Something New (28 page)

A sudden stab of regret slices through me as I watch Jonah tug at the safety belt and buckle himself in. What if he
does
get struck by lightning? What if this is the last time I ever see him alive? What would his last thoughts of me be just before he drifts off into the light?

As he starts the engine, I walk over to the driver’s window and softly rap my knuckles against the glass. He looks up, surprised, then lowers the window.

“Have a good trip,” I say, then bend down and give him a light peck on the cheek.

“Thanks.” He doesn’t smile, but I can tell he is relieved by my paltry offerings. “Go easy on the Lexus, okay?”

“What, no drag races?”

“Just keep the hairpin turns to a minimum.”

I allow myself to grin, and Jonah follows suit.

“I love you,” he says, and I know he thinks he means it, just as most people in their second decade of marriage believe they mean the words that automatically tumble out of their mouths.

“Love you, too,” I return, because although I’m not feeling it right now, somewhere deep down inside me, it must be true. At least, I hope to God it is.

By
eight thirty, I have done four miles on the treadmill; taken a leisurely shower, during which I actually shaved my legs from my toes to my thighs (little do I know I will be inordinately happy about this in roughly six hours); have brewed an entire pot of coffee for my own consumption (how decadent is that?); have roamed through each and every
room of my blissfully empty house; and am now seated in front of my computer, waiting for it to boot up.

I already know what today’s post will be about, having decided upon it the moment my Flex turned off our block and my six days of Me Time officially began. When I log on to my blog, I bypass the dashboard and immediately begin typing in the new post, not bothering to see how many hits I’ve garnered or to scan the comments posted by readers. These things make no difference to me anymore. I couldn’t care less whether I win the damn competition. The process itself has become the thing. The rhythm of my writing, the consistency of my words, the discipline of creating a new piece of prose every day, no matter how sophomoric it may seem to me. These things are what matter to me now. I have recaptured a part of myself that I thought was lost. No matter what Jonah thinks, I am a writer. By trying something new, I have rediscovered something old. Something, I realize, that has been dying to be set free.

I have no idea where this literary reincarnation will lead; whether I will be an amateur blogger for the rest of my days, or finish my novel, or get a job on the local paper. But I do know that I will keep writing, just for me.

As I write, I am basking in the knowledge that I am alone in my house. No one will pop his or her head into the kitchen asking for a snack. I won’t be summoned to break up any fights. I won’t be interrupted by my shrieking daughter as she searches for her missing Silly Bandz or by Matthew wailing about his dead goldfish, or by Connor demanding more time on the Wii. For six full days, no husband will ask if I picked up his shirts from the dry cleaner or noisily rifle through the fridge for leftovers. This state of being is as close to heaven as it gets. And it is exactly what informs my blog.

After posting my blog, I spend the rest of the morning ransacking my closet, the first job on my list because it is the hardest for me to tackle. It is far easier to go through my children’s closets with a garbage bag, mindlessly chucking out anything I haven’t seen them use/wear/play with for the last year. But my own closet is a different story. How many times have I withdrawn that size six pair of Calvin Klein jeans I wore on my honeymoon and set them on the pile meant for Goodwill, only to return them to a hanger and
place them between the size six cocktail dress I wore to my wedding rehearsal dinner and the size four capri pants I fit into just after a particularly nasty bout of salmonella? For me, letting go of those jeans, and the dress and the capris, signifies letting go of the woman I used to be and accepting the fact that I will never be that woman again. I liked her. She was recklessly optimistic about life and its possibilities. She knew what she wanted and wasn’t afraid to do whatever it took to get it. She was sure of herself and secure with her place in the world. She was young.

With my hands on my (size eight) hips, I stand and gaze upon these items that have had an almost magical hold on me. For a long time, I believed that if I could fit into those clothes, I would be
that
Ellen again; by buttoning up the fly, or easing the zipper into place, I would suddenly cast off the ravages of time and be transformed. Slowly, as I run my fingers over the familiar fabric, it dawns on me that my beliefs were merely illusions birthed by a woman who had lost herself and wasn’t sure whether she would actually like herself if she was ever found.

One by one, I ease the capris, the cocktail dress, and the Calvins off their hangers, carefully fold them, and set them into a half-filled box labeled
Goodwill
. I wait a moment, anticipating that twinge of regret that will cause me to grab the clothes and return them to the safety of my closet, but I find that I have no urge to rescue them this time. It is not because I have let go of ever becoming that woman again, but because I now realize that I
am
that woman. Older, certainly more rounded, a few battle scars here and there, but the same woman nonetheless. The wrinkles and pounds may blur the image, but they do not erase the person at the core. I now know that being optimistic, having self-confidence, knowing
what you want and getting it are choices that we have to make every single day.

My reinvention, I finally understand, is not about becoming someone new. It’s about taking the Ellen of yesterday and the Ellen of today and blending them, so that the Ellen of tomorrow will be the best of both. This knowledge doesn’t slam into me like an epiphany, just eases through me like an IV drip. As I lift up the box, my eyes find my reflection in the mirror on the back of the closet door, and to my delight, I like the woman I see staring back at me. She looks confident. She looks strong. She looks like me.

It may well be that this new round of self-assurance and self-love is the result of endorphins, but what the hell? I’ll take it where I can get it. Besides, endorphins are a lot cheaper than Lexapro.

Just as I start down the stairs with the Goodwill box in tow, I hear a familiar voice call out from the entry hall.

“Hell-ooo! I’m home!”

I reach the landing just in time to see Mia, a vision in purple, disappear into the kitchen, singing an old blues number with her rich contralto pipes. Her arrival is not unexpected, even though we have not had so much as a phone conversation since book club last Friday. Every year, from my first boycott of the Arizona trip, she drops in around noon on the day my family leaves with a picnic basket full of grown-up food and chilled wine. I am glad that I finished my closet and did my run already, as I will be useless by the time she leaves.

I set the box by the front door, then follow the smooth sound of my friend’s song into the kitchen. I stop for a moment at the doorway, watching her as she unloads her bounty from the wicker basket onto my kitchen table: a loaf of
French bread, a triangle of Brie, a container of paté, some olives, and, of course, the Chablis.

“
’Cause any place I hang my hat is home
,’” she sings. Mia’s voice is butter-rich, sultry, and mesmerizing, and I have often told her that she could have been a star. To which she always replies that being a star would have meant starving herself, and she likes her fat ass just fine, thank you very much.

The ass in question is currently enrobed in a muumuu the color of a Pleione orchid, which actually makes it look larger than normal. Mia is a big woman, almost six feet tall, and carries around about sixty extra pounds. But she is more secure with her body than any woman I know. She doesn’t even mind that her husband is always on her case about losing weight, which would inspire nervous breakdowns and relationship implosions with any other couple.

“Oh, that’s just him,” she says, defending her man. “If I did go and join Jenny Craig and turned into some skinny bitch, he’d just find something else to harp on me about. That is, as they say, married life, girl. Still, he doesn’t complain at all in the sack, no. I give him a good whole lotta to hold on to, know what I mean?”

She turns to me now and smiles that teeth-whitening-commercial smile of hers. “There you are!” she says, rushing over to me with open arms. “Congratulations, girl. You’re free!”

We embrace like we haven’t seen each other in years, as that is Mia’s way. She embraces everything, for better or for worse, but good friends especially. She releases her hold on me and steps back, her smile suddenly absent, replaced by a pensive expression.

“Damn. You look
good
, Elle.”

I feel my cheeks flush at her praise. “Thanks.”

“No, really. I thought you looked different at book club, but you look even better now. Okay, girl, level with me. You go under the knife?”

“No!” I exclaim, shocked.

“It’s Mia, baby. Come on. Give it up. A little nip here, a little suck and tuck there. Right?”

“I swear to you, Mia. I’m just making healthier choices, that’s all. Treadmill. Low fat. Face creams. Like that.”

“Damn,” she repeats. “Well, it’s all working.” She glances over at the table and frowns. “You better not tell me you’re bowing out of this fine picnic,” she says sternly.

“Hell, no,” I assure her, because fighting with Mia is a losing proposition. “What’s life without a little cheating?”