her INTERIOR DIALOGUE

She is sitting in traffic. Again. Despite the fact that she left the office late to avoid such traffic, and despite the fact she left even later than usual because she was waiting to file a pleading the attorney hadn’t completed, she still pulled into the highway into immediate stopped traffic. Of course, by that point, she was surrounded by concrete barriers and was miles from the next exit so all she could do was stop, put the car in neutral, put it in first to inch forward slowly before stopping again and throwing it back into neutral. She was stuck in traffic far too often for a manual car to be a practical choice, although her limited funds and bad credit had pretty much made the choice for her. But hey, at least her car had never been stolen, a fluke she chalked up to the fact the young thugs likely couldn’t drive a stick. 

Traffic was such a waste of time, a resource she had far too little of on the best days. She wondered how much of her life she had spent waiting for the car in front of her to scoot a few feet just so she could scoot a few feet while thinking of all the things she had to do which she would now have even less time for. 

She knew she should be grateful. As bad as her day was, it was even worse for those in the crash which caused the teeming tail lights to converge. And after she had just finished listening to the book which made her cry and had promised herself that she too would look for one good thing each day which resonated, a pause to reflect and be grateful. 

And yet, her cynical side must ask, (that side of her never minds its own business, must always stick its nose where it doesn’t belong), what is one good thing in the midst of so many horrible things? It’s hard not to think she would be a disappointment to her younger self. She must face the facts: she is poorer, fatter and more naive than she thought she would be by now. Has she learned nothing despite the years which show in the wrinkles and grays? How could she have believed, for instance, that humanity would choose empathy over selfishness, integrity over narcissism, compassion and understanding over hatred and blame of the other? And yet she did. She believed. She hoped. And while she was not shocked this time, not like the last time at least, one would think her experience would have foretold that hope was meaningless. It is always easier to choose to blame others than to understand a problem in reality with nuance. Why wouldn’t the majority choose the easy way, the one that lets them off scot-free, without personal responsibility or hard choices or compromise? How could she have ever hoped or believed otherwise?

When she was little, she would look into the sky and every once in a while, if the clouds were just right and the light streamed in perfect angelic rays, she would think for a moment that Jesus was coming. Right then. The Second Coming. Just like her community always predicted. Instead of joy, she felt panic. What if she wasn’t right with God? Was she ready? Would she always be a virgin? Now, she no longer believes in the tales of her childhood but her survival instinct is still intact. She knows she will die even if she can’t quite comprehend what that means. But if she knew death was imminent, whether due to apocalypse or terminal diagnosis, her instinctive panic would be the same. What had she failed to do with the time she had? Had she written enough words to exist after her death, if only for an extra moment or two? Humans crave a legacy. If we can’t live forever, just let everyone remember us for as long as possible.

Yet it has been more than a year since her last soul exposure. At the time, she couldn’t have imagined it. Surely, once she opened herself she would bloom like a flower, unfold and unfurl, ready to demonstrate vulnerability in search of connection. Yet she snapped closed like alligator jaws, and then life and work and jobs and side gigs eroded any time to contemplate or even just to think. She was aware, in a way, that time was slipping away, just as we all are, peripherally, but there was always too much noise to notice anything except what was right in front of her. 

Until now. Sitting in traffic, sobs still resonating in her chest, she has nothing to distract her from what she has not done. 

She had been surprised at how visceral her reaction to the book’s ending had been. In retrospect, she should not have been surprised, as the author was once of her favorites. But she had fought this book, had set it aside for weeks, unable to continue listening out of frustration or anger. She thought she knew where the author was going and was unmoved, obstinately rejecting the premise. Was the author positing that psychics were legitimate and the future could be envisioned and relayed to others? Was she, the reader, supposed to believe in such supernatural skills despite the lack of scientific proof? Could she believe that a woman would be able to point to strangers and reveal their cause and age of death with accuracy? Of course, again, she had missed the point entirely, and when she started listening again, she was swept up in the characters’ lives, both constricted and freed by the mortal predictions. Ultimately, the novel was less about the validity of psychics than it was about human connection, loss, and grief. Which is why she had burst into tears in the car on a side street just outside her work. 

A character in the book made it a habit to note one good thing every day. Small, seemingly inconsequential things like steak or his wife’s eyes. To change his perspective, a sort of gratitude journaling. And it had seemed so simple. She could do that too. One good thing. 

But she couldn’t think of anything. Being put on the spot can do that to you. She thought of the acid burning holes in her esophagus, the iron supplements and infusions she was using to combat a losing battle. She thought of the lack of funds in her bank account despite working so hard, so very hard, perpetually, or so it seemed. She thought of the future. The ones who would grow up thinking abuse should always be rewarded since society has deemed it so. That sycophants should be granted our highest positions, whether or not they could be trusted not to harm others. The children who would be separated from their parents, the trauma that would tear apart families, as an insecure man tries to show he is strong by stomping on the weak and is applauded for it. She thought of to-do lists which only grew longer and expectations she could never seem to satisfy.

And then, unexpectedly, the cars in front of her kept going instead of slamming to a stop. She was able to shift into first and then second and then third and – gasp – fourth and fifth gear. Now headed toward a destination and making progress, she shifted her perspective. She had friends and family that supported her, checked in on her, loved her. That was one hell of a good thing. The more she thought about it, the more good things she recognized which had been there all along. Such as: 

Brunch. The Mimosa-fueled catharsis as she spilled the secrets she didn’t even know she was keeping from herself, in a safe space, to those who understood and cared.

Stories. Whether she was listening or reading or watching, the stories of others helped her through this life. Bonus if she got to imagine a Rabbi Adam Brody kissing her like Kristen Bell…

Songs. Stories you can dance to. She was always a sucker for the perfect song for the perfect mood. 

Puppies. Enough said.

Such is life, she presumed. It could be awful and messy and painful and complicated. But if could also be damn good, as long as she was willing to see it.