This Is The Story I Don't Want To Write
I’m going to be honest with you right now. An open book. Like the open Google doc I’m looking at. I need to transmit a particular concept to you, but quite frankly, I lack the capacity or mental effort to create a suitable, accurate way to tell it to you. So, I’d rather just show you.
Close your eyes for a moment. We can establish that I won’t try to hypnotize you. I also won’t sneak up behind you and pull your pants down. Feel safe?
Picture yourself walking down the street, headed somewhere you ought to have been 10 minutes ago. It’s hot out. You’re getting a little tired from keeping a brisk pace. The sidewalk is teeming with more people than you’d like, forcing you to weave between them. You’ve somehow managed to choose today of all days to end up carrying what feels like an absurd number of bulky bags. They’re filled with things that are probably important, but you’re more than tempted to just chuck all of them into the nearest trash can. And, you have a blister. ( I sincerely hope you didn’t go into this expecting some relaxing guided meditation. Otherwise, this must be just about as much of a disappointment as finding an empty milk carton put back in the fridge.) Anyhow, (eyes are still closed, stay with me here.) just when you cross another street and really get into your self-pitying inner monologue about how hard your life is, you spot THAT PERSON, three blocks away.
At first, you try to convince yourself that your eyes must be lying. It can’t be. Maybe it’s a doppelganger. What on earth would bring them right here, right now? Just when you’re in the middle of your sorry-little-sprint-from-hell? But, they get closer and their face gets clearer. It’s undeniable now. You’re about to run into Them. “Them” could be anyone. Your boss. Your old coworker Christie whom you’ve cancelled “grabbing drinks” with three times. That kid you collected bugs with in elementary school whom you refuse to add on Facebook. That person you met on a plane once, talked to for six hours about their divorce, and swore you’d hang out with sometime. Your next-door neighbour who likes to talk. About her grandchildren. Prolongedly. We all have a “Them.” Your heart sinks down into your stomach as your eyes meet, and you see their face light up with recognition. This is happening. It would be awkward to sneak off to the other side of the street now.
In a minute, you two face each other and perform an obligatory mating, (sorry, meeting) dance. this includes the distinctive steps of: “Oh-my-goodness-what-a-coincidence!” and “I-swear-I-was-about-to-call-you!” You then proceed to a well-rehearsed two-person script that we all have memorized better than the multiplication table. Every time I hear ir or perform it, I love its unique structure even more. We utter various nouns: “Family?” “Work?” “That new diet?” and take turns following each with “Is all good.”
We’re reaching the end of the dance and, finally, here it comes. The mandatory making of mutually unwanted plans. (You’re still running late as all of this is going on, mind you.) Of course you’d love to grab coffee. To read their new screenplay. Watch their cat. Take a Krav Maga class together. What the hell even is Krav Maga? Whatever. Sure. Saturday. 7 pm. They’ll call you. You can’t wait to see them.
You can open your eyes now.
I’m sure you feel very relaxed.
I said I’d be brutally honest, right? At this moment, this document is my “Them.” On the other side of my desk, this file is that exact individual, meeting my gaze and making me wish it were socially acceptable to throw myself under a Fresh Direct truck to avoid a social interaction. The blinking cursor, the black lines of text, perhaps even your eyes, reading them. I don’t want to see you. Writing this story is my Krav Maga class. The plan I made. For Friday. 7pm. I had to go put pants on (I swear I usually have a dress code. It’s just been a fuzzy-socks and sweatshirt kind of day..) I had to show up. So here I am. Kind of late. Kind of sweaty. I’m about to put on a too-warm smile, run up to you with outstretched arms, and tell you I’m SO happy we’re doing this.
I told myself I’d sit and write. For two hours, straight. No breaks except for the ladies’ room, for occasional pacing, and for refilling my coffee cup. You know, for the bare necessities. I said that, by the end of the day, (or at least before I sleep,) I’d finish this. Fun fact: it’s not going so smoothly. If this were a razor, it would not get a sexy Venus “smooth as silk” commercial. But I’ve got to do this- I promised.
There are many things that I could do to write this story.
I could go make enough coffee to fill my eyebrow-raise-inducing giant mug ( which gets a concerning amount of use for what was supposed to be an ironic present.) I could go put on big black headphones and play a conveniently-assembled playlist of particularly energetic German heavy metal. You want a story? Give me two hours and I’ll bang it out. They say writers aren’t cool kids, and yet, it’s 2AM on Saturday and, between me and my MacBook, we’re banging. Plus, I get the luxury of only wearing my second-nicest panties. All you sorority chicks lacking midnight plans on Fridays should get on this “writing” thing. I owe more to German Heavy Metal and to that mug than American college kids owe to banks in student loans. The “Mug and Metal” combo has gotten me through dozens of lab reports, a “detailed reading” of Anna Karenina, and my senior thesis. I’ll hand the paper to you in the morning, and we’ll look each other, eye to not-enough-sleep-and-too-much-concealer-eye. You won’t know. I’m too good at wearing masks. Of all kinds. I’ll be scared to reread the results of my Rammstein-and-Nespresso-powered handiwork for at least a month. But, you’ll have your story.
Or, I could go to Staples and buy a bulletin board. No, I’ll do better- I’ll go on Pinterest and spend 7 hours crafting a DIY one with fancy scrapbook paper. I’ll buy an expensive planner and heavy, thin, metal ballpoint pens. I’ll buy seven colours of Post-Its. I’ll come home and nail up my bulletin - no - “Inspiration” Board. I’ll print motivational quotes in gaudy script handwriting fonts onto “Peppermint Green” and “Periwinkle Purple” paper. I’ll colour-code the planner and insert “obsessive-compulsive-chic” tabbed-dividers. I’ll plan out strategic, yet aesthetically pleasing, locations for the Post-Its. And I’ll write into my schedule -on the board, in the planner,and on the Post-Its: “Write Story.” I’ll pull out my phone and take a picture of my glorious productive masterpiece. Maybe post it somewhere. And... that’ll be enough work for that day. Cutting scrapbook paper is exhausting. But, my writing awaits: scheduled, “Inspired,” and posted on my mirror and on my Instagram. Obviously, tomorrow, I’ll write you your story.
Or, I could type out a title. I’ll spend a minute centering it at the top of the blank page, and the spend twenty minutes experimenting, trying to find the perfect font, (even though I know I’ll resort to my trusted, loyal friend 12 pt. Garamond anyhow.) I could hit “Enter” followed by “Tab” to indent for the first paragraph, then lean back in my chair and cross my arms. Fun fact - it’s not hard to win a staring contest against a blinking cursor. And you say I’m not accomplishing anything, just sitting here.
Maybe, I could go to my room and face my shelves. Look them up and down, (like a guy trying to decide if my friend is hotter than I am,) and start taking down books, piling them up in my folded arms. I could carry a teetering, clumsy stack to my desk and throw them down. I’ll sit. Flip frantically through pages, searching for years-old bookmarks. I’ll scribble occasional incomprehensible and seemingly unrelated half-sentences onto the back of a Chinese takeout menu. An hour later, I’ll sigh, pull on a jacket, and go to the biggest library I can find. I’ll anxiously pace among the shelves and stacks I usually stroll through with wonder, running my fingers along hundreds of paperback spines. Maybe, frustrated, moan softly under my breath a few times. (And trust me, you wouldn’t be turned on.) I could throw another wobbly pile onto the librarian’s desk and slide my card to her.
I’ll trudge home. Flip through more pages, not stopping to smell the aging paper like I usually would. I could run my hands endlessly through my hair, maybe scribble some more, open my laptop and hesitantly type sentences. I’ll pause between each painful addition, leaning back in my chair and blowing upward to move my hair out of my eyes. Eventually, the story will be long enough to be acceptable. (I’ll secretly use 2.05 spacing.) I’ll print it out and hand it to you without looking, avoiding eye contact with the sentences, almost as if we’d slept together in a gas station bathroom after a lot of vodka last Tuesday. And I’ll never read it. I’ll hope you never read it. But, there’ll be a story, I guess.
Lastly, I could arrive an hour late. I’ll assume you’ve read an essay’s worth of frantic messages of how my cat ran away just as I was leaving, and how then my boss called, and then I was stuck in “ such horrific traffic.” I’d have sent those messages while calmly sitting in my room and staring at my closet, not wanting to open it and bother getting dressed to leave. I could glance at my phone and note that, in exactly 2 hours and 45 minutes, it would become acceptable for me to set my “Sudden Phone Call From My Locked Out Roommate” escape plan in motion. I know full well that I’ll then go get bubble tea and have a romantic evening looking into the eyes… I mean, screen, of my phone. And I could extend my smile too widely and extend my arms to give you a too-tight and too-excited hug. I could tell you, in a sing-songy voice (dripping with counterfeit enthusiasm) how much I’ve missed you and how long I’ve been meaning to get in touch. And we could go off to Krav Maga, walking side by side and making talk smaller than Donald Trump’s hands.
Or, I could just show up. Not too dressed up. With kind of messy hair, and poorly-hidden-exhaustion. I could smile, but not too widely. Just a bit - as much as I can genuinely muster right now. I could extend my arm, inviting either a handshake or a half-hearted hug. I could open my mouth and say, (with a steady-but-tired voice,): “Hey, I’m glad you made it.” Because, quite frankly, if you’re still here, I AM glad to see you. Because the Masha typing this right now isn’t Instagram-picture-ready. There’s no beautiful bulletin board above this desk. My laptop has some crumbs on it, and my normal-sized mug is filled with lukewarm tea. The real Masha showed up for you, and you’re still here. It really is so nice to see you. You’re not, and never will be, a “That Person” to me.
A huge, huge thank you to the wonderful , caring, and creative team behind Gunas New York for this photo! Gunas is a high fashion vegan leather handbag company that I really admire for their dedication to creating gorgeous accessories while helping the fashion industry take steps toward being cruelty free. I’m so excited to feature many more of the stylish photos we took in another blog post coming in a few days! Thank you for being so kind to me and to the world!
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