Eat the Damn Cake

This post is for Cate, who commented here. 

I am a dreamer.

I want big things. I want gorgeous settings. I am idealistic. I am impractical.

I am old enough to know better, so I don’t think I will ever know better.

I am fragile. I want to be famous. God, that’s embarrassing. At least there’s this: I don’t want to be famous and get invited to all the best penthouse parties and know all the names of the owners of the sexiest clubs. I don’t want fame to follow me outside, into the street. I want to be a famous writer. I want people to read my words and disappear briefly inside them. That’s what happened to me, as a kid, reading fantasy novels. I slipped inside another world. I want to do that for people.

I am a failure. I tried being practical. I tried growing up right. At fifteen, I got my first serious job. I worked through college. For a while, I was making more money than all of my friends. I was a little smug about it, when a guy who liked me bragged about how much he made at his job, repairing computers, and I made more. Don’t say anything, I thought. Don’t you dare say anything. I really wanted to say something. I only let myself get A’s, and I only considered Ivy League grad schools-- I got into the one my professors wanted for me. There was this straight, groomed path, and I was on it, and I was going to take my degrees out into the world and knock on a bunch of impressive doors with them (they make a more important sound than just my bare hand), and things would fall into place.

And then I couldn’t.

(that’s my backpack. And my chocolate milk. This is where I was writing yesterday)

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I saw Amy Chua, the Tiger Mom, last night at the 92nd Street Y. Actually, I ran into her on my way to the bathroom, before her talk started. I wasn’t positive it was her, but I had a feeling. She was wearing a hot pink dress under a fitted leather jacket. Her hair was perfect. I looked at her and she looked at me, as though she was waiting for me to say something (like “Oh my god, I LOVED your book!” or “It’s women like you who are ruining this country.”), but I didn’t, and we awkwardly squeezed by each other in the narrow hall. The sleeve of her jacket brushed my arm.

Like a lot of people, I didn’t read the book, I read the Wall St Journal excerpt. Like a lot of people, I joined in conversations about parenting styles and whether “eastern” or “western” parenting is better, and how much tiger is too much. Everyone was shocked by her. Everyone was horrified. “This is why kids kill themselves,” people said. “Because there’s so much pressure to succeed.” “Her daughters will have eating disorders,” people said. Everyone was defensive.

In her talk, Amy Chua was funny and a little overeager. She kept starting thoughts and switching over to something else, so that her sentences tumbled together, breaking off and beginning again in crisscrossing excitement. She had so much correcting to do. The book was supposed to be funny. It was supposed to be a confession. She was shocked by the response. She would much rather her children were happy than successful– what parent wouldn’t? And can we not call certain things success? How about we just say “overcoming challenges,” because that’s what makes life fulfilling. The book, she said, was a celebration of rebellion, not conformity. Her youngest daughter rebelled, and she was forced to reexamine the parenting style she’d adopted from her incredibly hardworking, poor immigrant parents. But she did reexamine, and she changed.

The Tiger Mom came off as earnest, humble, and extremely loving. Not at all the way she’s been described. She came off just like most of the parents I know and have known, growing up. She was just trying to figure out what was best for her kids.

If this is the Tiger Mom, then where are the real tiger moms?

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Dear Marius,

First of all, welcome. Hey. You don’t know me yet, but I’m a friend of your mom and dad.

I am a little in shock, about you being here. I mean, it’s like the best magic trick ever. Something out of nothing. Not just something– you. I saw the YouTube video your dad made. I watched it six times in a row. You appear to be perfect. It’s bizarre. It’s possible that you are the most adorable thing in the world.

For you, being born is something that you’ll only have to think about later, when people show you the pictures. And then you’ll probably make a face and be like, “Come on, guys, I was NAKED.” And go back to whatever you were doing.

But you being born is ridiculously awesome.

I had a moment. I was looking at your tiny face, in the Youtube video, and you scrunched it up for a second, like you were thinking about crying, and then you changed your mind and went back to looking around  with big eyes. And suddenly I got this urge to tell you stuff. Even though I’m twenty-five and what do I actually know about stuff. Twenty-five is a lot older than you. Maybe I’ve picked up a few things along the way.

Stuff:

Sometimes it doesn’t hit me until I see the sky. Like, a lot of the sky. Most of the time, I actually just forget to look up. But walking back from the A train the other day, I remembered, and for a block or so, between buildings, I could see a sizable chunk of sky– clouds and everything. And I realized that I’d been thinking about deadlines and whether or not she meant to sound so irritated when she said that in the meeting and, of course, dinner. But then, when I looked at the sky, I was suddenly thinking about how perfect it is, to be alive. Being alive is this crazy, ridiculous, utterly ordinary gift. You were given it. Make sure you look at the sky.

(you never know what you’ll see up there! source.)

You are loved. A lot. Which you should probably try to remember as much as you  possibly can. Because it is the thing that matters most. Really. You and I are both incredibly lucky to be born to parents who will love us no matter what. Sometimes I call my dad at work, and I’m like, “It’s so weird–this cream sauce is all clumpy.” And he says, “Lower the flame, stir constantly.” And then we talk about life for an hour. Sometimes the only thing in the world I really need is my mom. That still happens. Just so you know.

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Recently, I realized that my marriage is not perfect.

Isn’t that shocking? I’m shocked. I thought it was perfect. I didn’t say this aloud, but I was sure that we were the only perfect couple in the world. And not sure in the “Yeah, I mean, it’s pretty great!” way. Sure in the like “I have found God and there is only one Truth” way.

I’m not sure which is more embarrassing– that I thought our marriage was going to remain unblemished and preternaturally self-possessed, like a child model. Or that it isn’t.

When people fall in love, they’re supposed to go crazy. Their brains release all of these ridiculous chemicals and they start running around, jumping in fountains and throwing things in the air and laughing with their mouths wide open and their heads thrown back. That stage lasts for two years. Which is a lot of fountains.

(I’d go for this one. source)

It’s science. People need to get like that so that they’ll commit to each other and then they can raise babies and stuff. Unless they’re gay, and then science gets all awkward and nods a lot and says, “We’re working on that one.”

I was sure my love for Bear wasn’t science. It was something much better. Something much, much more unpredictable. This was pure, wild luck, and Bear and I were its masterpiece.

I’ve known Bear for close to three years now, we’ve been married for a little over one, and I’m starting to recognize our particular struggles as a couple. The things that get stuck just below the surface for too long, until suddenly they erupt. The ways in which we go gradually in circles. The things that we are each really bad at. I have sorted issues into piles. The pile of stuff that bothers me a little but is really fine. The pile of stuff that bothers me more than a little, and I am not sure I’m fine with. The pile of stuff that bothers him, and I should really do something about.

(the stuff under the surface can be scary when it suddenly breaks through)

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I did it! I did it! I asked for more money!

Remember when I wrote this post about how women almost never ask for more money? Apparently we don’t. Apparently we often keep quiet instead. And I understand why. I mentioned that the thought of asking for a raise is really scary for me. That usually when someone pays me for work I’ve done, I am thinking, “Thank you! Thank you! Thank you so much!” as opposed to “Seriously? I am worth more than that!” Even if I’m worth more than that. It’s hard to tell, sometimes, how much I’m worth in money. I mean, maybe I think I’m worth a million dollars, but I’m a writer. No one is going to give me a million dollars. No one is going to give me very much at all. So it’s more a “every little bit counts” type thing than a “I can’t believe they don’t value me more” type thing.

That is no excuse not to ask for more money.

But even after I wrote that post, I didn’t notice that I had an opportunity to ask for a raise, in my own life, right then. I was thinking more abstractly– like, women, out there in the world– other people– you guys should think about this…I should probably think about it too, later…

And then something funny happened. I found out that someone I know who does work for one of the same companies I do was being paid more than me. She mentioned it casually, and suddenly I was furious. And embarrassed. Here I was, writing about raises instead of asking for them. I felt like I was falling behind. I felt like I’d been sleeping and oblivious and possibly still wearing suspenders that had gone out of style five years ago (what? Are people not wearing suspenders these days? No one?).

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It’d been a long time since I saw my beautiful blond friend with the very put-together life. My friend who always knows what to wear, and always has the earrings that match it. My friend with the grownup life and the baby.

She looked great, of course. She was sparkling. The collar of her little dress sparkled. Her clean, contemporary diamond ring sparkled. Her eyes sparkled, too. Since I’d last seen her, a lot had changed. They were moving. To Connecticut. They were looking for a house now.

Whoa.

Connecticut? But– we used to think Brooklyn was too far away! I haven’t even been back to the Upper West Side since we moved down here. Wait. A house. That means you’ll have more than two rooms? And a car? And a yard? Impossible. A washer and a dryer? Amazing. More than one bathroom? Ultimate luxury! Unimaginable.

I tried to picture her new life. She was wearing pearl earrings in my imagination. But then, she does that sometimes anyway. She looked so grown up. So complete. She would drive her kid (her KID!) to school in her car. She would drive to the supermarket. She would return to her house. Her entire house. Her husband would commute into the city for work.

“What’s your plan?” she asked. “What are you thinking, for the future?”

I stared at her. I looked down at my plate. I looked up again, and I still hadn’t figured out what to say.

“Bear,” I said, later that night, “Do we know what we’re doing with our lives?”

“Um,” he said, “Maybe?”

“I don’t think we do.”

“Yeah, maybe not. But who cares?”

“We’re kids.”

“That’s what’s so cool about us.”

“I guess.”

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