One evening, way, way back in 2005, I was teaching the art of the introduction to my creative writing class at Hunter College. "You want to give enough information that the reader accompanies you on your journey," I said. "But not so much information that they feel they've read the whole story before the end of the first page. It's a delicate balance, like dating. You should be who you are, but you don't have to be everything you are all at once. Otherwise, why buy the cow?" Later that night, grading papers at a local French joint near my then apartment, I found myself in a conversation with a tall, attractive musician whom I'd noticed there before and with whom I'd exchanged glances. After his set, this musician, who played an instrument called an ud (pronounced ood), was very charming and talkative and came to sit down and share a salad with me. We talked about John Coltrane's big, sweet notes and the genius of Henry Miller. The next thing I know, we're the last people in the place and he's offering to walk me home. Clearly, I agreed. The night was clear and crisp and even though he told me he just got out of a long relationship and was in a "weird place," I invited him upstairs.
That was Monday. When Saturday rolled around and he hadn't called, I hearkened back to his remark about the ex and chalked it up to a nice experience with a talented being and tried to forget about it. Unfortunately, I ended up the following Monday grading papers at the same joint. Only this time I was wearing an overly-revealing revealing wrap dress. I was also waiting for him. I could feel it.
The thing is, earlier that same evening, teaching my class, I'd been talking about the idea of truthful distance (AKA control) versus detachment. You want to feel something, but you want to have a little perspective, otherwise, your piece (and, let's face it, your peace) runs the risk of being a rant instead of a story. The distance is actually a more effective tool to communicate true feeling than the raw feeling itself. The non-attachment IS connection. It's closeness. That's Kierkegaard's third remove and if he were alive today he would be a big proponent of AOL's Send Later button. If Soren were really mad at Ludwig, maybe he would type out the enraged ending-the-friendship email at four in the morning, but he would hit Send Later, snuff his candle and go to sleep. He would wait until the next day to review what he wrote and delete for something with a slower, deeper burn.
That night, as I crossed Atlantic Avenue with my musician and his ungainly ud, I knew I was making another heart-mistake, but was having a hard time steeling that better brain. So instead of getting to my door and saying, "Thanks for walking me home," I began to deliver a huge and hugely personal soliloquy about my not-so-distant past: my novel that wasn't published, my ex-boyfriend who was stalking me and the fact that I was about to move in with my parents at age 37. "I have crow's feet," I told him. "Lines. Nipple hair. My butt is sagging and my pap smear's irregular and sometimes I get so lonely I can't believe it. I can't believe that this is me. How did this get to be me???"
We never spoke again; though he did text me a week later about some long johns which he'd left in my apartment. I'd donated them, along with a bag of other clothes, to Partnership for the Homeless. I spent about fifteen minutes composing an overly lengthy, cute text re: his pants and what I'd done with them.
But then I clicked "Send Later" and didn't.
Emily, darling, crow's feet are in the eye of the beholder. I haven't seen them on you. If you are truly looking at a reflection of yourself, you will find that they don't exist.
Meanwhile, it has been my experience that giving the milk away for free doesn't actually remove crow's feet, if one indeed had them.