Then Again, I Could Always Just Go To Law School And Put This Off For Another Three Years

"Time to apply for new jobs, Ms. Pass."

As soon as the message popped up in my chat box, I wanted to X out of it. Or tell him to mind his own business. Or tell him to fuck off. If anyone rode me about getting a new job, it was him. Any time I'd complain about Shuffles. Any time I'd mention that it had been a slow day. And every time he'd say it, I'd want to punch him in the face. Hard.

There have always been reasons for staying. I wanted to move into Manhattan before I started the job search. I wanted to save just a little bit more, have a slightly plusher cushion. I wanted to finish my CFP program. I wanted to take the exam. Pass the exam. Wait for the economy to pick up a little.

There have always been reasons. And there always will be. Myriad excuses, all of which are completely legitimate. All of which boil down to one, singular reason.

Fear.

Of change, of failure, of the unknown. The what ifs are paralyzing, so it becomes all too easy to stick to the what is.

But maybe I'm afraid of all the wrong things. Maybe I should be terrified of wasting another moment of my life when I know exactly what it is that I want. Exactly what it is that makes me happy.

After my desire to introduce his teeth to my knuckles abated somewhat, my friend asked me a question about some tax issue. Some specific set of circumstances that he was planning to research, unsure of what he should do. Without hesitation, I offered advice. Offered supporting evidence from the tax code, quantitative details that I remembered with an accuracy that shocked me. I did it all with complete poise. With certitude.

And it felt so good.

So I stopped wanting to deck him quite so hard. Because, while I hate to admit it, he's right. It is time to apply for new jobs. Time to put all those hours of hard work and that passing grade to the test. Time to stop letting my fear hold me still in one place.

Time to take a deep breath and just go for it.

Sometimes, One Word Is All It Takes

MARCH 2009 CFP® EXAM STATUS: (Updated May 12)
Exam results will be released this week by first-class mail to the preferred mailing address of each examinee. Exam results will also be posted online next week through examinees’ online CFP Board accounts. This message will be updated when the online results are available. Exam results will NOT be released over the phone, by fax or by e-mail. CFP Board wishes all examinees the best as they receive their results.

I immediately felt like throwing up. In just a few days, I would know. In just a few days, I'd be bouncing off the walls, ecstatic. Or I'd be sinking into the deepest pit of despair, miserable.

I called my mother every day from work. "Have you checked the mail? Is there anything in there for me? Are you sure?"

Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday. It was maddening. I began to wonder if the CFP Board, loving to fuck with us as they did, was sending scores out on Friday. Technically "this week." It was something they would do.

So when my cell phone lit up on my desk at 12:08 Friday afternoon and I saw that it was my mother, I froze. I stared at the pulsing light, felt the vibrations travel across my desk. I froze and I stared. I knew that The News was waiting for me on the other end of that line. But I didn't know if it was The News that I wanted to hear.

I thought back to the last time my mother read an important letter to me over the phone. The spring of 2000 during the break between E and F periods. A.P. Biology, double lecture class. I knew that that was the day. It had been circled in my calendar for weeks. A countdown had been running, my heart racing faster and faster as I ticked off each day. I knew that that was the day my Harvard letter would arrive.

~

When the bell went off, ending E period, I sped out of the lab and down the hallway. Quarter clutched in my sweaty hand, I raced to the bank of pay phones outside the cafeteria. I slipped the coin into the slot and dialed the number.

"Ma, do you have it?"

She did.

"Open it. Read it to me."

I could scarcely hear her voice over the thundering of my own heart, deafening in my ears.

"I am very sorry to inform you that it is not possible to offer you admission to the Class of 2004..."

The numbness started spreading throughout my body the moment I heard the word "sorry." I gasped for air, unable to control the tears racing down my face. Unable to still my shaking hands.

"Lillie Bee? Lil--"

But I'd already hung up the phone. Already started stumbling back to the lab to get my books. To ask permission to leave. To go up to the third floor to spend the rest of the day in the college office, sobbing. Panicking about where I'd end up next year. Waitlisted at Tufts and rejected by Harvard, my options were beginning to disappear. Quickly.

An hour or two later, having run out of tears, I made my way back to my locker. Slowly walking down the empty hallway, still numb. Still in shock.

"Would A Lil' Irish Lass please report to the Main Office. A Lil' Irish Lass. Report to the Main Office immediately."

I'd never heard my name announced over the PA before. Not in four years. I wondered if I'd been written up for cutting a class that afternoon. I was surprised to realize that I didn't care. Not at all.

When I rounded the corner, I saw my mother standing at the front desk of the Main Office, looking frazzled and flushed. I couldn't believe that she'd driven the forty minutes between our house and my high school just to make sure that I was okay.

"Mom, I'm--"

"You got in, Lillie Bee! You did it!" I could hear the tears in her throat.

"What are you talking about?" I asked confusedly.

She grabbed a thick FedEx package off of the front desk. I hadn't noticed it when I first walked in. "Columbia, Lillie!" as she thrust the package into my hands. "You got into Columbia!"

Turns out, I hadn't run through my supply of tears.

I reached into the already-opened package and extracted The Letter. All I saw, all I could process, was the beautiful blue letterhead and the singular word for which I'd been holding my breath.

"Congratulations." Exclamation point.

~

I reached for my phone and answered the call.

"Okay. Do you want me to read the first word?"

"Mmmhmm." My mouth had gone dry and I couldn't have formed words if I tried.

"Congratulations--"

She kept reading, but I didn't hear her. I had screamed. And then started crying. All I needed to hear was that word. That one, glorious word.

I did it. I fucking passed the CFP Exam. Passed. As in, did not fail. As in, I was part of the 52% who got congratulatory letters. As in, I performed "significantly above average" in eighty-eight of eighty-nine topics.

As in, I FUCKING RULE!!! Twenty-seven exclamation points.

With Raised Glass In Hand

Neither one of us can remember quite how we became friends. We work together, so that's how we met. That's obvious. That part we know. But as for becoming friends, it's a mystery to us both.

It must have been a lunch. Or maybe a company happy hour. Because, in the office, we don't interact all that much. Not even now. I'm the bouncy chatterbox who dances at the printer and says "fuck" way too loudly in conversations with my superiors. She's the quiet, reserved professional who stays in her seat and keeps to herself. I can't imagine how we ever started talking. I simply can't recall.

But we did, at some point. We went out for lunch or happy hour drinks and enjoyed it. We did it a second time, a third. Perhaps that's how it went. And, at some point, we transitioned from coworkers into acquaintances. From acquaintances into friends.

We went out to bars together. The bouncy chatterbox tucked into a corner, sipping her vodka-tonic; the reserved professional brazenly walking up to guys and extending her hand. "Hi, I'm Margarita. Do you want to buy me a drink?" The role reversal amused us both.

I assumed it was just a friendship of convenience. Of circumstance. We worked together, we got along well enough, we had fun hanging out. Just another phase-friendship. One that would gradually fade away when the convenience and circumstance did. Funny thing about assumptions, though.

As the weeks and months went by, we hung out more and more. We invited each other to parties. I crashed on her couch. We did lunch more regularly and typed furiously back and forth over GChat all day long at work. When I moved into Manhattan, she invited me over for dinner to her apartment. And then again the next week. Before we realized it, Date Night had become sacrosanct. A permanent fixture in our date books that we both planned around, looked forward to. That our friends knew better than to disrupt.

We'd alternate making dinner. The other would bring the wine. We'd cook together and catch up. Dish on the latest office gossip. Open up about dating drama, family problems, the deepest fears of the quarter-life female. We'd eat and drink and pop in a movie. And we'd do the same thing again seven days later.

Despite on-paper differences and clashes in philosophies, we grew closer and closer with the passage of time. So when Peg announced that she was moving out, at long last, my first thought turned to Margarita. And that's when the warnings began.

"You can't move in with a friend - it's always a disaster!"

"You work together and hang out all the time. Now you're going to live together too? Bad idea."

"You're impossible to live with. She's going to hate you within a week."

Everyone said that it would ruin our friendship; I worried that they were right. I worried but, on November 1st, she moved in anyway. With a deep breath and fingers crossed, I waited for things to fall apart. Waited for the first fight. For the friendship to unravel. For things to change.

And they did. Change, that is. My heart stopped racing when I heard the key in the front door. I found myself happy to see the living room light on when I came in at night, eager to divulge my latest piece of drama. I started to call my apartment "home." Started to feel that it really was. That M. was a sister. Family.

Now, almost seven months later, we still haven't gotten sick of each other. We still don't mind commuting to and from the office together most days. Still look forward to weekly Date Nights. When we've had stressful days, we bitch to each other. Wine glass in hand. When one of us is upset, the other is the one we usually turn to. Wine glass in hand for that too. I tell her things I tell no one else, thoughts I'd never admit to. Feelings I'm afraid to share with anyone else. She listens, advises, but would never, never judge. It just ain't her style.

Just like it's not her style to rake me over the coals when I really deserve it. When I really screw up. When I bail and make her wait until 9 PM for dinner on a Date Night. A dinner that I never end up making because I'm too twirled up over my latest mistake. She knows me well enough to know that that's not me. That that's not something I'd ever do. Not normally. And she knows me well enough to know that, when I walk into the kitchen with tears streaming down my face and barely able to catch my breath, what I really need is a hug. And a long talk over a few glasses of wine.

So, I'm indebted to you for Tuesday night, M. Really and truly. You're one hell of a woman and I'm so grateful that we became friends. Even if neither one of us can remember how exactly that happened.

Honesty Is Hardly Ever Heard

In a culture where we freely talk about politics, religion, money, and sex, nothing seems taboo. Not anymore. You know this friend's end-of-year bonus. You know that friend's preferred sexual position, how many lovers she's had, which one's best in bed. People you don't even know that well tell you about eating disorders and pregnancy scares. Secrets and fears.

There's a compulsive need to share. Bordering on obsession. We're a culture and generation that's addicted to honesty. Everywhere and in every thing. Except the one place that it really counts. The one place that it's needed the most.

I flipped open my phone and scrolled to the contact. Rapidly thumbed the text. Three small words at 3 PM. "I love you!" Send.

Not a minute passed before my screen lit up with an incoming text. One word. "Why?"

I laughed and shook my head as I typed in my response.

"What do you mean, why?! You're my sister. Can't I just say that I love you?"

"No, it's weird."

And the sad thing is, she's right.

It's "weird" to tell someone you love them, just because. They look at you with a skeptical eye. Wonder what you want. Wonder at your motive. You say the three most beautiful, most powerful words in the language, and it makes people ill at ease.

And, even worse, are the people to whom you never say those words at all. Even though they're in your heart and on your tongue. You keep those words right there, where they're safe. Because those three words, once uttered, might destroy you. Might expose your vulnerability. Might open you up to a world of hurt.

So you end your phone calls with laters instead of I love yous. You couple your hugs with it was so good to see you agains. You share your bed but never, never, those words. No matter how much you mean them.

What if he thinks you're foolish?

What if those words send him running?

What if he doesn't say them back?

So you keep your heart and those three words locked away. You never let them out. Sometimes for years. Because you're insecure. Because you're afraid.

And it never occurs to you that, perhaps, he's doing the very same thing.

Then again, maybe not. Maybe you're not as important to him. Maybe he doesn't care about you quite as much. There's always that. That risk.

But, God, take it! Because it's kind of the whole point. Because to live your life inside the lines, where it's neat and ordered and safe, is a waste. It's your life. It should be a messy, unsafe disaster into which you throw yourself wholeheartedly. And you should have hurt and tears and broken hearts. You should have passion that makes you tremble. That makes you crazy. That makes you stupid.

You should tell the people you love that it's so. Risk a little honesty.

It's kind of the whole point.

The Funny Thing Is, I Do

If it weren't for Shuffles, I think I'd rather enjoy my job. Or, at the very least, enjoy my office. Because the people, well, they're my kind of people.

I was having my daily morning chat with Margarita's boss. Killing time. Ignoring my clients in favor of snark and crumbs of office gossip when the conversation turned to marriage as it so often does.

"I can't tell you how many times I've run into people in the past few months whose marriages are falling apart," he, a vehemently single male in his fifties, told me. "Great people. Total catches. And they're all getting divorced. So, you know, be careful. S'all I'm gonna say."

"Yeah well, I don't think I'm heading down the aisle anytime soon," I responded wryly.

"I know you're worried about becoming a biological dead end," he teased, "but take your time. Don't rush into something because you'll just end up one of the bitter divorced."

"That's what my mother keeps telling me. Because Margarita and I are so disturbed by the rash of people our age getting married. It's like everyone hit twenty-five and jumped on the bandwagon and there's something wrong with us, but--"

"But they'll all be on their first divorce by the time you get married."

I smiled. Collective schadenfreude. How very New York.

"It's just a bit strange though," I continued. "I'm already starting to become that 'cool single friend from the City.' I go to things and everyone is coupled up except me. And they all want to hear my crazy, single girl stories."

He laughed and threw up his hands. "No, no, no. Just tell them, 'You made your bed, now fucking lie in it. I can't help you.' They can't live vicariously through you. Tell them, 'Uhh, sorry. I don't do threesomes. Not threesomes with you, at least.'"

Ménage à trois talk with a VP before 10 AM. Sometimes I wonder how I'll ever be able to quit.

I'm Still Not Clear On What It Is Either

"Premium Bullwhips!!!"

They're two words I'm not exactly used to seeing at the top of my inbox; and I was more than a bit disturbed to see them in one of my sponsored links in Gmail. Why the hell are they pitching this to me? I wondered.

And then it hit me. Pun fully intended.

I looked at a recent email thread and thanked the gods that we don't have an internet compliance department here at NearDeath.com.

L:

Let's meet in my lobby at 5:30, if that's good for you.

What do I owe you? I haven't been to the new Stadium yet and I'm glad I'm going to my first game with you. Looking forward to it.

Should I wear my pleather? Spats?

J.

J:

Sounds good to me! Tickets were $60 a piece.

Also, definitely wear pleather. No spats, though. I was going to suggest chaps but, since I'm bringing a riding crop, I thought we might be too matchy-matchy. What do you think?

L.

L:

Sounds perfect. Of course, as you should know, I'm way past riding crops, and much prefer choker collars and the metal studded leather paddles. Since it's a Boston game (right?) and I'm going with you, I'll bring both.

Thanks,
J.

PS - I really don't understand how you're still single.

Perhaps I should explain.

No, I'm not some freaky whips and chains fetishist. Really just more of a mild BDSM enthusiast.

Kidding.

Kind of.

Point being, the pleather thing is a bit of an inside joke between me and this guy. A very close, very longtime friend. One with a wife and kids and a very successful legal practice. One who couldn't possibly be less interested in getting into my pants. But one with my same wicked sense of inappropriate humor.

It all started last June as we made plans via email to get together at a bar downtown. It sounded like a bit of a fancy place and, since he was coming from court and would be in a suit, I was nervous that I would be underdressed. So I shot off a quick email.

Do I have to wear anything in particular?

Then, as usual, I dug myself into a hole by sending another email. Two minutes later.

To clarify, I don't mean "black pleather chaps" vs. " fishnet stockings and vinyl bustier." I mean, is this a nice place or could I wear flips and a casual skirt?

To which he replied:

As I understand it, four inch heels and skirts at least three inches above the knee are obligatory. But I'm sure you'll be fine with whatever you're wearing.

So the options were pleather OR vinyl? That's it?

I'm sure "flips" are fine, though, clearly any day you legitimately, or, at least, semi-legitimately have to actually write out the word "pleather" is a very good day.

And it was all pleather from there on out. In an email to me, one month later, about dinner at his apartment:

Wear pleather and flips. I'll have on both.

In a random text, a few weeks after that:

So is PVC the same as pleather?

Back in December, we tried to coordinate our schedules to meet up for drinks. Another email exchange. More pleather.

I'll find a starting place and try to find some places afterwards. Get a list together yourself. Let's try to make it interesting.

J

J, are we talking pleather-interesting?

Make it pleather interesting, and I'll do the same. I look forward to it.

J

And then again, just last month:

L:

How about 8:30 downtown and we figure out the exact place later (a quick Google search of "pleather bars" yielded only two places which I don't like much.)

J.

There are dead horses with boot prints in their sides on every street corner in Manhattan. From big, pleather boots.

But, so long as they match my bullwhip, I'm fine with it.

But You Should See My Draft Folder

"Lil has been silent lately, huh?"

This from a friend over GChat yesterday afternoon. A friend who knew me before The Craic. In real life. As an actual, flesh and bone and beating heart woman. A friend for whom my posts are more than just stories about some quirky character with curls and pearls. A friend who knows the stories aren't really stories at all, but moments plucked from my actual, flesh and bone and beating heart life.

And so the reason for my silence.

Because, with so many of those types of friends reading, the anonymity of The Craic is quite a bit compromised. And when you stop being a Jane Doe, you start censoring. You can't help it. You don't write about your falling out with a close friend - she's reading. You don't post your conflicting feelings about another - he visits the site nearly every day. You decide not to share some of the very personal things, some of the questionable decisions - you don't need the judgment of the masses.

But you never stop writing. Never. Because those stories, those feelings, are your life. Are you. All those wrong men. Those terrible judgment calls. Those tears in your moral fabric. Mistakes. They might be ugly things that you want to hide from others. But they are you, nonetheless.

So you never stop writing. Not ever. You can't. You just put a little less of your flesh and bone and beating heart out there for all the world to see.