada said. “What’s all that noise anyhow?”
“I’m unloading the dishwasher.”
“Oops! Gotta go,” Jada said. “Mitch, I mean Michael, is at my door.”
I finished putting the dishes away and was just about to jump into the shower when Victoria called.
“Jesus. Do I have counselor stamped on my forehead or what?”
“What?” Victoria asked.
“Never mind. What’s up?”
“I just came from White-Button-Down-Shirt’s apartment,” Victoria explained. “Guess what I found in his couch cushion?”
“Twenty bucks?”
“I wish. I found a used condom. And I’m on the pill so it wasn’t from us.”
“Oh, Victoria. Please. That’s so gross!”
“I know, but I can tell you gross stuff and you’re one of my few friends who will actually listen.”
“Thanks, I guess. So what did he say?”
“He said it’s old.”
“Oh, God, Victoria. That’s even grosser. TMI! TMI!”
“Sorry, but I just had to tell someone and like I said, you’re the only person I know who won’t hang up on me.”
“Look Victoria, you need to protect yourself. Period. You don’t know him well enough to go raw dog.”
“Raw dog?”
“Yeah. It means…”
“I can figure out what it means. Just never heard anyone describe not using a condom as raw dog.”
“Well, now you have. And for your own piece of mind I’d get tested. Have him get tested, too.”
“And how do I even bring something like that up?”
“You just do.”
“You’re such a germophobe, Sydney.”
“I’m not a germophobe, just smart. And there’s no way I’m going raw dog unless I know for damn sure it’s been well cared for.”
“But I really like him,” Victoria said.
“And if he really likes you, he won’t have a problem with the request.”
I went to bed earlier than usual, and not just because Horoscope told me to make it an early night. I was exhausted. Advising people was hard work. I wondered if this was how a shrink feels after listening to people’s problems all day. I was even too damn tired to worry about whether the clock time ended in an odd or even number. Maybe I should make this advice gig permanent. I bet I’d make a good advice columnist. Maybe I should give it a try sometime.
Chapter Seven
Wednesday, July 20
Money is on your mind. Re-evaluate your spending. A financial overhaul might be in order. Set priorities. Tonight: Count your blessings.
Horoscope was right. Money has been on my mind. I was spending more than I was making and not saving at all.
I knew when I decided to become a journalist I’d never make a lot of money. It wasn’t high on the list of good paying jobs. Hell, it wasn’t on the list at all. Dad tried to talk me into marketing and public relations, but I knew I wanted to be a reporter ever since seventh grade when a journalist, a friend of the teacher, visited our classroom. I believe in the fourth estate and the role it plays in ensuring our democracy continues. I’ve always been proud to be a part of that. But, the lack of money has me eating more peanut butter and jelly sandwiches than I’d like.
So when Frankie asked me to go out to lunch, I knew I shouldn’t go, but I did anyway. I pulled out the emergency twenty I stashed behind my driver’s license to pay for my food. I followed Frankie to a table near the back of the deli. I wiped off the table, chairs and salt and pepper shakers.
Frankie bit into a pickle. “You’re the only person I know who carries wipes in her purse.”
I rolled the wipe into a ball. “Good thing for you I do. Do you realize the amount of bacteria on these surfaces?”
Frankie scrunched her nose. “Yuk! Stop! I’m trying to enjoy my food without having visions of E. Coli and Salmonella dancing in my head.”
I sat down and dug out the tiny bottle of hand sanitizer I keep in my purse. “Want some?”
Frankie rolled her eyes. “No. I don’t like using that stuff when I eat. It makes my food taste weird.”
“It doesn’t taint your food; your tongue touches your hand.” I squeezed some on my hands and rubbed them together. “What did we do before hand sanitizer and bacterial soap?”
Frankie sipped her soda. “We were probably a lot healthier. Not to change the subject, but did you think about trying that online dating site I told you about?”
I dipped my fork into the salad dressing I asked for on the side and jabbed it into my salad. “Still thinking about it. How’s it going with you and Josh?”
“It’s not. I went to his apartment last night.”
My eyes widened because Frankie rarely goes to a guy’s apartment. She has to really, really, really like a guy for it to get to the going-to-his-apartment stage.
“Nothing happened. We just talked. But his apartment was messy. The sink was filled with dirty dishes and his furniture looked dorm-roomy.”
“Did he have any books?”
“Negative. You know I’m not looking for a wall of classics, but an assortment would be nice.”
“Ouch.”
“Ouch is right. I’m not going out with him again. I told him last night I didn’t think we were right for each other.”
“What’d he say?”
“Nothing. He was mausoleum quiet. Luckily I drove so I could leave.”
“So who’s next on the dating list?”
“I think I’m going to give romance a break. Dating is a lot of work and I’d rather just hang out with you and the other singletons for a while. You guys are more fun and you don’t have an agenda.”
I laughed. “True, we are more fun, but nothing would beat finding the right guy.”
Frankie ate the rest of her pickle. “I’m beginning to think that’ll never happen.”
“Oh, come on, Frankie. I’m the one who’s always looking at the glass half empty. Don’t you dare ditch your sunny optimism.”
After lunch, I headed for an interview with a couple for a story I was doing on “modern” love letters. Part of my story was looking at the past when couples relied on written letters to keep love alive when they were apart. When I heard of Ronnie and Dorothy, I just had to meet them. They had hundreds of love letters going back decades, when he was a marine and she was his best girl.
In their early eighties, the couple – now gray-haired and a little rounder than when they first met – sat on their sofa holding hands. Letters were spread out on the coffee table in front of them. The box from which they came sat on the floor.
“We fell in love through our letters,” Dorothy said.
“She sent me a picture of her in shorts,” Ronnie said. “I slept on the bottom bunk and I put the picture under the springs of the top bunk so I could see her when I wrote to her.”
They shared their letters with me and as I listened to them explain how much the notes had meant to them, I realized how shallow today’s forms of communication are. Text messages and video chats just don’t compare to the written word.
Ronnie patted Dorothy’s hand. “And we still exchange notes today.”
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