It’s all well and good for me to come on here and demand that women love themselves without resorting to drastic measures, when my skin is still relatively supple and I fit into most of my clothes. It’s another thing altogether to be confronted with the indefatigable fact that my fantasies of going undercover as a high school student, sorority sister, or American Idol contestant have been forever dashed against the craggy outline of my aging face. I feel betrayed. I have dutifully slathered myself in sunscreen for as long as I can remember. I don’t smoke, and I haven’t had an alcoholic beverage in over 9 ½ years. And not only am I still dealing with chin breakouts at the age of 41, now I’ve got these crinkly bits on my face. For a split second, I found myself pulling and tugging at the skin on my forehead, wondering just how painful them Botox shots really are.

And then I thought, well, hadn’t I – in a way – EARNED these? Didn’t they represent 41 years of doing and feeling stuff? I came by them honestly. They could represent any number of life events. My first year of sobriety, and having to go through all the holidays, birthdays, weddings, and other such events where drinking was a given. A lump. A mammogram. A biopsy, and then waiting not-very-patiently on the results of said biopsy. Staring down the barrel of the possible end of my marriage. 4 different moves (3 of them sans professional movers). Getting my MFA. My dad’s triple bypass. Worrying about friends and loved ones. Getting frustrated with friends and loved ones. Losing friends and loved ones. Trying not to fly off the handle when friends and loved ones keep doing the things that took the other friends and loved ones out.

Too, they could represent the many, many things that baffle me and cause me to furrow my brow. Tila Tequila. Log Cabin Republicans. People who keep trying to sell me on Ayn Rand. Glee. Fat free potato chips. Julie Taymor. Dubstep. Flip-flops worn outside of the shower/pool/beach. Rick Santorum. “Leaf Peeping.”

In the end, what are wrinkles but proof that we’re not here forever? Some people would find that terrifying. Some people find aging terrifying. I find it annoying, but necessary. I’m 41, and I don’t especially want to pass for 25. I don’t know about you, but 25 wasn’t all that great for me. You can’t go back. Well, you can – emotionally and mentally. I happen to know a thing or two about that, and I’ll tell you: sometimes certain people, places, things, and behaviors need to stay in the past.

And I’m reminded of when I first realized I had to stop drinking. I was 31, and actually quite a bit more haggard than I am now (drinking’ll do that). I would sit in church basements and – sort of – listen, but mainly I was trying to pass as someone who hadn’t been drinking just minutes before I walked in. I know now, of course, that I wasn’t fooling anyone. And yet the women in these basements treated me with such kindness when by rights they should have recoiled from me. And their stories were all over their faces, in every crease and line and wrinkle. I wanted to be, more than anything, an old sober lady. With any luck, I will be.

Fuck the Botox. I’m cultivating my line garden.

Perhaps you have a concept in mind. Perhaps you even have an idea of the precise sort of bad behavior you want to showcase. But you don’t have a way with words. While your contestants will write most of your script for you, you still need just the right catchphrase, the kind that will be uttered in jest around water coolers for weeks on end.

Fear not!

For a modest fee, I will create a memorable catchphrase for your reality competition show, based on its theme, environment, and/or participants. If you are not 100% satisfied, and if you do not see it either emblazoned on a tshirt at Target or hear it in passing from people not employed by your network, I will not only refund your money, I will create a snappier catchphrase which is certain to catch on.

Or, if you would like, you may select from a list of already-created catchphrases (aforementioned guarantees do not apply):

• “Stick THAT in your tailpipe!”
• “Please accept this Fabergé egg.”
• “And remember what Chris DeBurgh says – DON’T PAY THE FERRYMAN!”
• “Ladies, break is OVAH.”
• “I’m sorry: you’ve sold your last beignet.”
• “Blow out your candles, Laura.”
• “Now, skip to m’Lou, my darlings!”
• “You’re unfriended, unfollowed, and your kiss is NOT on this list.”
• “This ain’t your first time at the rodeo.”

Act now! Thousands of badly behaved people are waiting to hear those words!

This happens every now and again. I meet another woman in recovery and I get TERRIFYING vibes off her. And I’ve learned, in the 9+ years I’ve been sober, that those vibes mean “this is someone I am supposed to know.”

Caroline had a magnificent “faux hawk,” great shoes, and a scowl. On paper, Caroline had it all: she grew up in the right neighborhood, went to the right boarding school, graduated from an Ivy League college. She was beautiful, athletic, and smart. But she struggled with her addiction, as we all do. I often sensed her sizing me up, as I did her. Our chats were friendly, but guarded. I was scared to death of her, even as I knew that she was supposed to be in my orbit, at that time, because she had something to teach me. I kept my distance. When she moved to California, I was relieved.

She requested my “friendship” on Facebook. I was flattered. I didn’t expect much. I got plenty.

Where we were unable to communicate in person, online our conversations exploded into hilarity. Our favorite pastime was “How Far Can You Go?” We’d trade jokes in extremely poor taste, upping the ante until one of us would take it just beyond that edge (and it was usually Caroline). I’d sit at my desk shaking with silent laughter, unable, most of the time, to share with anyone else what I was finding so funny.

One afternoon, we were exchanging stories about freakish things we did as kids. Back and forth we went until she dropped this bomb on me:

“I used to hoard my toenail clippings in a Barbie suitcase.”
“Oh. My. God. You win.”

I was so happy about the way our friendship was evolving. I figured I’d see her the next time she came back East to visit her family, and we could finally talk in person the way we were meant to.

Today I ran into my friend Nick. He told me Caroline was dead.

Caroline. Dead. Those words aren’t supposed to go together. How far can you go? Too far, as it turns out.

You hear it “in the rooms” all the time. You hear it, and yet sometimes you just can’t accept it. Because you go a few months, and maybe years, without drinking or picking up, and you start to feel “better.” And when you’re feeling better, it’s entirely too easy to forget that you’re sick. And you forget that THIS SHIT WILL KILL YOU.

And THIS SHIT affects people from all walks of life. It’s not because we weren’t brought up properly. It’s not because we’re amoral, hedonistic, selfish assholes. It’s because we’re sick. On paper, Caroline had it all: a good upbringing, an Ivy League education. She wrote poetry. She kick-boxed. She made me laugh so hard that I cried. But she was an addict, just like I am. She’s dead. This fucking sucks. I told Nick, “It sucks when anyone dies from this. But it sucks so much more when it gets the SMART ONES.”

I’m so sorry, Caroline.  I’m sorry.

“an elegant woman does not vandalize the temple she has been blessed with as her body.”

“Seriously, though. Your body literally has the ability to turn heads. Guys drool over us. We hold some serious power in our hands, because – as corny as this sounds – we hold the world’s beauty.  But something girls seem to forget nowadays, or maybe have not been taught, is that women hold the world’s class and elegance in their hands, as well. So what’s more attractive than a girl with a nice body? I’ll tell you what: a girl with class.”

“…find yourself in a rut when your future grandkids ask you what’s up with the angel wings on your upper back as you’re in the middle of giving them a life lesson on the importance of values and morals.“

“Has this tattoo, for instance, caused you to learn something new about yourself? Has it challenged you? Has it led you to self-growth? Nothing comes out of getting a tattoo.”

In honor of this stupendous occasion, I figured I would share with you all some of the words of wisdom he has imparted upon me and my siblings (and if I’ve forgotten any, I’m certain they will remind me). It goes a long way towards explaining why we’re “that way.”

• “Oh, look, kids – a cemetery!  Did you know nobody living in this town can be buried there?  Why?  Because you have to be DEAD first.”
• “What are you doing there – eating?  It’s not your turn to eat today.”
• “Your mum’s suing the city of Avon Park…for building the sidewalks too close to her ass.”
• “Who’s on the phone?  Ish Kabibble?”
• “Christ, why do you always want to know how somebody died?  I’ll tell you how they died – LACK OF BREATH.”
• “You goin’ to the movies?  No?  Then why’re you PICKIN’ YOUR SEAT?”
• “Cat’s Crow-ho with mustard.” (in response to any inquiry about the day’s menu)
• “Girls, get down here right now.  You got (dramatic pause) NINE MILLION PAIRS’A SHOES in this living room.”
• “Because I said so.”
• “That’s nice – how much was it?  That much?  You coulda got a NEW ONE for that.”
• “Your mum and I have been happily married for ten years.  Which isn’t bad outta fifty.”
• “Do the best you can for you.”
• (regarding his empty plate)  “That…was TERRIBLE.”
• (when the server arrives with the bill)  “Do you take cash?”
• “Consider the source.”
• “Jesus, McColgan, you’re a handsome devil.”

And you know what?  That last one’s not just arrogance.  Not to be weird or anything, but my Daddums IS a handsome devil:

Years ago, when I was in grade school, I made a card for my mother.  I drew a picture of Frankenstein on the front.  This was later used against me by one of the snottier girls in my class, “Well, at least I don’t put Frankenstein on things I’m giving to MY parents.”  And while I didn’t say it, I thought, “I feel sorry for you, because my parents love that stuff, and would never tell me that I was wrong, or weird, or bad, for being me.”  No family is perfect, and yet my parents were, and are, the perfect parents for ME.  Without their guidance, and humor, and mistakes, I wouldn’t be who I am.  The world needs more parents who are willing to LET their children be the “weird” ones, to allow them to fly their freak flags, and even assist with hoisting them higher, if need be.

Thanks, Daddums.  Happy Birthday, you handsome devil.

The guy who lives there now keeps all the blinds down.  He doesn’t know me, doesn’t know my penchant for looking into the windows of places I pass, seeking clues as to how others live.  He can’t know that I walk by here on Saturdays hoping he’ll offer a bookshelf, or a standing lamp.

Brookside Avenue was our “get well” apartment.  We’d been struggling with each other and the place in which we lived.  After ten years, we were too old to be dealing with an absentee landlord and the rhythmic pounding of our upstairs neighbors’ excessively loud lovemaking.  After ten years, we had to make some decisions about where we were living, and how.  Ten years of active addiction, betrayals, and squalid ennui had piled up into the walls and behind the filing cabinets and I felt as though I were living in a Faulkner novel.  So we moved.  We moved into the first place we saw:  Brookside Avenue.

We lived there for three years, and yet my memories of the place are almost exclusively of it being empty, or near-empty.  I remember moving in, I remember unpacking plates and putting in them in one of the three (three!) cabinets in the kitchen while the cable guy struggled with our television in the next room.  It was poorly designed, that kitchen, but it was blonde, bright, modern, and newly remodeled, and at the time I wanted something unspoiled.

We had parties there, I’m certain of it.  It was the first place I felt like regularly cleaning.  Within its walls, I continually felt as if I’d narrowly avoided disaster.  While this was markedly better than feeling suffocated, it still didn’t feel secure.  Finding asylum from your own madness is not the same as feeling at home.

I also remember moving out.  I remember scrubbing the giant, silver-and-black refrigerator, wanting desperately to leave as blank a slate as I’d found, for this guy who now pulls all his blinds down, offering nothing.

You approached us tonight as we were heading to the subway station.  The shelters are full, you’re trying to get 28 dollars together to go stay in the hostel on Hemenway.  I’ve heard your story before.

Tonight, though.  Tonight it was eleven degrees outside.  Tonight you made eye contact with us, and told us, “I’m just trying to be honest, here.”  In your pink parka and blue eyeshadow, I could see it in your eyes.  You were probably coming off something, but you were lucid.

Eleven degrees.  I had to buy an eight-dollar pair of earmuffs just to get down Huntington Avenue without crying.  But I was on my way home, and you needed twenty-eight dollars to have someplace to sleep.

We gave you a twenty.  You were stunned.  I can imagine that most people like us, in nice coats, pass right by without even letting you finish your “Excuse me?”  But most people in nice coats don’t know what it’s like to be in that situation.  They don’t know what it’s like because they, in their nice coats, can go to a nice bar and have a nice drink (maybe two) and go home to their nice houses or condos.  They can stop at one or two, and don’t find themselves burning to feel “better” (which is to say, nothing).  They certainly don’t know what it’s like to find themselves doing all manner of desperate, stupid, insane things to feel that way.  Or if they DO, they certainly don’t ever imagine themselves in a pink parka asking strangers to help them collect twenty-eight dollars to go stay in a hostel because the shelters are full, it’s eleven degrees outside, and they have no place else to go.

I’m not saying I fully comprehend your situation.  I’m saying that I don’t think for a second that I couldn’t EVER comprehend it.  I’m in a nice coat, with my eight-dollar earmuffs, because ten years ago I had to stop doing the things I was doing that most certainly could have led me to full comprehension of your situation.

There are people who will tell me that you’ve taken that twenty and shot it in your arm, or up your nose, by now.  And maybe you have.  But it’s eleven degrees outside.  I had a twenty.  I did the math.

“Just take care of yourself,” I said.  Please don’t let me down.

I just finished reading Why We Broke Up.  I bought it yesterday.  Yesterday, I bought this, and I finished it about a half hour ago.  I finished it at my kitchen table, sobbing, as Min, the teenage narrator, went through a devastating litany of everything’s she’s NOT.

I’m not a goth or a cheerleader, I’m not treasurer or co-captain…I’m not anything…I have bad hair and stupid eyes.  I have a body that’s nothing.  I’m too fat and I’m idiotic ugly.  My clothes are a joke, my jokes are desperate and complicated and nobody else laughs…I just babble and sputter like a drinking fountain broken…I talk shit about everybody and then sulk when they don’t call me, my friends fall away like I’ve dropped them out of an airplane…I can’t run four blocks or fold a sweater…I lost my virginity and couldn’t even do that right, agreeing to it and getting sad and annoying afterward, clinging to a boy everyone knows is a jerk bastard asshole prick…I’m not a romantic, I’m a half-wit.  Only stupid people would think I’m smart.  I’m not something anyone should know.

I wept, sitting there at my kitchen table with the dishwasher thrumming behind me and my husband in his office mucking around on his bass and my two cats doing that passive-aggressive thing they do where one bathes the other until the one being bathed gets annoyed and skulks off the chair that the bather wanted to sit in, alone.  I am a 41-year-old with a trash compactor and bills and mighty plans involving painting the dining room this spring and this YA novel (that’s “Young Adult,” btdubs) reduced me to a blubbering mess.

I don’t think many of us are ever really that far removed from 16, even as the years, and ensuing responsibilities, pile up and we’re all of a sudden at kitchen tables that we ourselves shopped around for, picked out, purchased, and had delivered to our houses.  I know I’m not, certainly, or I wouldn’t spend so much time getting up onstage and reading my high school diaries in front of total strangers, or assisting fellow masochists in doing the same.  There is always going to be that part of me that goes to parties and sits by herself in the one empty room there is, reading another person’s books and waiting for her soulmate to find her.  Hello, it’s me.

She loves a boy that doesn’t know she loves him.  Or he does, and just doesn’t know what to do with that information.  And it’s at turns icky and frustrating and exhilarating and heartbreaking and on any given day she’s tiny and insignificant, or held aloft on a smile in the hallway.  Christ, who doesn’t remember all of that?  Why would you want to forget it, ever?  I don’t understand my friends who say to me, “God, I could never do what you do.  No, I really COULDN’T, because I threw all that stuff away.”

Me, I can’t lose sight of that tenderhearted thing inside of me, because I want to make things happen for her.  I’ve kept her diaries and her dreams and I’ve even kept most of her friends as close as I can without it being creepy and weird.

And it’s not as if I’m stuck there, really, because – as I’ve said – I own preposterous things like a trash compactor, and just today I had to be a responsible adult and call the administrators of my Flexible Spending Account to explain my late-December eyewear binge.  I don’t spend all my time with her; I just pop in now and then, like a slightly eccentric aunt, checking in on her the way you check in on your past, make sure it’s all still there.  Because without it, you don’t sit at your kitchen table weeping because you remember what it’s like.