Ace Jones: Mad Fat Adventures in Therapy (3 page)

I don't answer right away and I'm ready to start squalling for real and I don't even know why. After several minutes pass, I say, “Having that job would solve a lot of my problems.”

“The immediate ones, I suppose,” she says. “A job would put money in your bank account, require you to wear something other than jogging pants, and get you out of the house, but would it solve
all
of your problems? Would you be completely happy if you had your old job back?”

I don't want to go where this conversation is about to take me, but I guess that's why I'm here so I try to be honest. “No,” I say.

“And why is that?”

“Because I would still miss Mason.” There it is.

“Tell me about Mason.” Here we go.

“Mason is my ex-fiancé,” I say. I give her the short version of our pitiful “he loves me he loves me not” love story which ends with me saying, “And then he proposed and I moved to Florida and—” I stop talking because I can't continue without breaking out in a Lilly Lane–style sobbing fit.

“Sometimes we imagine people, places, and things to be something that, in reality, they are not. For example, we might build up expectations for a hotel or a vacation destination that, when we arrive, doesn't measure up to the vision we created in our mind, but we're invested emotionally and otherwise so that creates a crisis because we don't feel what we think we should feel.” I nod to indicate that I understand. “Are you mad at Mason?”

“Of course not,” I say and I'm barely hanging on. I stare at the ceiling and Rosemary doesn't speak so I go ahead and say what I know I have to: “Mason McKenzie is a wonderful person and I love him very much and will love him until the day that I die.” That does it. I start squalling and can't stop. Rosemary hands me a box of tissues. After a few minutes, I calm down enough to tell her the whole story about what happened in Florida and why I couldn't stay.

“It's okay,” she says. “Your heart will mend and your soul will find peace.”

“When?” I ask her. “I'm ready to start on that right now.”

“It takes time, and you don't want to rush it. The healing process, however long it may be, can greatly enrich your life.” I want to call bullshit on that, but I don't. Rosemary continues, “You might not believe this, Ace, but you're in a wonderful place right now. This is a new beginning for you.” She's right. I don't believe that at all, and, actually, I despise new beginnings. I just want to get over it, dammit! And I want to get over it right now! Rosemary is still talking. “It's good you went to Florida because that experience provided you with a deeper understanding of who you are and what you want from life.” What I want is for someone to tell me why things couldn't have worked out differently for me down there. What I want is for someone to explain how I could've been so wrong for so long about how and with whom I wanted to spend the rest of my life. What I want more than anything is for someone to tell me how in the hell I could've been so incredibly foolish as to buy into the idea that a fairy tale life existed for someone like me. As my mind spins, I come to the dreadful realization that the person I'm most mad at is me. “Ace?” Rosemary says and I snap back to reality. Cold, harsh reality.

“I'm sorry,” I say, and I'm seething inside. How could I have been so stupid? I look at Rosemary, who looks deeply concerned. “Could you please repeat that last part?” I ask, and she starts comparing my life to a blank canvas and then starts talking about me being an artist and I feel like I'm going to throw up.

“It's time to get to work on your next masterpiece,” she says. It's all I can do not to roll my eyes because I do not believe that I'm capable of accomplishing the endeavor she's suggesting. Poor Rosemary. What did she ever do to deserve having someone like me come in here and lie on her couch? She needs people with fixable problems. Like Chloe. “Have you ever considered Vipassana meditation?” she asks.

“I don't know what that is.”

“It's an ancient Indian meditation technique during which we strive to see ourselves clearly and as we really are.” I'm seeing myself pretty clearly right now, but probably not in the way she's talking about. “It's a practice I highly recommend.”

“Okay,” I say.

“What we have to realize is that true happiness doesn't come from our manipulation of the external world but from the cultivation of wisdom in our minds. Through meditation, we gain a deeper understanding of who we are. From there we can start to recognize the mental impurities that cause pain and distress, and then our mindfulness of that can eventually ease our suffering.” I'm not sure I follow, but I nod like I know exactly what she's talking about. “We have to purify our minds in order to find peace.” She slides down onto the floor like a snake. “Join me,” she says. I get down there with her and lean back against the couch. I sit like she's sitting. “Close your eyes and breathe,” she says. “Just breathe.” She takes a few deep breaths and I do the same. We sit there for a minute, and then she tells me to pay attention to how I feel but the only thing I feel is dizzy from all that deep breathing. “Now focus on what comes to mind, and see if it pertains to the present, the past, or the future. Don't try to control your thoughts; just let them flow freely through your mind.” The only thought flowing freely through my mind is in the form of a question:
What the hell am I doing on the floor?

I don't know how many minutes pass, but something starts buzzing somewhere and she tells me I did a good job. Of what, I'm not sure. I get back on the sofa.

“I think your journey is off to a great start, Ace,” she says quietly. “You opened up today and released a lot of pain. I want you to try and meditate a few times a day if you can.” She walks over to a piece of furniture that looks like an antique sideboard. She picks up a few booklets and gives them to me. “This is some basic information on the practice of Vipassana. There are some Web sites listed here, but I recommend checking out books at the library because that's a much more reliable source of information.”

“Thank you,” I say. I stand up when she opens the door.

“It was very nice to meet you,” she says. “Thank you for coming in today. You can make another appointment with Aurelia if you like.”

“Thank you,” I say again. “It was nice to meet you, too.” Rosemary closes the door behind me. When I get to the waiting area, Aurelia isn't at the desk. I slip out, grateful that I don't have to lie or make up phony excuses about why I don't want another appointment. When I get to my car, I realize that I still have the gift certificate in my purse. Chloe must've just written them a blank check and was like, “Please help my crazy loser friend however long it takes.” I turn the radio on and scan through the channels, but it's all commercials and weather bulletins. Bugtussle is under a winter storm watch. I pop in a Pink CD and turn up the volume.

•   •   •

When I get home, I find Buster Loo curled up on the sofa. I turn the heat up, put on some jogging pants, and snuggle up beside him. We nap like kings until late afternoon when I'm aroused from my slumber by the doorbell. I get up and stumble to the back door, where I find Lilly Lane.

“Let me in!” she shouts. “It's freezing out here!” I open the door and she comes inside with two grocery bags. “You busy?” she asks as she hauls her bags up and onto the counter.

“Not especially, no,” I say. Buster Loo comes into the kitchen, sniffs Lilly's boots, then hops out the doggie door.

“Dax is working until midnight,” she says. “I told him if he needed me, I'd be at your house. I don't want to sit home all by myself in this dismal weather so I thought we could make some soup. Hope that's okay.”

“That's perfectly okay,” I say. I unload the bags she put on the counter. There's tortilla chips, a loaf of French bread, bananas, shredded cheese, Velveeta, four cans of corn, one can of Rotel, two boxes of crackers, and a package of Oreos. “What kind of soup did you have in mind?” I say, looking at her groceries.

“Oh, I don't know,” she says, smiling. “You always tell me to bring tortilla chips or French bread.”

“Okay, so I could make chicken enchilada soup to go with the tortilla chips or corn chowder to go with the French bread. Which one would you like?”

“Hmm, that's a tough decision,” she says. “What are you in the mood for?”

“I love them both,” I say. “What does Dax like?”

“He loves your corn chowder.”

“Well, let's make that and you can invite him over for dinner.”

“Sounds great!” she says. “You want some Rotel dip?”

“Lilly, I always want some Rotel dip.”

I get out my grandmother's cookbook and flip to the soup section while Lilly digs around in my cabinets until she finds a bowl. She works on the dip while I chop red peppers and potatoes.

“You told Chloe all you had over here was Corona and frozen pizza,” she says, eyeing the potatoes.

“I was joking,” I say. “Y'all know I don't eat frozen pizza.” I look at her. “And before you ask, yes. I went to my appointment this morning.”

“How did it go?” Lilly asks. She's trying to be nonchalant. Like giving someone a gift certificate for a prearranged mental health appointment is something people do all the time.

“I feel better,” I say, because I do. “It was good to air out all of my problems, but I don't think the practice of Vipassana meditation is for me.”

“The practice of what?”

“The ancient Indian art of insightful meditation.”

“Ace, I'm so sorry,” she says.

“No, it's fine,” I tell her. “I think it would be great if I could grasp it. The lady was very nice and she gave me some pamphlets. I'm all for a little quiet time and self-analysis every now and then, but I don't think I'll ever reach the level of enlightenment required to comprehend what's going on with that.”

“Chloe meditates like a monk,” she says. “I tried it, but it's not for me. Chloe says I have a monkey mind.”

That cracks me up. “Monkey mind?”

“Yeah, my mind is always jumping around everywhere so I can't focus on my thoughts.”

I hold up the bananas. “Is that what these are for?” I ask.

“Yeah,” she says laughing. “I knew you'd have monkey mind, too, so I came prepared.”

“Lilly, do you and Chloe really think I need counseling?”

“Chloe does,” she says, like a child laying the blame on an imaginary friend.

“You were there when she gave me that gift certificate to see a licensed professional counselor, Lilly.” She looks like she's about to cry. “It's okay,” I tell her. “I would just like to know if you really think that's what I need.”

“You of all people should understand someone going to extreme measures for a friend,” she says. I nod because she has a point. “Since you came home from Florida, you haven't been the same. I'm no shrink, but I can see that this breakup with Mason was different.”

“So y'all didn't suggest this because I had to go to court?”

“Well, that did cause some extra concern,” Lilly says. “I was terrified you were going to jail. To stay!”

“Truth be told, so was I.”

“What happened to you in Florida?” Lilly asks. “It's like you left all happy and free and then you came back with part of yourself missing. It's not like y'all haven't split up a hundred times before. Remember when you moved down there for the summer and then y'all broke up again and you moved back home and you were so happy. Well, you weren't happy, but you were happy to be back. Nothing like this. Ace, what happened?”

“It was all wrong, Lilly,” I tell her. “I was wrong. About everything. I hated being in that art gallery all by myself, and Mason talked about work all the time—I swear he never stopped—and when he wasn't talking about work, he was at work. Then when I pulled that stunt at the charity ball and he wanted me to apologize, I knew then—”

“Knew what?”

“That it was over. We were over. For good and forever and that there would be no getting back together.” Somehow that seems easier to admit after squalling my eyes out this morning on Rosemary's sofa. “He's a great guy, Lilly, you know that. And you know that I love him and I always will. But I finally realized that we're not meant to be together. I think we both realized that.”

Lilly stands there, shaking her head while she stirs the Rotel dip.

“I just wonder how many opportunities I passed up along the way because in the back of my mind I always thought it would be him. I never gave anyone else a chance because I was always holding on to that glorious hope of a life as Mrs. Mason McKenzie.”

“It just breaks my heart,” she says.

“Yeah, it's pretty freakin' sad,” I say. “But what can you do?”

“Hey!” Lilly says, and I can see that she just had a light bulb moment. “I know what you can do! You can come to yoga class with me.”

“I don't think I would fare any better in a yoga class that I did with the Vipassana meditation.”

“No, it's not like that at all. It's fun. Just trust me. We could start in the morning!”

“Lilly, please. Fat girls don't do yoga.” My trips to the gym haven't always been pleasant. Okay, I'm lying. My trips to the gym haven't
ever
been pleasant. Disastrous and humiliating would be much more accurate.

“There are three girls in my class right now who are quite a bit larger than you, sweetheart. The teacher is wonderful, and the class is basically stretching to relaxing music. Nothing complicated. Nothing dangerous. Please go with me! We can go at five in the morning.”

“Five in the morning!”

“I don't even want to hear it,” she says. “If I can do it, so can you. And I can tell from the way your hair looks that you slept all day today.”