The funny thing was that I
had everything I wanted. It started with my room. I had a room of one’s own, a
room that I’d always hoped to create. So much white, so much simplicity. “A
place where I could really write,” as the writers say. And I had the kind of
friends that people die for, the kind of friends who constantly surprise with what
life has taught me must be pure, unconditional love – friends who cooked me
dinner and thought I was spectacular and answered the phone on the third ring.
I always thought that was a testament to my friendships. My friends answered
the phone when I called.
But the amount of “more” that
I wanted was scary, and so juxtaposed the sweet, easy simplicity of the
room I loved so much. In theory, I was happy. “She designed a life she loved,”
the gift said, and I suppose by then I had. But I wanted the American idea
of more: the car with leather seats, the locker room with eucalyptus steamed towels; the uncomfortable, expensive shoes. How
predictable I had become, a misguided rat late to the never-ending race. But
not too late to join it.
