I Miss You When I Blink

by Mary Laura Philpott

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  For John

  For my parents

  For WC and MG

  We know, we know, we belong to ya

  We know you threw your arms around us

  In the hopes we wouldn’t change

  But we had to change some

  You know, to belong to you

  —The Decemberists,

  “The Singer Addresses His Audience”

  I Miss You When I Blink

  It’s the perfect sentence, but I didn’t write it. My six-year-old did.

  I was sitting at the desk in my home office, on a copywriting deadline for a client in the luggage industry, wrestling with a paragraph about suitcases. I leaned forward, as if putting my face closer to the computer could help the words on the screen make garment bags sound exciting. My little boy lay on his belly on the rug, “working” to pass the time until our promised walk to the park. He murmured to himself as he scribbled with a yellow pencil stub on one of my notepads.

  “. . . and I miss you when I blink . . .” he said.

  It stopped me mid-thought. “Say that again?”

  “I miss you when I blink,” he answered, and looked up, pleased to have caught my attention. He turned back to his notepad, chattering on with his rhyme (I miss you in the sink . . . I miss you in a skating rink . . .). When he ripped off the page and tossed it aside, I picked it up and pinned it to the bulletin board on my office wall.

  I turned those words over in my mind while I folded laundry that afternoon. I thought about them while I brushed my teeth that evening. I repeated them to myself as I lay awake in bed. I said them out loud as I sat in traffic the next day. I miss you when I blink. I thought, How cute.

  * * *

  Over the next several months, I saw the note on the wall every time I walked into my office, and the phrase lodged itself in my head like a song lyric. I played with the words when I had writer’s block, tossing them about like a squishy stress ball. It would make a great title for a sappy love poem, I thought, one where the poet can’t stand to lose sight of his lover even for a split second. Or an album of goodbye songs, dedicated to a time or place that’s disappeared. Maybe a country ballad about a lost hound dog. The one that got away. Anyone could be the “you.”

  It was a few years later when it occurred to me: You could even say it to yourself.

  * * *

  We all keep certain phrases handy in our minds—hanging on hooks just inside the door where we can grab them like a raincoat, for easy access. Not mantras exactly, but go-to choruses that state how things are, that give structure to the chaos and help life make a little more sense.

  A friend of mine uses “not my circus, not my monkeys” a lot. It helps her ignore her instinct to get involved in things that aren’t her business, and it also makes her remember that people have all sorts of reasons for the things they do, many of which she’ll never understand. It’s useful for both behavior modification and acceptance.

  “No one’s getting out of here alive” is one of mine. I find it motivational and comforting. I say it to myself when I’m marching along on the elliptical machine, because it reminds me that there absolutely will come an end to my time on earth, and if I want to push it off as far into the distance as I can, I need to get my heart strong and work off the sugar I consume every day. I say it to myself when I’m trying to calm down and deal with a jerk, because it helps me put things in perspective. We’re all going to die, and would I really die with more points if I took this person down, or should I have some empathy and grace and let our differences go?

  Over time, “I miss you when I blink” became another one of these phrases. It helps me live in the moment. It slows me down and makes me absorb each instant instead of rushing, because I know already how much I miss things that happened in the past—how they’re right there behind my eyelids but also gone forever. When my now-teenage son is doing something very teenage son and I’m having to ask him for the eighth time in one evening to pick up his inside-out pants from the bathroom floor, “I miss you when I blink” helps me be more patient. He was six just a second ago. He’ll grow up and leave me in another second. “I miss you when I blink.” It captures the depths of my love. Could he have meant all this when he was little and scribbling, or was he just trying to rhyme with “sink”?

  There’s no way he could have known.

  * * *

  So he also couldn’t have realized how perfectly “I miss you when I blink” captures that universal adult experience: the identity crisis. But there it is.

  The old stereotypical identity crisis happens in midlife, to a man, and it features a twenty-five-year-old dental hygienist and a pricey sports car with an engine that sounds like a helicopter. The new stereotypical identity crisis happens to a woman, often when she’s turning forty, and it involves either a lengthy stay in Tuscany (ideally in a picturesque cottage) or a very long hike (maybe the trail to Machu Picchu? preferably with a large backpack). But the “I miss you when I blink” kind of identity crisis, that’s something else. Something under the radar, much more common.

  For so many people I know, there is no one big midlife smashup; there’s a recurring sense of having met an impasse, a need to turn around and not only change course, but change the way you are. It can happen anytime and many times. As we leave school and enter the real world, as we move in and out of friendships and romances, as we reckon with professional choices and future plans, and sure, when we hit midlife, but earlier and later, too.

  I think this repeated need for recalibration happens partly because so many ways of being are pitched to us—particularly to women—as either-or choices: You can have a career or a family; be a domestic goddess who cans her own strawberry jam or a train wreck who flaunts the wine in her coffee mug; wear a blazer and tote a bullet journal or stick pencils in your messy bun and wipe paint on your jeans. Pious or profane. One thing or the other. Even whether or not you buy into those dichotomies seems to be an either-or proposition: You believe in “having it all” or you believe “having it all” is outdated bunk. Pick a way.

  And it’s true that at any given second, a person is doing one thing or another. I can swallow a bite of toast right now or I can whistle the theme song from House of Cards. I can’t do both at the exact same moment or I’ll choke. But our lives aren’t one suspended moment, a single either-or choice; they’re a string of moments, a string of choices. Going from one moment to the next is not always a comfortable process. Sometimes it hurts, like when you realize your child no longer needs you to be his daily sidekick, and you have to adjust to a new role in his life. Sometimes it’s a comedy of errors, like when you decide you’re ready for a fresh start and you buy a whole wardrobe of pants and blouses that seem sleek and smart in the dressing room but in the light of day make you look like you’re about to give a PowerPoint presentation on a golf course. Sometimes you know one phase of life is ending—you’ve outgrown a relationship or reached the end of a long project—but you don’t know what the next step is supposed to be. You feel sure you can’t go forward and you can’t go back and you absolutely, positively cannot stand still one minute longer, all of which is insanely frustrating.

  That’s what small identity shifts loo
k like in everyday lives. Not the stereotypes.

  The kind of crucial points in life I’m talking about are the ones that often go unseen, that most of us would feel embarrassed to call crises. They’re the ones a friend might talk about while sitting on your front steps in the dark at midnight after a dinner party, stalling because she doesn’t want to go home. Or because she hates her job. Or she’s scared something’s wrong with her kid or her spouse. Or she just saw one of her notebooks from college in a drawer, and she feels so detached from the person who wrote those brilliant notes about Virginia Woolf, and she’s worried that smart twenty-year-old has disappeared and she’ll never get her back, but she thinks she might want to try. She misses herself when she blinks.

  * * *

  I miss you when I blink. I have felt it so many times in my life, at points where I didn’t really know who I was anymore, where I felt that when I closed my eyes, I could feel myself gone.

  * * *

  I still have that scrap of paper my son wrote on all those years ago, before I had any clue that what he was writing would become my touchstone. I didn’t know then what a versatile refrain it would become.

  I use it all the time. When I feel pressure to do the one exactly right thing—which I feel all the time because I am a human and a perfectionist—I remember all the selves I simultaneously have been, am, and will be. I miss you when I blink means I know all my selves are here with me, and I know we can do this. Saying it to myself is like a coach pushing a player out onto the field and saying, “You’ve got it. Just do what we practiced.” It’s like a parent placing a hand on the shoulder of an almost-grown child heading out the door to the prom, saying, “Remember who you are.”

  Sometimes I think, Dammit, I will never be fifteen or twenty-five or thirty-five again. Those lives I’ve lived are over. And I get a little wistful, thinking I might like to get some of that time back. But then I remember my twenty-one-year-old self sitting in my cubicle at my first job out of college, feeling utterly confused and wishing she could disappear, and I think, Hey, young-me, it gets better. I swear. Worse sometimes, but also better.

  And when I have anxiety attacks about the future—What if right now is the happiest I will ever be and I’m not appreciating it enough? Will I reach the end of my days having never lived in France or made enough people happy or learned everything there is to know about outer space or being able to do a split? Am I eating enough anti-oxidants? What will I be doing in ten years? In twenty?—I say I miss you when I blink to myself, and it means, Get a grip. Don’t panic. To figure out where to go next, look at where you came from. If you got here, you can get to the next thing.

  Sometimes, in moments of memory or daydream, I feel the different iterations of myself pass by each other, as if right-now-me crosses paths with past-me or imaginary-me or even future-me in the hallways of my mind. “I miss you when I blink,” one says. “I’m right here,” says the other, and reaches out a hand.

  Everything to Be Happy About

  I was born without a sense of direction.

  All babies are, I guess. But like wisdom teeth that never break through, my internal compass just didn’t come in.

  Once, after a delayed flight home from one of my first business trips, I trudged out of the Atlanta airport terminal at 2 a.m. and couldn’t find my car in the parking lot. It wasn’t where I left it, I was sure. Had it been stolen? I wandered around under flickering yellow lights, dragging my bags along the asphalt, breaking down into self-pitying sobs as if I’d been left behind on Mars by my fellow astronauts.

  I walked up the up ramp, then found myself at a dead end at the top of the lot. So I turned around and followed the down ramps until I ended up in the basement, standing in front of a blank concrete slab. What kind of Hotel fucking California was this? In a panic, I retraced my steps and went back to where I’d started. The backs of my heels chafed and burned under the leather of my black pumps, so appropriate for sitting in a conference room and so ill-suited for half an hour of airport laps. I’d covered the whole lot twice and not passed my car. I would never get home. I was stuck.

  I called and woke up John, my husband of just two months, and begged him to come get me.

  “You’re fine,” he reassured me. “By the time I could get there, you’ll find it.”

  I didn’t find it. I found, instead, the airport security trailer. I knocked on the door, hoping this scene wouldn’t become the beginning of the investigative journalism piece about my grisly death. A gray-haired guard wearing a navy uniform greeted me with a set of keys in his hand. He took his time walking to a truck with orange lights on top—tired and unimpressed by my lostness, as if he did this a few times every night—and I followed him, climbing into the front seat of a truck cab that smelled like corn chips and motor oil. We rode together from level to level, lot to lot, I with my face turned to the hot parking-lot air and my arm out the window, clicking the button on my automatic key.

  After about ten minutes I heard a beep-beep and saw a flash of headlights. There was my car, waiting in a spot that didn’t look familiar at all. I had to have passed it earlier. How had I missed it?

  When I got home, John asked, “What happened?”

  “I got trapped,” I said. “But I escaped.”

  * * *

  As turned around as I got in that parking lot, I get twice as confused driving on actual roads. I hate it when people give directions like, “Drive south for two miles,” or, “Go east on the highway.” How the hell do people know which way south and east are?

  I need landmarks. If I have to get from point A to point D, I need to know what points B and C look like. Turn left at the red light just before the giant pothole. Veer right at the big billboard with a chicken on it. Stop when you get to the building with the bright blue roof. That’s why now, whenever I’m in an unfamiliar parking lot, I take a photo of my spot and keep taking photos the whole way into the building so I can find my way back along the breadcrumbs I leave for myself: There’s the Coke machine; there’s the green EXIT sign; there’s the revolving door. I drive with a robotic voice narrating my turns, my destination always plugged into a map app, even at home in my own city. I really can’t overstate how much the iPhone has changed my life.

  * * *

  Fifteen years after that parking lot episode, I got lost again.

  * * *

  I didn’t want to tell anyone I was unhappy, because it didn’t make sense.

  There was plenty of love and time to go around for our family, enough money for groceries and gas and the mortgage and even unexpected things like exploding water heaters and tree limbs through the roof. I had my health, my youth. I was not yet forty. I was not dying of an insidious cancer, and I had not accidentally gotten hooked on meth, like those soccer moms I saw on the news. My husband and children and parents were all alive and well.

  And plenty was going right. Truly, if I picked different snapshots from this time in my life, they’d add up to a picture of perfection. I was still, sometimes, having fun. I did things with my family and friends. I worked. I posted cute pictures of my dogs online. Those are the moments people could see.

  * * *

  But then there were moments most people didn’t see. Ask anyone who has lived through depression, and chances are at least some of them will tell you it was the most unlikely thing—that they had everything to be happy about. But even the people who have no terrible, obvious burden to carry can find themselves staggering under the weight of a dull, constant dread. It doesn’t add up, but it’s true.

  Everything around me was as I’d designed it: There was the house we bought because it had the right number of bedrooms and a backyard flat enough for a swing set. There were the booster seats I meticulously researched and purchased—for our own children to ride in, plus the neighbor kids we carpooled with every day. I drove them to the elementary school we chose for its small classes and robust arts program and active parent association, for which I could volunteer on committ
ees where the other parents might just be so inspired by my helpfulness that they’d write me thank-you notes in honor of my commitment and reliability. The house and the car seats and the school were part of the life we decided to live in the middle of Atlanta, the part of the city with the highest traffic, highest taxes, and highest crime, but also the highest density of culture and friends and activity. John and I agreed: We’d rather stab ourselves in the eyes than live in the suburbs. We were glad to pay more for less space in the name of authenticity. Screw the strip malls.

  There was the basement I turned into an office, where I did my job as a freelance writer and cartoonist. This twelve-by-fifteen-foot space had a little desk and a discarded dining-turned-writing chair and a tiny patch of rug thrown over the concrete floor to make it feel warmer and less like an underground bunker. The walls were exposed brick, and over the desk, light shone through a single window. No one else was using the room. I had laid claim to it because I felt the lack of a place that was mine, where no one could drop their socks or trash or half-empty cups, where I could leave out a stack of paper and not come back in an hour to find a crayon line drawn across every page. To make people laugh, I called it my “lady cave,” which, instead of sounding cool, like “man cave,” sounded like a coy euphemism for “vagina.” But it was an ideal space for writing and drawing, occupations I chose because they allowed me to do what I love—fit ideas into word puzzles, doodle animals, and help people communicate more clearly. I had a schedule that was under my own control. All of this was under my own control, in fact, because I decided it all.

  So why did I feel like I couldn’t wake up from a classic anxiety dream in which I was stuck in traffic, watching the minutes tick by on a clock, knowing with certain dread that I was late, but not remembering where I was supposed to be going or how to get there?