The Imprecise Future

Tonight I held our last seasonal sales conference for the publishing company that's paid me for the last three years. All the reps came to town, and parked it in uncomfortable chairs in a hotel on 79th Street; I took the train in--standing both ways, thanks to all the festive stay-at-home mothers and their kids who betook themselves to the city to see the tree or the angels or, God help us, the Rockettes and their barely unionized musicians. My back was killing me the whole time.

Yesterday I went to the walk-in clinic to have a rash on my back checked. I thought I was allergic to a new bra. Turns out I have shingles. Shingles: an ailment like rickets or consumption--something you've heard of but don't really understand; something you don't want to announce in public. If you've ever had chicken pox, I've learned, you can get shingles: a not-pretty eruption that hits in bands, generally on the torso, and lasts a few weeks. It's neurological; when the rash goes away you can still feel nerve pain--in drastic accounts up to a year later. I've got a fist-sized spot between my shoulder blades, and that's not so bad. But there's this symphony of shooting jabs firing off--in my chest, in my shoulder, in my left breast. Localized stuff spooks me: breast pain spooks me. The doctor pissed me off--all stern and officious, like when ten cop cars show up for a fender bender because they've got nothing better to do. I kept waiting for the bad news--it felt like there was bad news coming, the way she was talking. But all she had to offer was that my head cold might have sparked it.

The reps at the meeting came up to me afterwards with that look people wear at funerals: sympathy, discomfort. "What are your plans?" they ask, sort of whispering, sort of smiling. I breeze through it; what am I going to say? I leave them drinking my wine--lie that I'm going Christmas shopping for the kids. As if I'd go near a store with those maniacs loose on the street.

Traders from Wall Street met in the 4th car on the way home to drink light beer and eat Pringles, standing next to me in the aisle. Paunchy, red-cheeked fellows who call their spouses "the wife," charmingly enough. "Took the wife to dinner there." How are traders making the 5:01, I wonder? The whole commuter scene depresses me. All boys-clubby--even the women.

On Monday I have an interview for a really, really big job. Like, the kind of job I'd never try to pull off, except that, on a whim, I flung a resume at it a few weeks ago. I'd be reporting to a woman who is, in my view, a national treasure--a legend, a powerhouse, a kind and smart woman. The job, though, is located on 17th St in the city--an hour train ride and another 40 minutes in car/subway on both ends. That puts me home at 7 at night, which is when my kids go to bed. I want to cry. I just want to crawl into a ball and cry. Betcha they like me, too. Just wait. And then what?

I'm sure the holiday spirit will revive itself. Give me a day.