Ophelia, my friend couldn't believe what she was hearing.
Actually, her name's not Ophelia.
And actually, she could believe what she was hearing.
It wasn't the first time her mother had inquired as to the company Ophelia was keeping. It's just that it had been a long time.
Ophelia was telling her mother her travel plans. She'd drive up, visit for a bit, and then fly back. A friend would pick her up at the airport.
"Is it a male friend?"
If you've never been a single girl, you may not be familiar with the universal mother pronunciation of male. The "ail" portion of the word is stretched out to last for several days and the word turns up at the end to indicate an inquisition.
"Is it a m-ai-ai-ai-ai-ai-ai-ai-ai-ai-ai-ai-L-?-?-?-?-?"
Ophelia called me to express her abomination.
Actually, she wasn't abominated. She was just at a loss.
"What do I say?" she wondered.
And thus began our journey into the uncomfortable land of Status on Demand.
In this world, persons of a certain age, circumstance and stature are expected to report on their status at the drop of a hat. Basically, anybody who's not yet married and who doesn't yet have all of the children they're planning to have is a Status on Demand candidate. Other candidates for Status on Demand include those with confusing careers (anything besides 25+ plus years with one business entity), those with outdated cars, and those who move more often than once every lifetime.
Status on Demand questions tend to begin with the oh-so-appealing words "what" or "where" or "when."
Where do you see it going?
What do you plan to do next?
When will you go back to work?...and when will you have a baby?...and when will you move and visit and find a therapist and go back to church?
Some Status on Demand questions begin with "Do you?"
Do you love him? Do you love her? Do you think he or she loves you?
Do you plan to stay at your job? Go to grad school? Get a new car? Get married?
I spent the first many years of my total many years responding comprehensively to Status on Demand (SOD) questions.
What do you plan to do next?
"Wow. So glad you asked. I wish I knew what I planned to do next. I've applied to four different graduate programs but now I'm wondering whether going back to graduate school will disrupt my in-vitro schedule. And depending on which program I get into, orientation week might conflict with vacation. Unless, of course, Bruno and I decide not to get married. Therapy's not going too well. He's not comfortable talking about private things like his penchant for sex with animals who molt. Oops. Swear you won't tell him I told you. It's confidential. In any case, if we can't fix his little problem, I might need that vacation time for speed dating and a little excursion to North Carolina for new furniture. I've thought about keeping the relationship furniture, but who's got time for cleaning a yellow suede sofa with grad school exams and multiple births? But, please. Let's not just talk about me. Tell me about you! What would you do if you were me?"
Like an idiot, I assumed that the asking of a question required an answer. Like an even bigger idiot, I assumed that those asking the questions had the right to know anything and everything about me.
And so I answered. I told people how I was doing, who I was doing, what I was doing and how I felt about what I'd done. I told of my plans and my hopes and my dreams.
And when I wasn't doing anything or anyone, I divulged that too.
And my life took on a life of its own. Instead of just being and living, I was constantly thinking. Thinking of the answers to the questions. And thinking about what the next questions would be.
Increasingly, I found myself preparing in advance for public functions. Obsessive all-nighters are so much fun. And so good for you.
"Okay...what do I tell people I do?.....what do I say I've been doing with my weekends?....where do I say Bruno is?....how do I refer to Bruno?....if somebody says I look nice, do I agree, laugh in that carefree way or self-deprecate?"
I can't quite recall when I shut up, but I'm fairly certain it was related to some life transition. Maybe it was around the time I wanted to leave the litigation side of law. Maybe it was around the time I wanted to stay with someone I was pretty sure I should leave. Maybe it was around the time I wanted to leave someone I was pretty sure I should stay with.
I don't remember. All I know was that I was living a quandry and literally had no idea what was next.
And yet, people kept asking questions.
Hey. Can't people tell when it's a lousy time for questions?
Ooh! Ooh! I know the answer!!
The answer is that you often get the most questions - and the most annoying questions at the worst time.
It's Murphy's Law of Ugh.
And so it was that at some point in my sordid evolution, I decided to just hand over the truth:
"I don't know."
And I found out quickly how truly uncomfortable people are with that answer.
Where is it going? "I don't know."
What do you plan to do next? "I don't know."
Where will you work? "I don't know."
Do you want to have a baby? "I don't know."
Do you love him? "I don't know."
Does he love you? "I don't know."
Do you want Tai or Japanese? "You know? I really really really just don't know."
It doesn't sound like that nice of a response, but really it was incredibly nice. My "I don't know" was accompanied by a slight furrow of the brow and a mild shrug. My "I don't know" carried a certain "gee, that's not really on my mind today" kind of air.
My "I don't know" was especially nice since I only said "I don't know." What I didn't say was "I don't know and I don't care that I don't know and I don't see why you should care whether I know."
But in hindsight, I really should have just said the latter. Because time after time the inquisitor would follow up with "Have you considered...?" or "Why don't you...?" or "Do you think...?"
It took me a while to get used to the double "don't know."
For a while I tried gentle and polite variations on "I don't know and I don't care." But I realized in short order that "I don't know" really had to be followed by a second "I don't know."
Only by repeating the bottom line truth would the point be made without discussion. Discussion, of course, was the most dangerous area: discussion implies willingness to consider, openness to pondering and consent to negotiation, analysis and criticism. And discussion invites the worst thing of all: other people's uninvited opinions.
It took me a while to not feel bad when the person seemed muddled or put out. Luckily, though, overwhelming feelings of liberation took over. Saying "I don't know" meant that I could just relax, move on to other topics, see if there were any cookies laying around, and generally enjoy the activities at hand.
What I didn't realize was that saying "I don't know" would ultimately allow me to relax in the much greater way that enables a person to experience and enjoy his or her present life.
Experiencing the present life was something I hadn't really known how to do. Years of fielding others' questions - and appointing actual legitimacy and weight to those questions - had left me thinking I should always know what's next.
I assumed I should always know what I wanted, what I didn't want, what was coming, what was going.
And I assumed everybody else knew those things about their own lives.
But in reality, few of us really know any of that until we actually presently know. Until things actually presently happen. Or until things don't happen.
And so I told Ophelia, whose default it is to answer anyone and everyones' questions, "Look, you don't even know what's going on in your life...why would you feel obligated to report to others? Why should others know your life details even when you don't know?"
Ophelia was kind of okay with that. She was totally on board in theory. But I respectfully suspect that her version of saying "I don't know" was to explain what it was that she didn't know and why it was that she didn't know it.
Again, I respectfully suspect that when she said she didn't know, she still managed to divulge and explain and apologize and justify much more than necessary.
And I suspect that's what happened when Ophelia truly didn't know.
The problem is that sometimes Ophelia does know. And then she feels obligated to tell what she knows to anyone who asks.
How in the world is it possible that I become good friends with such an honest, open, giving person?
Needless to say, I've since given up on Ophelia. Not in a general sense; only in this very specific circumstance.
Last night, with Ophelia nearby, an inquisitive stranger asked me what I would do if I only had two years left to live.
After a pretty rough period of attacking the nature of his question and interrogating him as to his creative process, I answered.
"I'd have sex and write as much as I could."
And after "sex" and "writing" popped out of my mouth, I realized what good answers those were. For me.
For purposes of propriety, I won't divulge the extent to which I engage in either sex or writing - or sex while writing - in my current life situation. I'll just say that both are consistently high priority.
This is not to say that both are fully realized or regularly executed goals on any particular day - or month or year. It's just that both activities trump most other activities at any given time...if only in theory.
But it never occurred to me to tell the stranger that I didn't know. And it never bothered me that I'd divulged.
Perhaps it was because the question assumed a fantastical circumstance. Or perhaps because the stranger had lovely blue eyes. Perhaps because I was one great martini and one mediocre martini down already.
But I'd venture to guess that my comfort with the inquiry was based on what the question wasn't.
The question wasn't a challenge to my present life. The question wasn't a suggestion of current holes, failings or shortcomings. The question wasn't a request for status of any kind. Or an implication that my life required more accomplishments, successes or other measures of worth.
Instead, the question was born purely of interest and curiosity and journalist spirit.
I am obligated to report that the inquisitive stranger won't be part of either my sex or writing. And I don't foresee blue eyes picking me up from the airport.
And despite the fact that he's got so much in common with Ophelia, I can't even pass the inquisitive stranger off to her.
Because the inquisitive stranger isn't living his present life. The inquisitive stranger lives in a frustrated space clogged by pondering his future and wondering how his future will or will not reflect the normal complications of his past.
The inquisitive stranger asked lots of fun questions. And he listened intently while I explained my theories of zen management.
And he told me where he was and where she was and why they were and why they weren't together.
And then the inquisitive stranger asked: "What would you do if you were me?"
And the answer was so very clear.
"Both feet in, dude. Or both feet out."
Because when one foot's in and one foot's out, you're neither here nor there.
And that's one thing I know. Even if I say I don't.