"Don't dress like a ho, by the way," he suggested, banking on his years of expertise in the world of corporate gamesmanship. And reacting, I suppose, to what he thought was an overly plunging neckline on my sundress. I suggested he not make assumptions about what kind of job I might be seeking, and, anyway, my neckline would pretty much have to plunge into my sandals to reveal anything inappropriate (or, in my case, frightening).
Point well taken though about dressing like a ho, particularly on the off chance the pole dancing position in the local assisted living complex doesn't pan out. I assured him my "interview outfit" is already hanging in the closet. (I didn't want to jinx anything and spring for a second one; I'm guessing I'll get a lot of mileage out of just the one for a while.) I've even done some research on the clothing, which is how I already knew I should probably not dress like a ho, and it's also how I knew -- much to my relief -- that I could wear black pumps with a blue dress. The last thing I need in my closet right now is a brand new pair of excruciatingly uncomfortable shoes.
The conversation turned to more serious matters, like how I might avoid sounding like an idiot. My children think this is a lost cause, but my friends at least pretend there's something to work with. "So if you could do one thing in your life differently, what would it be?"
"Seriously? Somebody might ask me that?" He looked at me with a mix of disdain and pity. I wanted to tell him more about the outfit, how the blue dress with the black pumps would tell my prospective employers everything they need to know. That I am edgy, a renegade, avant garde to the point that I might even wear white after Labor Day. Someone who can't help but think outside the box; I will need an assistant just to sift through all the offers.
"Answer the question!"
Aargh. Seems like it would be a lay up, asking a woman who's been divorced for less than a year what she would do differently. But I was stumped. I've made more mistakes than I care to mention, taken more missteps than I care to acknowledge, but if I had done everything right how would I know all that I know? To paraphrase a woman I know who has followed her own jagged path, all the mistakes, all the bad decisions, brought me here. Here, to where I am now, which may not seem enviable to the naked eye, but is, in many ways, exactly where I want to be. Here can be exhausting at times, a place where anxiety occasionally wreaks havoc with my once athletic pulse, but here is a place of constant growth and learning and reflection. Here is a place where I can put the bumpy journey into perspective, apologize when I need to, laugh about it when I am ready, and turn some of the ridiculousness into wisdom for the benefit of my children and, maybe more importantly, myself.
"I'd wear sensible shoes." He rolled his eyes. Back in the day, a good friend crafted an entire speech at her daughter's bat mitzvah around sensible shoes. I thought it was brilliant at the time, and now, here, all these years later, I still think the shoes are the one thing I would change. I could live without the corns and the bone spurs and the plantar fasciitis; they have brought nothing of value to my table.
There will no doubt be many bumps in the road ahead, on that jagged path from here to there. I'll throw on the stretched out old black pumps when I have to, and go barefoot whenever I can.
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