Gone Girl
While on the mend, what some might see as superfluous is necessity for me. As the gray in my hair began to peek through, I knew how much I wanted my stylist to touch me up. It might seem silly, but looking good makes me feel better. It's not so much as keeping up appearances but just looking in the mirror every morning to see that I haven't given up.
There were a few things I didn't take into account for my appointment. One was how big a commitment anything over forty-five minutes would be sitting in a stiff chair. The other I thought I'd handled in advance, which was telling Tammie beforehand in brief about the accident and how I wasn't quite myself.
It's always discussing the same events over and over, especially if it's with someone I care about. I've told the same details so many times, I'm a zombie. I actually feel guilty as I mentally check out. I consider Tammie my friend, then stylist, and this is how friends show they care. They ask questions and want to know how I'm doing. I know it's not to hurt me, of course. The bizarre thing is the desire to want to add that razzle dazzle. But I'm devoid because I'm talking about a car crash and my life after it.
The crash goes off relatively without a hitch. I surprise myself by being blasé without effort about being let go from my marketing job due to the accident. Except that I don't recognize I'm starting to lose myself. I've actually disassociated so much, I'm flitting without thought from a random topic to the next. I was talking about my theory that every guy's "The One That Got Away" is not a girl, it's a car. Hear me out. This was a theory I was working on far before the accident. I haven't dated much in my life, so I don't have the numbers to back up this theory. But I was noticing that the men in my life have "The One" story. In the beginning of dating, the guy would eventually get to the car he loved the most, the stupid thing he'd done to lose it, and how some day he'd get one again. This is a matter of selective hearing. Men, I apologize. You gentlemen have to listen to our lame stories we women tell and pretend to be interested. It's not that I intentionally zoned out. I remember most of the details of your stories, sirs. Except that I've mixed up who owned which make and model to which year. The stories remain somewhat cemented in my brain.
I had just added that I was in such a daze, I had asked my tow-truck driver from my accident to tell me about the car he'd loved the most. I kid you not. It's not that I wanted a hot date from my driver. I was in terrible shock from the accident. I desperately wanted him to talk for some reason, but he was practically made of stone until I'd randomly asked him about his favorite car he'd even owned.
I was retelling his story to Tammie. I checked my memory, out loud, unintentionally. "...Sean was a Chevy Chevelle. And Adam? Shoot, his sad story of how he lost his car I remember clearly, but not year, make and model."
To which Tammie enthusiastically bursts out, "I met Adam! I mean, I saw Adam. You know I didn't know who he was, but he knew who I was. I didn't recognize meeting him before. He was at this equine convention as a volunteer."
Except I've been thrown back into my body like waking up from blacking out at the crash scene. The Adam from my story? Oh, same man, but he was of the past. He wasn't a living, breathing person.
I assume I looked haunted. I tried everything in my power to say something normal. Decent. Dismissive even. Instead, "Was it recently?"
Except even my voice sounds wrong. And she quickly says, "Yes. Or no. No. At the end of the season. Whenever that was. I don't know. But you know your massage therapist Bill? You've seen him for your back and neck how many times? Do you like him? He's great."
Mel, please. Mel, please. Something normal needs to come from you. I'm pleading myself, but this "tick," this innocent-sounding "hiccup" is happening.
"He's supposed to be dead," I say flatly. "He's supposed to be dead and gone or at least to have the decency to have moved. But he's alive and well and fine while I have a concussion. This isn't fair."
I'm murmuring this liturgy, "This isn't fair, this isn't fair," which my eyes shut. Tammie's moved from the couch to lean me back and wash my hair. And she's throwing any topic she can at me. Except I'm gone. It's not just that I can't come back, I won't come back. I'm just gone.
There were a few things I didn't take into account for my appointment. One was how big a commitment anything over forty-five minutes would be sitting in a stiff chair. The other I thought I'd handled in advance, which was telling Tammie beforehand in brief about the accident and how I wasn't quite myself.
It's always discussing the same events over and over, especially if it's with someone I care about. I've told the same details so many times, I'm a zombie. I actually feel guilty as I mentally check out. I consider Tammie my friend, then stylist, and this is how friends show they care. They ask questions and want to know how I'm doing. I know it's not to hurt me, of course. The bizarre thing is the desire to want to add that razzle dazzle. But I'm devoid because I'm talking about a car crash and my life after it.
The crash goes off relatively without a hitch. I surprise myself by being blasé without effort about being let go from my marketing job due to the accident. Except that I don't recognize I'm starting to lose myself. I've actually disassociated so much, I'm flitting without thought from a random topic to the next. I was talking about my theory that every guy's "The One That Got Away" is not a girl, it's a car. Hear me out. This was a theory I was working on far before the accident. I haven't dated much in my life, so I don't have the numbers to back up this theory. But I was noticing that the men in my life have "The One" story. In the beginning of dating, the guy would eventually get to the car he loved the most, the stupid thing he'd done to lose it, and how some day he'd get one again. This is a matter of selective hearing. Men, I apologize. You gentlemen have to listen to our lame stories we women tell and pretend to be interested. It's not that I intentionally zoned out. I remember most of the details of your stories, sirs. Except that I've mixed up who owned which make and model to which year. The stories remain somewhat cemented in my brain.
I had just added that I was in such a daze, I had asked my tow-truck driver from my accident to tell me about the car he'd loved the most. I kid you not. It's not that I wanted a hot date from my driver. I was in terrible shock from the accident. I desperately wanted him to talk for some reason, but he was practically made of stone until I'd randomly asked him about his favorite car he'd even owned.
I was retelling his story to Tammie. I checked my memory, out loud, unintentionally. "...Sean was a Chevy Chevelle. And Adam? Shoot, his sad story of how he lost his car I remember clearly, but not year, make and model."
To which Tammie enthusiastically bursts out, "I met Adam! I mean, I saw Adam. You know I didn't know who he was, but he knew who I was. I didn't recognize meeting him before. He was at this equine convention as a volunteer."
Except I've been thrown back into my body like waking up from blacking out at the crash scene. The Adam from my story? Oh, same man, but he was of the past. He wasn't a living, breathing person.
I assume I looked haunted. I tried everything in my power to say something normal. Decent. Dismissive even. Instead, "Was it recently?"
Except even my voice sounds wrong. And she quickly says, "Yes. Or no. No. At the end of the season. Whenever that was. I don't know. But you know your massage therapist Bill? You've seen him for your back and neck how many times? Do you like him? He's great."
Mel, please. Mel, please. Something normal needs to come from you. I'm pleading myself, but this "tick," this innocent-sounding "hiccup" is happening.
"He's supposed to be dead," I say flatly. "He's supposed to be dead and gone or at least to have the decency to have moved. But he's alive and well and fine while I have a concussion. This isn't fair."
I'm murmuring this liturgy, "This isn't fair, this isn't fair," which my eyes shut. Tammie's moved from the couch to lean me back and wash my hair. And she's throwing any topic she can at me. Except I'm gone. It's not just that I can't come back, I won't come back. I'm just gone.
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