Have you ever dreamt that you’re standing before the divorce judge naked? One minute you’re LA alfresco latte sipping with Rachel Wiesz, the next second-hand lap, you’re goose bumped butt shivering against the institutional AC blowing through exposed body hair like a Kansas wheat field. You’d grab a fig leaf, but the judge just awarded that to your ex, and you won’t be begging them for anything, no matter how exposed you feel.
I never have that dream. In my dreams I always have clothes, and sadly that explains many problems with my social life. No, in my dreams, I may have no voice, can’t run, can’t breathe, or can’t pee without getting something on myself, but I always have pants. I am always prepared. I am an over preparedness overachiever.
I am ready for everything, especially in packing. Whenever I take a trip, I need to cover all emergencies. Could it rain? I have an umbrella. Is life gonna hand me lemons? I have a juicer. I have a cup of sugar.
In divorce I was prepared too. Once we’d set a course, I packed accordingly: flannel pajamas for those nights alone, a full liquor cabinet for those nights alone, an animal to love for … yeah, you get the idea.
See? Ready for anything. If I were a Biblical character you’d find me dressed to the nines as one of the ten bridesmaids with a trim wick. That’s right, and I’d even shave my legs and look pressed. Know why? That’s right, cuz I was prepared: I packed a razor and an iron.
When the bridegroom comes round the mountain with his six white horses, I’ll flick my Bic; my lamp will flicker to life; and I’ll set one of the other bridesmaids on fire, because who needs 9 others, when I shine so bright with the glow of preparedness.
When I went to Seattle, I packed sweaters, undershirts, button-down shirts, flannels, sweatshirts, socks, change of shoes, pants, a coat, a hat, mittens, golashes, and a riding crop. I was ready.
This weekend I attended a writers’ conference. I packed. I drove. I arrived. That’s right publishing world, look out, cuz Rob is here. Valets parked my car; busboys held my door; maids minted my pillow. I was one book-deal handshake from my luncheon Weisz latte. Beyond the conference room doors sat the eager gatekeepers of publishers and agents.
This year I packed my blog materials, and prepared to pitch the Rob Blog concept. Prepared for the worst, I realized I might need to rewrite and sell as a memoir. That was my real reason for going. I’ve boxed up my divorced, past, now I want to prepare for my single future. Writer Rob needs a pulpit.
He also needs a platform. That’s what the first agent I talked to said. She said that standing on the backs of blog-readers wasn’t enough. I needed to step on others as well.
“Uhm, what?”
“There’s really not a market for blog material—not unless you’re somebody famous.”
“I’m Rob.”
“Yeah, about that…”
Nobody likes to hear they’re a small fish in a pothole puddle. I wasn’t prepared for that. Oh, I realize that not everybody has heard of me, but I know me, and I’m big in my head. Ask MyEx, she’ll tell ya.
“Yes, Rob is very important to himself.”
See? Sometimes I find my importance ebbs with other people and my preparedness beach turns to litter and seaweed. I’m not prepared for that. That’s what happened after my first consultation. I sulked to my room to regroup.
Sometimes a change of clothes will bring a change of view. I took off my blue jeans and red Henley and opened my overnight case. Pulling a green oxford, I continued digging f or slacks. Burrowing through t-shirts, Scooby Doo socks, He-man underwear, and Wonder Woman wear, I soon found I’d forgot something important.
I didn’t bring pants. My bridesmaid wick went dark with shame.
Preparedness gone, I fell back on animal instinct. If I let it, this would be a humiliating weekend. It was already obvious the Rob ego wasn’t going to sell, so I fell back on plan B. I turned to Rob charm. I’d found out what I’d needed for my project, so I spent the weekend talking to others, and helping them push their projects. Saturday I talked to the sweetest lady over lunch. She was so nervous, and I prepared her pitch.
Later that night, while I was mumbling to myself in the bar, she rushed up and stood next to me. Looking over I said, “Hi.”
“Guess what?” She bounced as she spoke.
“Did somebody like your pitch?”
“Publisher Bob wants to see my book!”
I was so excited for her. I congratulated her, and she danced back towards the lobby.
It made me think. Maybe the wick thing—maybe mine wasn’t out. Maybe my perspective was off. It’s not always about being prepared to be the biggest and the brightest--though I do try my best—maybe sometimes it’s about helping others do the same. Maybe I was too busy looking for my own glow, and I missed my wick lighting another.
Well, whatever it was. I was glad for her. Standing up, I left a tip for the bartender, and he complimented me on my He-man underwear. Lit wick or not, I still had no pants. But when it came to helping othersn, it felt good to be exposed.
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