The second woman said, “What are you complaining about? I’m thirty pounds overweight, my thighs are the size of tree stumps, and my husband is sleeping with my best friend. My son was caught smoking dope at recess and my daughter worships Satan. I’ve got to go now, I’m getting a migraine.”
The third woman said, “You don’t know how lucky you are! My husband lost his job and I’m flipping burgers to make ends meet. I’ve got bunions, an ulcer, and my breasts are shrinking. My son just poisoned the cat and my daughter won’t eat meat.”
The fourth woman said, “Cry me a river! What right have you got to be unhappy? My husband left me for a younger woman and my lover went back to his wife. My children are in therapy and my hair is falling out because of all this stress.”
Some of these women offered advice. “Have another baby,” they said. “Have a face lift. Have a tummy tuck. Have an affair. Have your cake and eat it too!”
“Count your blessings!” they all cried. “Count your blessings and be quiet!”
So she did. She counted her blessings like sheep, night after insomniac night while William snored on beside her.
These were the women who meant to be warriors. These were the women who had fully intended to take the world by storm. They had thrown off their shackles and donned the adamant armor of the women’s movement. They had wielded the weapons of intelligence and equal rights in one hand, while still brandishing the blessings of beauty and femininity in the other. These were the women who believed they could have it all. They had every reason to expect that, after all the battles they had won and all the strides they had taken, they would ultimately spread their wings and be free.
These were the women who had imagined they would always be true to themselves, would follow their hearts and their heads, would never succumb to bourgeois conventionality or be held in bondage by the power of men. They intended to speak out loudly and proudly, proclaiming their own stories for all the world to see. They intended to live lives of adventure, accomplishment, and the complete satisfaction of their every desire.
These were the women who said they would never worry about aging, who intended to wear their wrinkles with pride, who would never dye their hair. They would become wise old women, powerful lusty crones, respected and revered, the sage and sovereign swans of the postmodern world. And when the time came, their swan songs would be exquisite.
See what has become of them. Look at them, just look at them now. Imagine their surprise, their disappointment, at having ended up here.
Grace thought long and hard about blessings and luck. She pondered the problems of women. Busy with her own perfect life, safe inside her own beautiful house for all these years, she had not fully grasped the extent of them, the magnitude, the range, the versatility, the sheer titanic number of ways a woman’s life could go wrong.
No one had ever warned her that luck did not necessarily lead to happiness. No one had ever warned her to be careful what she wished for.
Now she could feel them, all the unhappy women waiting at the bottom of the stairs, clamoring at the gate, rattling their chains. She could hear their voices, screeching, strident, and shrill.
One by one they cried out to her:
“A faithful, intelligent, handsome husband who worships the ground you walk on!”
“Two healthy, clever, well-adjusted children who respect, admire, and love you with all their little hearts!”
“A flat stomach, flawless skin, straight teeth, long legs, breasts still perky, buttocks still firm, and not a single stretch mark in sight!”
“All the bills paid without worry, the mortgage payment made on time, and there’s always more where that came from!”
“A life of leisure!”
“A beautiful home!”
“The dresses, the hats, the shoes of your dreams!”
“And it’s not enough! It’s just not enough!”
It was still not enough.
They beat their breasts and pulled out their hair. They banged their pretty heads against the pretty walls. They tore off their clothes till there were heaving bosoms and big brown nipples everywhere.
They marched by the thousands through the hot dark night, a stampede of unhappy women demanding to be heard. They flexed their little muscles and stamped their dainty feet. They ranted and raved, they bellowed and roared, they hollered and grumbled and howled. They whipped themselves into a frenzy until, eventually, exhausted, they quivered and stumbled and fell to the ground in a heap. They whimpered and sniveled and wept.
But no one heard them. No one listened. No one except Grace.
The problems of women, Grace realized now, were like a swarming plague of locusts let loose upon the land.
They had sagging breasts, baggy buttocks, double chins, and wrinkles. They had varicose veins, cellulite, stretch marks, and mustaches. They had chronic depression and low self-esteem. They had menstrual cramps, yeast infections, ovarian cysts, and vaginal itching. They had menopause.
They had unfaithful husbands, ungrateful children, and underpaid jobs. They had unsatisfied longings, unarticulated yearnings, frustrated ambitions, and thwarted desires. They had housework.
They had nothing to look forward to but more of the same.
By now Grace was so depressed, some mornings she couldn’t even get out of bed. The children were so busy with their own lives that they hardly noticed. They did, however, stop inviting their friends over after school for fear of finding Grace still in bed or standing in her nightgown staring at herself in the dining room windows or the full-length mirror, her hair all matted and a half-eaten box of doughnuts in her hand.
William carefully suggested that perhaps it was time for professional help. He arranged an appointment with a doctor reputed to be the very best in the field of female problems. Because Grace was so incapacitated, this doctor generously agreed to make a house call.
First he coaxed Grace out of bed and then he proceeded to examine her. He was thorough and kind. He shone a little light into her eyes and then into her ears. He tested her reflexes which were sluggish and took her pulse which was slow. He slipped his cold stethoscope inside her nightgown and listened to her heart both front and back. He patted her hand which was limp and checked her blood pressure which was low. He asked if she had headaches, double vision, nausea, flatulence, or tingling in her fingers and toes. He asked after the condition of her reproductive organs which were fine and after her state of mind which, obviously, was not.
When he was finished, he smiled sympathetically and nodded his wise head. He pointed at her with one long finger and said, “You, my dear, are in terrible shape!” Grace already knew this.
“Can you help me?” she whispered desperately.
“Of course I can,” he answered heartily. “Of course I can help you, but your case calls for drastic measures.” He turned to look at the clock on the wall. “Come now, come now, there’s no time to waste!”
The doctor led Grace down the stairs and into her beautiful kitchen. Grace did not question him. He was a doctor. She trusted him.
He asked her to take off her clothes. She did.
He asked her to lie down on the table. She did. The white linen tablecloth was clean and soft beneath her naked back.
He touched her elegant neck and her graceful shoulders. He patted her long auburn hair which hung over the edge of the table. He admired her generous but not floppy breasts and her shapely but not heavy hips. He complimented her on her flat stomach and her tasteful navel.
He covered her long legs and her dainty little feet with the end of the tablecloth and then placed a white dish towel on her chest.
He opened his medical bag and took out a needle. The prick in her arm was so small she hardly felt it.
As Grace began to fall asleep, the kitchen filled with streaming beams of sunlight and pearly pillowy clouds. Angels gathered, the spirits of women, would-be warriors, itinerant swans. Music played, a rousing march of ascension interspersed with fema
le voices, chanting.
The doctor held a knife in his hand.
He leaned over Grace, smiling sympathetically and nodding his wise head.
He made one careful cut to her left breast.
Another cut.
Another.
There was no blood. There was no pain.
And then he ripped her heart out.
RULES OF THUMB: AN ALPHABET OF IMPERATIVES FOR THE MODERN AGE
Avoid the temptations of envy, pride, fast food, and daytime TV talk shows. Succumbing to the temptation of envy will turn you into a bitter and twisted person who is unable to share in the happy love af-fairs and dazzling career triumphs of your friends. When they call you all excited to tell you how wonderful their lives are, you will change the subject. Soon they will stop calling and you will end up not only bitter and twisted, but very lonely as well. You will have to go for lunch all by yourself.
If, on the other hand, you succumb to the temptation of pride and go around telling everyone about your many career accomplishments and your amazing sex life, you too will end up having lunch alone. (Despite all those self-help books touting the importance of high self-esteem, most people, when faced with it in real life, find it very annoying. Most people prefer to hang around with others whose self-esteem is as low as their own.)
One obvious antidote to both envy and pride is gossip. If you know a secret about one of your former friends, you are honor-bound to tell it to the rest of the group. They, of course, must be sworn to secrecy before they can then go ahead and spread the nasty rumor around. Remember that gossip is no good without names, dates, and graphic details. Remember that everything you say can and will be used against you once it finds its way back, as it always does, to the person whose beans you spilled.
The end result of all this envy, pride, and gossip will be a number of upscale downtown restaurants filled each day at noon with well-dressed people having lunch at pretty little tables for one. They all read while they eat so as to avoid having to meet the eyes of the other solitary diners.
At this uncomfortable juncture, you may find yourself fleeing to the fast food outlet across the street where you can indulge in a greasy double cheeseburger and a Styrofoam bucket of fries and gravy without running the risk of seeing anyone you know. It is here (and only here) that you may safely engage in an animated conversation with a total stranger at the next table about the talk show you saw on Monday afternoon when you left work early and the topic was “My Mother Is Having My Boyfriend’s Baby.” It is here (and only here) on your orange plastic chair at your white plastic table, eating off your brown plastic tray, that you may safely admit that you love these shows because they prove that the world is full of losers whose lives are much more miserable than your own.
Be ironic whenever possible. In this age of anxiety a sense of humor may be your most valuable asset. Learn to spot ironic opportunities everywhere. Make sarcastic comments about anything commonly held dear to most (less clever) people’s hearts. Conversations not filled with witty repartee and self-congratulatory laughter are seldom worth having. Never be naive or sentimental unless you can do so in an ironic way. If you take pleasure in certain pastimes which are no longer considered chic, be sure to do so ironically. If, for instance, you belong to a weekend bowling league, buy your own two-toned bowling shoes and a turquoise marblized bowling ball with a monogrammed vinyl carrying bag.
To become a true master of irony, you must learn to be ironic without even opening your mouth. Adopt an ironic smile, an ironic wardrobe, an ironic (but not unflattering) hairstyle, and, above all, an ironic posture which will enable you to lounge ironically against any available vertical surface while sipping an ironic glass of Perrier water or imported draft beer.
After yet another evening spent smiling and slouching while occasionally flinging about clever insults and aphorisms, you may wind up at home alone feeling a little ashamed of yourself, a little dirty perhaps, a little less than genuine. It is safe to disregard these niggling misgivings because, after a good night’s sleep, you will wake up feeling refreshed and ironic all over again. This is the beauty of irony: once you’ve got the hang of it, you’ll never have to take yourself seriously again.
(A word of caution: There are still some behaviors and pastimes which can never be categorized as ironic. These include: committing any type of violent and/or sexual crime, displaying racist lawn ornaments in your front yard, wearing a mink coat, collecting stamps, owls, or unicorns, reading pornographic magazines, vomiting in someone else’s car, and sleeping with your best friends spouse.)
Consider yourself lucky if you have a satisfying career, a loving partner, or a well-insulated (and tastefully deco-rated) roof over your head. If you have all three of these, consider yourself miraculous. Try not to dwell on the fact that your perfect life is probably too good to be true and so is more than likely to fall apart any minute now. Try not to be overcome too often by a sense of impending doom.
If you find that you must associate (through no fault of your own) with people whose lives are generally a mess, try not to be smug. Try to be sympathetic and encouraging. Assure them repeatedly that someday their ship too will come in. In the meantime hang on fiercely to all that you have got and do not lend them money, your trench coat, or your car. (Sharing is a noble concept which should be instilled in all small children but is advisable to grow out of once you become a successful adult.) If these hapless people annoyingly persist in harping on how lucky you are, point out to them that it was not luck, it was just good planning on your part. Assure them repeatedly that life is what you make it and that, in the end, everybody gets what they deserve.
Develop a taste for foreign food. This does not mean pizza, spaghetti, egg rolls, fortune cookies, French fries, or French toast. This means elaborate unusual dishes with unpronounceable names featuring many exotic (and expensive) ingredients available only in specialty stores (or, in extreme cases, by mail order). Purchasing these ingredients will necessitate running all over town, popping in and out of small fragrant stores all day long with your recipe clutched in your hand. Although this may be rather time-consuming, you will be spared the unfortunate experience of shopping in a large supermarket where you would be forced, under unflattering fluorescent lighting, to rub carts with all manner of uninteresting people intent on accumulating a whole week’s supply of wieners, Wonder bread, canned peas, Cheez Whiz, and Hamburger Helper (with which they will then feed their many children who are now riding around in their shopping carts while screaming at the top of their lungs and throwing jars of Miracle Whip on the floor).
By perfecting your eclectic meal-by-meal marketing technique, you will eventually find it necessary to venture into a supermarket only occasionally, to purchase such unamusing and yet useful staples as floor wax, laundry detergent, dish soap, and toilet paper.
(Please note: If, in times of stress or laziness, you still harbor a residual fondness for certain foods available only in supermarkets—items such as butterscotch pudding, frozen waffles, Spam, or Froot Loops—remember that these should be consumed only in the privacy of your own home, preferably late at night while watching television in your flannelette pajamas and your bunny slippers. Such deviant indulgences are acceptable only if you refer to them as comfort food and nobody else ever sees you eating them.)
Exhibit a marked sartorial preference for the color black, especially if you are involved (even marginally) in pursuits of an artistic or literary nature. Whatever the occasion, black is always not only acceptable but positively preferable.
When shopping for clothes, you will be pleased to discover that there is apparently no limit to the variations available within this color scheme. Black clothes, you will observe, are like snowflakes: no two of them exactly alike. You should acquire as many versions as possible of: the little black dress, the little black suit, the little black shirt, the little black sweater, the little black skirt, and the little black pair of pants.
As far as accesso
ries are concerned, you will want to accumulate a comprehensive selection of black belts, black gloves, black stockings, black scarves, and black shoes. (Black underwear remains a matter of personal preference and is, you should realize, often misunderstood.) A black leather jacket, no longer worn only to accessorize a motorcycle, is now considered tasteful across all social strata.
The versatility of black clothing knows no bounds. Not only does an all-black wardrobe elevate the notion of mix-and-match to a fine art, it also bears no seasonal restrictions. Although it is still considered declasse to wear white after Labor Day, black is as welcome at a picnic as at a Christmas party.
If on occasion you feel the urge to break out of this monochromatism you may introduce (with discretion and restraint) items of the following colors: white, off-white, eggshell, ivory, ecru, beige, tan, ocher, and oyster. Under no circumstances whatsoever is it permissible to include anything in lime green, hot pink, or fluorescent orange. Indeed, if the store in which you are shopping does sell clothing in any of these colors, you are in the wrong place and should evacuate the premises immediately.
Find yourself a good therapist whether you think you need one or not. Chances are that if you don’t need one right now, sooner or later (probably sooner) you will. The choice of a therapist is a complicated process in which you must give lengthy consideration to the age, gender, wardrobe, sexual orientation, and educational credentials of each candidate. Do not neglect to also evaluate the issues of office location and decor. Do your research thoroughly to gather a clear picture of each candidate’s success rate with other clients. If, for example, the most maladjusted insane person you know has been seeing the same therapist twice a week for the past twenty years with no signs of progress, do not go there. Also be wary of any therapist who sees your spouse, your ex-spouse, your lover, your other lover, your best friend, your boss, or your cleaning lady.
Forms of Devotion Page 13