Girl Most Likely To (25 page)

T
he chill that settled over the apartment was instantaneous. After he closed the door behind my family, Nick made for the kitchen without so much as a glance in my direction.

“You did great.” I came up behind him at the sink, and slipped my arms around his waist to envelop him in a hug.

“Did I?” he asked, giving the dishwashing liquid a rather aggressive squirt.

“Yes, you did,” I answered, loosening my grip and sitting atop the counter to face him.

“Okay.”

“Honey, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing. Everything’s fine.”

He was scrubbing a plate to within an inch of its existence.

“Okay, look. I’m sorry for making you put on that show for them.” I touched his arm. “I didn’t realize it was such a big favor to ask.”

The vein on the right side of his neck engorged, and he took a long, deep breath before turning toward me.

“Vina, I have no problem dressing up however you want me to, to impress your parents. I’ll speak in Hindi. I’ll do an interpretive dance. I don’t care. I understand that it’s important to you that they accept me. So I did it. Gladly.”

“Then what’s the problem? It was just one afternoon!”

“That’s the point.” He ran a soapy forearm across his forehead, revealing eyes which were far more upset than I expected. “For me, it’s just one afternoon. But I see now that for you…it’s your whole life. It’s actually how you live. And I don’t know how to handle that.”

I blinked. “What are you talking about?”

“Let me ask you this. Is it that you’re ashamed of me for not being Indian, or is it that you feel like you have to apologize for having any part of a personality that might be different from what they planned for you?”

“You’re not making any sense.” I slid off the counter and started for the living room.

“Yes, I am. I make perfect sense.” He slammed a soapy melon-baller into the water before following me. “Those are the only possible reasons why you would act less like yourself with them around, than I have ever seen you act in the entire time I’ve known you. You swallowed everything you wanted to say. You were walking on eggshells, Vina! You never walk on eggshells with anyone!”

“Look…” I launched back into teacher mode, reminding myself to be patient because he knew not what he was saying. “I am a lot further along than anyone I know who has parents as conservative as mine. It’s not something that…”

“I know, I know. It’s
not something that I would understand,
” he said, mocking me for the first time. “Because I’m just the white boy. Well, to be honest with you, I don’t want to understand them. I want to understand you. And I want them to understand you. Or maybe I want you not to care anymore whether or not they ever do! I’m the guy who’s with you every day and every night. It’s like you think you have to apologize for so many of the things that make you
you.
And I love all of those things! Every single one of them! I don’t want you to change them, and I don’t want you to apologize for them. I love it that you say what you think even if you know I won’t agree with you. I love how complicated you are and how such a confident woman bites her fingernails when she thinks I’m not looking. I love all the different things that you’re able to be passionate about, even if they’re so different. And I love the way that you wear your emotions on your sleeve with me. I love the whole person I’ve gotten to know who has already changed my life so much more than she understands. But you turned into another person around them. And it breaks my heart. That’s not the woman I love.”

I dropped to the couch.

“Vina, I don’t see why you can’t do everything. Write, work on Wall Street, dance in the streets if you want to, like your father said. I want to see you do everything you secretly think you can do and wonder if you’re capable of doing. And I have always believed that you will, when you’re ready. But now I wonder if maybe the reason you’re holding yourself back is because you feel like you need them to approve
before
you can take your own interests seriously. And I can understand that, a little bit, because I used to do it in my own way for my dad’s sake and my mom’s memory. But I’m not sure I can handle seeing you do it. Why do they have to cut off any idea of yours that differs with theirs? And more importantly, why do you let them?”

“They never told me to give up writing, completely. It’s that they don’t really…value it.”

“I don’t care what they value. They’re…they’re so dismissive.”

I felt quickly protective. “Nick, they’re my parents.”

“And you’re a grown woman. So the important question is, what do you value?”

I realized then and there that it really wasn’t their fault. It was mine, because I had never asked myself that question before. And I felt embarrassed, for the first time, in front of Nick. I bowed my head.

“I’m sorry.”

He knelt before me. “I don’t want you to be sorry, Vina. You are already everything that you should be, and the rest is gravy. I can see it so clearly, and I don’t want you to hold yourself back like that. Nobody who loves you would ever want you to.”

It was the first time that he had said it, and I knew for sure that it was real. The kind of love that I needed, and that I never would have recognized had I not gone through everything that came before that moment. Salt-and-Pepper had said that love would recognize that I was searching, and want me for who I was as well as for who I wanted to be. If this outburst wasn’t evidence of Nick rejecting the idea of me silencing myself, I didn’t know what was. From the start I had felt as if he knew me, but I had kept it to myself. Partly because it would have been like pointing out the wetness of the water. But now, expressing it felt like the most logical thing in the world.

So I swallowed, and I smiled, taking his precious soap-splattered face in my hands. And the words seemed like a whisper in comparison to the emotion that was coming from inside me for this man.

“I love you, too.”

I paced back and forth in front of the dining table, trying not to be distracted by the bickering in the kitchen. Prakash and Christopher had argued incessantly since applying for adoption of their Chinese orphan last month, probably in an attempt to simulate the stress of the pregnancy they would never have to endure.

“What could possibly be taking Nick so long?” I asked Booboo, who responded by licking his own belly.

In the months since Nick had met my parents, I had secretly submitted an op-ed piece to the
New York Times
every week, opining on everything from sheep cloning to reality TV. I had received so many form-letter rejections from them at that point that I was considering wallpapering my kitchen with them. And eventually the letters got their message across—nobody was interested in what I had to say. That was why, when the
Times
called three days earlier to explain that they were publishing my latest submission, even Nick had trouble acting as if he wasn’t surprised. Apparently, my life was more interesting than my opinions, and my latest submission was good enough to print. But my own bemusement gave way to a serious case of neck stress when it occurred to me that the whole world was about to share in my most personal thoughts and feelings. What would they think of me? How would they react? How would I feel about myself, once I saw those words in print? It was a good thing I knew people in Fiji; nobody could find me there. I had sworn Nick to secrecy and sent him out in search of the paper since we didn’t have time to stop at my place before coming over to Prakash’s that morning.

I pounced on the handle the instant the doorbell rang.

“Oh. It’s you.” I turned and walked back toward the window.

“Sorry I’m late for brunch, but is that any way to greet one of your best friends? I kind of lose track of time while I’m studying for the GMATs.” Pamela removed her scarf and scanned Prakash’s loft. “Where is everyone?”

“Huh?” I looked behind her for signs of Nick coming down the hallway. “I dunno. Cristy’s on her way. Chris and Prakash are fighting or screwing in the kitchen. I’m not sure which, but I wouldn’t go in there if I were you.”

“What else is new? And Nick?” she asked, pausing amid the process of mixing herself a mimosa.

I headed back to the door, knowing she wouldn’t have thought to lock it behind her. “Oh, he should be here any…”

And just before I could lock the door, it pushed back.

“Here it is, babe.” Nick scooped me up into a hug and twirled me around before setting me down.

“Here what is?” Pam asked.

“My baby’s been published in the
New York Times,
” Nick announced triumphantly, handing each of us a copy from his pile of at least thirty. “Here. Take a copy.”

“Bullshit!” Prakash came running out from the kitchen, having overheard us. “Okay, this means we’re gonna use the good champagne for a toast. Not the crap we put out for the mimosas.”

“It was not crap.” Christopher came out, wiping his hands on his
Breakfast Included
apron and frowning at his husband.

“Oh, come on. Be serious.” Prakash went for their liquor cabinet.

Cristy was the next one through the door, and she nearly knocked me over. “Why didn’t you tell me? This is incredible!
Chica,
congratulations!”

“Thanks.” I blushed. Even though the newspaper was spread out before me, it was still hard to believe, especially since the last time the
Times
paid me any attention was such a disaster. My thoughts, in print, for the pleasure and dissection of
millions of people
the world over. I dropped backward onto the new camel suede sofa that Christopher had forbidden any of us to sit on.

“Okay, but we can’t get too drunk,” Nick admonished. “I need my Vina to be coherent tonight. We’ll be celebrating her debut!”

“Where are you going?” Cristy asked, handing me a champagne flute.

“It’s a surprise.” Nick kissed the top of my head. “Oh, that reminds me. I have to confirm our dinner reservation.”

He disappeared into the kitchen, and Pam and Cristina slid onto either side of the couch beside me.

“Well?”
Cristina whispered.

“Well what?” I slurped and then swished the champagne around in my mouth.

“Is tonight a big night?” Pam asked.

“Yeah, sure.” I blinked, still fixated on my name in print.

“Don’t play dumb,” Cristy said. “It’s not convincing.”

I looked at her, and then back at the miracle in my hands, willing time to stand still.

“Do you think he’s going to propose tonight?” her voice climbed about three octaves.

“I don’t know.” I propped my feet up on the marble coffee table. “I hadn’t thought about it.”

“Haven’t you even looked for the ring while he’s in the shower?”

“Nope.”

“Why not?” Christopher asked, coming to sit on the coffee table after kicking my feet off it.

“Because I’m usually in there with him?”

“Stop avoiding the topic,” Cristina commanded.

“Look guys, I love him, yes. But life’s good. And I’m just enjoying watching it unfold.”

Brrrring!
For once, I was saved by a phone call from my parents. I f lipped open my cell phone, rose to my feet and stepped toward the window, still clutching my newspaper.

“Darling, we did not believe it when we saw our daughter’s name in the
New York Times
this morning,” my mother gushed before I could say hello. “Our daughter!”

“Really, Vina.
Kamaal keeya,
” my father said. I turned away from the others and leaned against the windowsill. “You have made us very proud. I cannot imagine that my daughter can even think this way, much less write this way. This is truly something noble.”

“It’s not that big of a deal, Dad.” I blushed, watching Nick come toward me with a champagne f lute in one hand and a bottle in the other. Behind him, my friends were assembling for the toast they knew he was about to make.

“We are so proud of you,” my mother told me. “Now hold on, your Nani is grabbing at the telephone.”

So am I,
I thought, lifting my glass for a refill as I awaited for my grandmother’s voice.
So am I.

T
here are an estimated six million claustrophobics in the naked city. I’m one of them. And thank God for that. Until recently I lacked the courage to share that fact with even the closest members of my inner circle. But I’m not writing this piece to come out of my proverbial closet; my closet spat me out by force. I’m writing it to help many of you come out of your own, by choice. Because facing my disorder meant facing some other, more important things about myself. Myself, and adult life in general. Allow me to explain.

I woke up one day a few months ago feeling so disappointed in myself. No, I was not alone in a Dumpster in Connecticut, and no, I was not lying next to a naked stranger wearing a tool belt and covered in raspberry jam. You New Yorkers, with your dirty imaginations. I was disappointed because I finally had to admit that the origin of my problems was staring back at me in the mirror. In the months preceding that afternoon, I had lost nearly everything that mattered to me.

My moment of revelation occurred on the cold, hard floor of a midtown elevator where I found myself in the fetal position after a full-f ledged nervous breakdown. I was on my way to a deposition with the SEC. And clarity came in the form of admitting to myself that my career, my relationship, and ultimately my faith in my own judgment paid the price for trying to be perfect as others defined it. I had spent twenty-seven years setting myself up to fail. And I began to wonder, in the weeks and months that followed, why I would have done that to myself, and if it were possible that I could be the only one. Somehow, I didn’t think so.

Most claustrophobics experience an intense, often socially and professionally debilitating disorder that begins without benefit of emotional stimuli, and prevents them from feeling comfortable in enclosed spaces. In the most severe cases, people will literally begin to hyperventilate at the prospect of even entering a subway, a small room or an elevator, for fear that diminishing oxygen will cause them to suffocate to death. Mercifully, mine was a milder form, which triggered responses only when coupled with mounting external emotional distress. Routinely, my claustrophobia pushed me close enough to peer over what I had come to recognize as my emotional edge. But what I didn’t realize until after the day of my breakdown was how much worse I was making the disorder for myself. Because while I had experienced emotional distress in close quarters many times before, that afternoon in the elevator was the first time that it pushed me over the edge to a panic attack and subsequent breakdown. And now I realize why.

The core of claustrophobia, regardless of its severity, is a fear of losing control. And like many otherwise rational adults, I was carrying around the ridiculous notion that I had some. The idea was that by my late twenties, I ought to have had my life figured out. To know what I was doing, where I was headed, and why the world spun the way that it did. It wasn’t enough to be good at my job, or to try my best with my relationships. I desperately needed to believe that nothing had been left up to chance. That I knew what I was doing, and I made my own destiny.

Like I said, thank God for my claustrophobia, because I had become good at balancing on that high-wire above reality, and I had every intention of staying there on my tippy-toes forever. Alongside many of you. It was a carefully crafted illusion that I “had it together,” and it was comforting. Then something wonderful happened. Everything fell apart. Finally, on the floor of that elevator, so did I. After the dust settled on the investigation I was cleared of any wrongdoing. The SEC charges of insider trading were dropped, and those who had deceived me were forced to accept responsibility for their lies.

While I was vindicated, I found that I was far from free. Some nagging questions remained, the loudest one being
Why did I miss all the signs?

So I cried, and I hid, and I thought and I meditated, and the only answer that came to me was this:
Because I chose to.

That’s when all the pieces began falling into place. The last time I could remember living in a world without anxiety was somewhere around age four. Curly-haired, chubby-cheeked, eating a bowl of chocolate ice cream and wearing a T-shirt claiming Here Comes Trouble, I was usually wiggling to the sound of the tunes in my head, swinging my legs off the side of my chair and completely at peace with a hug and a smile from my mom. Where had that girl gone?

Like the happy child inside of most people, she was buried under years of trying to please everyone around her. Buried under the weight of pressure, age, cynicism and shame, all emotions with which she had been so happily unfamiliar. By subscribing to the notion that I ought to aim for perfection, I chose to internalize the pressure to know everything. I began to hold myself to standards no one would ever have expected of a child. And I became my own worst enemy, once I forgot about that girl entirely. I muted her voice while living my life for all of the others.

And it took my breakdown to show me how far it had gone. After a while, so much was resting on the illusion of my own control, that second-guessing myself was not an option. So consciously or subconsciously or in some vein between the two, I ignored the warning signs. I refused to ask questions or to take a step back. I no longer allowed myself to squint and discern the fine line between my instincts and my defense mechanisms. I was so afraid to have any of my ideas or choices contradicted that I refused to allow dissension even from within.

Sound familiar? I’m sure that it does. Because we all do it, to different degrees. We lie to ourselves all the time,
Shhhhhhh
ing that inner voice until it is no longer even audible above the roar of the lives we build above it. Hence my disappointment in myself. Since then, I’ve discovered something wonderful. It turns out that the inner voice never goes anywhere. It just waits patiently until it can be heard once again.

The calm after my breakdown was palpable, which is why I recommend it to everyone. And as for my claustrophobia, I’m not ashamed anymore. The funny thing is, the minute you try to let go of the delusion of control, without knowing it, you start letting go of your anxieties and your phobias, and you begin to distill what’s important.

My claustrophobia has taught me that I was suffocating as much inside of my own expectations as I was inside of my disorder. That true strength was being humble enough to second-guess myself. That I never had any control to begin with. And knowing that was the most tremendous gift.

I see now that the claustrophobic in me was in large part a manifestation of the phobic in all of us. I don’t mean to imply that claustrophobia in most cases is not a legitimate and clinically diagnosed disorder. All I know for sure is that the last year of my life changed everything because I suffered the kind of crisis that I hope only comes around once. I know that I am fragile, and fallible, and so is everyone else.

So I choose to aim for improvement rather than perfection, and to appreciate the effort as much as the results. Because it’s not about perfection, or ego, or anything else. It’s about that girl I tried so hard to bury. It’s about appreciating that my instincts may be the echoes of her voice. It’s about raising a glass when it’s time, raising an objection when it’s necessary and raising my self-awareness to the point where I will never again fail to do what’s best for me. And it’s about knowing that as long as I live that way, my four-year-old self will be smiling back at me from across the table, ice-cream bowl in hand, innocently rooting me on.