Price of Admission

I did it. I broke my 30-year reunion boycott on a Sunday night ZOOM call. Our classmate Stacy facilitated. She did a brilliant job moving along the soliloquies of milestones and missteps. 23 women. 90 minutes of condensed and curated bios. The PG, PC versions. Reunions are built for extroverts’ adept at self-promotion and Zen masters immune to ego annihilation.

There was no mention of the high-profile, coke-snorting, elephant-hunting-ex-husband or the underground Charlotte coyote hunter or brilliant Hollywood Hills facelift. THESE are the things I’m interested in– the guts of life. Bizarre, twisted, beautiful. The rest is for the birds.

I’m an impossible participant. I don’t do the humble brag. I don’t do the laundry list of accomplishments. I don’t seek pity parties. And I don’t think anyone really wants to hear what I have to say. I touched on my job, sons, and albums. Took two minutes. I left out micro-dosing mushrooms, our catastrophic five-month move to Palo Alto and my stockpile of rejection letters from agents, publishers, and producers.

Stacy kindly asked where they could listen to my music and moved on. Unfortunately, due to my extreme sensitivity dysmorphia (yes, that’s a thing) her support felt dismissive and miniscule compared to the people who talked longer about their hit shows, artist colony retreats, big Washington D.C. think tank jobs and unimaginable losses. 

I got on the call with a beautiful life.

When I hung up it was a shambles. Same facts. Different lens. I went directly to bed and tried to sleep it off. The hangover was horrific. In first grade, I got an A on a paper. Suzy Harrigan got an A too. She ALSO got an excellent WITH an underline. I ripped mine up and ran out of the classroom. Sounds absurd. Melodramatic. Diva-esque. But the pain is palpable. Not good enough is for rookies. For those who take self-sabotage seriously– great is only great if someone else isn’t greater.

At 47 years-old, a therapist reframed the whole event. I told him not to be ridiculous, that I was over it, but obviously Suzy DID do a better job. Not true, he said and proceeded to explain. She may have had a hard time writing it and the teacher was trying to encourage her extra effort. Or maybe the teacher knew Suzy was suffering at home and wanted to show support. None of this had occurred to me. It was eye-opening– not just because it made sense, but because it dramatized my unshakable belief that MY value is context dependent.

At the risk of sounding impossibly corny, I believe we are all magical pilgrims. Each forging a unique reality using the gifts we were given. None more valuable than another. Outward circumstances reflect different decisions. Bees are critical harbingers of environmental well-being. Poets, cartoonists, parents–essential to the collective health of our individual souls. Small. Behind the scenes. Not the stars of societal success. Contribution cannot be quantified… unless of course, it’s mine and someone else is doing better.

The notion of more is relative.

I took our son Leo to a new PT doctor for a recurring hamstring injury. They had the infrared power laser that got Patrick Mahomes back into the Super Bowl. It was on loan for one more week. Perfect timing. More power. More progress. Jackpot! Leo is a senior lacrosse captain who’s played two quarters all season. This would be our ticket to getting him back on the field. Perhaps she’d let me use it on my exponentially expanding wrinkles after his appointment.

We arrived excited. Hopeful. Ready to roll.  Dr. Abby watched him walk. Watched him squat. Determined it was less hamstring. More pelvic alignment. She made a series of manual corrections. Dramatic improvement. She gave him exercises to practice at home. Towards the end of his session, I re-expressed our excitement about using the super laser. Surely, she hadn’t forgotten. There was no way we were leaving without the motherload powerhouse treatment. I’m going to use our regular B class, she said. My chest got tight. Regular? B class?? Why not the A Class???  I said nothing.

She continued. The science is inconclusive. There’s no evidence that proves a stronger laser does more. Let’s be real. It was the Super Bowl. Mahomes was going back in regardless. The B class laser light has a proven track record. It stimulates the mitochondria to make more energy so the cells can heal. Whether more intensity is better has yet to be determined.

I get trapped in the buzz of best.

I am fiercely competitive. Want the best for our boys. Our dogs. Our boxwoods. The best of everything for everyone I love. I’m willing to work my ass off to get it. I continually forget ‘the power of best’ relies entirely on its qualifiers. The best for his future self.  The best for his safe recovery. Not the best according to media hype, amazon ratings, Instagram posts and some football player I don’t know.

Had someone told me before we went, she’d refuse to use what I thought was the best laser, I would have felt dubious, doubtful– defeated. Had they told me I’d be comforted by her scientifically- supported decision to use the B class laser, I’d have said no way. But there in the presence of her low-key wisdom–I felt reassured. This was not the case during my ZOOM reunion.

Small. Insignificant. Stranded.

Half an hour into the call I felt like a prisoner trapped on an island I’d put myself on. I stared back at a mainland of girlfriends linked by an experience I vaguely remember and didn’t share. Who was I then? No clue. Even my current well-carved-out identity was beginning to fritter away– like early morning darkness into dawn.

I shine in the shadows of invisible landscapes. The subtext of what doesn’t get said. The margins of where people won’t go. I am an introverted imagination pioneer. This doesn’t play well at cocktail parties, lacrosse games or ZOOM reunions. It defies orchestration. Thrives in the improvisational jazz of free-form conversation. It cannot be contained. Or stuffed back into a box once released. Safer to keep the lid on.

At least that’s what I always think. So, I send in one of my carefully constructed ambassadors to attend different events. Enthusiastic sports mom. Eccentric creative director. Social suburban butterfly. I forget the one big transformational truth.

The price of admission is admission.

Here’s the barely legible 7-point legal type. Inclusion has a price. It’s just too glaringly obvious to see. You can’t buy your way in. Can’t bake sale, Botox, or bullshit your way either. Believe me, I’ve tried. It always seems SO much easier than being the real me.

I’m allergic to tailgates and timesheets. I’m a fragile flower, wild warrior in a witness relocation program of my own making.  I’m an Italian French hybrid revving beneath my freckled Irish exterior. I’m a mosquito-hating Amazon princess. A short-necked African shaman. A kale-eating cowgirl.

Is there not some kind of supplement for identity depletion?

This is what my new-found Greenwich Academy soul sister, Leigh, said the next day when I screwed up the courage to reach out. She’d admitted to being out of touch for three decades because she thought she had to be perfect and was also an introvert. I learned later she’d had a couple glasses of wine with her mom and sister beforehand. My blackberry Pellegrino failed to provide the liquid courage I needed.

Leigh and I spoke for over an hour. I admitted a spectacular spectrum of personal truths She echoed a resounding me too with fantastic stories of her own. I entered the call nervous. We barely knew each other in high school. Certainly not as adults. I had nothing to lose but it seemed safer to chalk the whole ZOOM reunion up to a bold mistake. I preach to our boys that action is the antidote to fear. So, I chose not to chicken out.

Leo will leave us late August to play D1 lacrosse at university. Rarely does life present blank slates. He can continue being the stoic talent that says little and plays hard. Quiet strength is beautiful. OR he can choose to be his WHOLE self… including the empathetic, passionate young man with kind eyes, big dreams, and a wicked sense of humor. One is safe. BOTH is bold. It will be the toughest choice he makes as a young adult. The choice that will have the greatest impact on his future. On his happiness. His success. On the integrity of his identity.

The illusion is… that it’s more dangerous to be yourself.