Embracing Vulnerability or I wrote something else.

Darlings,

Once upon a time through a program at my old job (http://freebeerandfiction.com/ where I believe there is a live reading of this...) I was implored to write a short story of 20 minutes or less. Darlings, it was hard - I'm used to reactive writing, not proactive writing. If you put something in front of me (a horrid dress, a leg of lamb, etc.) I'm happy to react. But to start something from absolute scratch, well that's really really tough.

And I wasn't sure that I loved it - but I'm realizing now, that not everything single thing you do has to define you. My darling friend Jesse said to me the other day, "For the past five years you have been defined by your incredibly stressful job and the successes it has brought you. Now YOU get to figure out what defines the next five."

That was a big thing for me to hear. It's true, the past few years have been a whirlwind of planes, trains and automobiles, of stress pimples, of big wins and bigger losses, of too many martinis and meat sweats (and too little real sweat). And I wouldn't trade it for the world (I mean, aside from the extra 20, err 25ish pounds). But I made the decision to make a change. A BIG change. To move entirely out of any comfort zone I've ever known. And for the past three weeks, I have been really hard on myself - doing that thing I do when I feel like I have to be the best at everything the moment I decide I want to do it. But that conversation with a friend really made me realize that I had to do something that has never been comfortable to me - I needed to embrace vulnerability - to embrace the unknown, the uncomfortable AND even the failures. My mom constantly reminds me that I have never been good at doing this (the irony of not being good at being bad is not something that is lost on me) and might remind me every week for the rest of my days that when I got a "B" in handwriting in second grade, I cried for two weeks. (Darlings, I will go to my grave contesting that grade - and if I had the vocabulary then that I have now, I am certain it would have been amended ON. THE. SPOT.)

So here you go. A nose-dive into vulnerability. A story that I wrote. You might like it, you might not. But I wanted to share it regardless, I am a millennial after all.

Open to all feedback  - constructive, of course - again, millennial and all of that.

xoxo

lcf

Ansiar

LC Fox

Almost every second and forth Thursday of the month,

Jill prepared a Tortilla Espanola for her small family.

Tortilla Espanola was a dish made of olive oil, potatoe,

onion and egg. Sure, it was technically just an omelet

but it felt better than saying “eggs for dinner.” Really, it

was just the cheapest way to feed her family without

feeling poor.

And they weren’t. They weren’t poor. “There are people

who can’t find $400,” she had to remind herself

constantly, citing an article from the Atlantic, “surely

real poor people don’t even read The Atlantic.” Even

still, moving money around had become only sport she

had ever considered herself even remotely good at.

And somehow on every Thursday before the Friday Jill

got paid they were on the verge of zero. Too much gas,

an extra pint of Talenti at a supplemental grocery shop,

maybe Jill’s polish change (a necessity in her book) - any

slight extravagance on that Wednesday or Thursday

would put them over the edge, requiring a $35

withdrawal from their comfortably meager savings

account to cover the damn bank fees.

Jill’s small family consisted of herself (a large expense in

and of itself), her husband Stuart (an adjunct History

professor best categorized by crooked teeth and a heart

of gold) and their 6 year old daughter, Maude.

Maude was a mistake conceived just days after Jill’s

27th birthday. Jill had no intention of following through

with it (following through wasn’t her strong suit to

begin with), but Stuart, the self proclaimed eternal

atheist, was suddenly struck with guilt that Jill

continued to refer to as a long lasting symptom of gas.

So they had Maude, who they both loved more and more

by the moment, but whose

subsidizedinpartbythegrandparents private school and

daily arts classes also contributed greatly to the need

for a Thursday night Tortilla Espanola.

Jill certainly wasn’t unhappy with her circumstances.

But as clichéd as it was, she often wondered to herself if

there really was nothing more than this. Was this

muted, chronic love that she felt about her

surroundings really the love of her life? As she opened

the produce bin in the fridge, Jill was suddenly stricken

by the way something as ethereal as the concept of love

could change so drastically in just a decade.

The Thursday night tortilla reminded Jill of a time before

she realized you could be poor without being poor and so

resentful of the small moments in life that forbode the big

great ones she always imagined, from arriving.

Heat 1 ½ cups olive oil, doesn’t have to be the good

stuff, but shouldn’t be bad either, in a skillet, until

you know, sizzling.

In her younger years, Jill had been known to fall in love

quite easily.

Jill had fallen in love with the tortilla in Barcelona. In

Jill’s Barcelona, it was easy to fall in love, easy to

embrace those small moments that somehow turned

into big ones.

Despite going to an expensive, private college in New

England, Jill never studied abroad. Her mother joked

that she instead dated abroad, that foreign men

appreciated the strange beauty of her face – something

that had always been lost on American men.

On her 21st birthday she had met and become enamored

with one of these said men. Through the goggles that

only truly exist on a 21st birthday, she saw him as a

young Javier Bardem. In reality, he was probably more

of a young Boutros Boutros Ghali. He was a Spanish

architect on a “break” from real life at the tourist trap

they called a bar – the kind that serves free flaming cake

shots when you have a milestone birthday. Jill would

later come to realize that architects don’t really take

breaks from real life – they have extra-marital affairs or

kill themselves, but they certainly don’t just take breaks.

But back then, during her first foray into legal adulting,

she could still rationalize an accent ridden stranger on a

break from real life. They had a whirlwind affair which

resulted for Jill in a “renewed” interest in Gaudi and

chest hair and a credit card charge of $796 (which at

21.99% APR would stay with her into her 30s) to pay

for the flight to Barcelona where she would stay for a

month, promising to her professors to write a thought

piece on you know, Catalunian culture and the like.

The Thursday night tortilla reminded Jill of the

excitement of being a peregrine woman, kept and

admired.

Slice A pound and a half of Potatoes into 1/8 inch

slices and 2 sweet onions into ¼ inch rounds. Salt

dramatically.

Those first nights were a blur. Wine cheaper than water.

Beautiful women without makeup. And the jamon. Oh

man, the jamon.

After an especially spectacular night in the second floor

flat just blocks away from Las Ramblas (one that

resulted in cheers from the street due to an open

terrace door), the Spaniard put on a pair of white briefs,

lit a Galuoise and walked into the kitchen where 4

perfect russet potatoes seemingly appeared out of

nowhere. Jill followed closely behind understanding

what a cliché she looked like in his linen shirt and little

else (those legs spent an obscene amount of time at the

university gym, there was little point in hiding them).

With his cigarette firmly between his pillowly lips, the

spainard poured her a glass of table wine (which she

couldn’t believe was cheaper than Evian) and came

around from behind her like her highschool boyfriend

did when he was trying to teach her to hit a golf ball.

Instead of something as pedestrian as a golf club, this

time her arm was embraced and guided in a wave like

motion. “The knife must never leave the board,” the

Spaniard said, “the slices need to be seis y media

cenimetres exactly.” Jill loved it when he slipped back

into his theta filled Spanish. There was nothing more

distinguished than a man who could move so

seamlessly between languages – a citizen of the world.

The Thursday night tortilla reminded Jill of the

excitement of being a clear skinned, self proclaimed

intellectual who wasn’t afraid of anything.

Poach the potatoes and onions in the olive oil until

just golden brown. Take your eyes off the pan just

long enough to beat a dozen eggs.

Most days Jill was awoken by Lucia, the housekeeper

that the Spaniards mother employed to ensure that her

precious son kept his (gifted) home in tip top shape for

business dinners, and the like.

Lucia had an un-categorical tuft of coarse black hair and

an eyebrow that seemingly raised itself. She had worked

for the family since she was a beautiful young woman

with a body flattered by the severe lines of the

professions uniform. Needless to say between the

flowery Spanish that seemed to make a mockery of her

heritage and inability to sleep with the sheets in tact,

Lucia was none too fond of Jill.

But Jill was taught to not be ashamed of anything she

loved and for the moment that included the Spainard. So

she got up every morning, put on one less item of

clothing than Lucia would deem anywhere near

appropriate and swayed into the kitchen where she

would pour a cup of coffee and pick up the note.

In Spain, they keep their eggs at room temperature. Jill

always thought that the bowl of eggs in the kitchen

(shades of blue and brown before Martha introduced

them to America) were some of the most precious,

speckled gems that the universe could produce.

Lifeblood, literally. She would stare at them before she

opened the note that the Spainard left her without fail,

day after day, before he left for work.

Their subject matter ebbed and flowed – from how

beautiful her mouth looked while she slept to wanting

to eat her brain because her intelligence was so

appetizing (Jill was never sure if this one was meant to

be taken literally or if it was just a bad translation) to

suggesting they hop on the tourist double decker so that

she could see Sagrada Familia from a different vantage

point.

The fact that he would get on a double decker tourist

bus for her made Jill more appreciative of him as a man,

but doubtful of his potential as a long term mate.

And then she would take the note out to the terrace,

read it again, breathe deep and stare out at the rest of

the world, an Eva Peron in her own mind.

The Thursday Night Tortilla reminded Jill that the exotic

quickly becomes everyday.

Strain the olive oil from the potatoes and onions,

turn heat down, and add the beaten eggs to the pan.

Wait.

When Lucia’s route began to interfere with Jills in the

morning, Jill would take a final sip on the terrace and

walk down to the sweet café around the corner from the

2nd floor flat. The barkeep there, Ignasi, loved her

broken Spanish, full lashes and crooked nose. But he

loved her deep pockets more and Jill was OK with that.

At 21, there could be nothing more glamorous or

sophisticated than a woman with a notebook,

sunglasses and an uncanny ability to know the exact

right time to switch from coffee to wine without ever

looking at a clock. So yes, Jill always thought the ability

to feel like the best version of herself was worth a few

extra euros.

Day after day, while the Spaniard was at work, Jill would

sit at the same caned table, always on the verge of

falling apart, open her notebook and put pen to paper

for about 12 minutes while she sipped her first café au

lait of the day.

Between minute 13 and 20, someone interesting

looking would walk in and she would engage in a

conversation lasting somewhere between one minute –

“Hola” “Hola” and hours. Although conversation with

the Spaniard was never dull, she was constanly looking

for more depth, more opportunity. This was not unusual

for Jill. She readily admitted that her life was just a

constant state of yearning – for her next meal, her next

book, her next kiss. Nothing was ever as it was because

the next thing would always be that much better.

The Thursday Night Tortilla reminded Jill that good

things happen in the small moments (or so says her

shrink).

Carefully (or dramatically) Flip the tortilla onto a

large plate, and slide back into the pan, raw side

down to cook through.

On a very sunny morning, Jill awoke not to the feeling of

Lucia’s disapproving stare, but instead to the very real

sounds of the Spainard on the phone with his mother,

which she was only able to discern due to his constant

pleading, “madre, madre, no entiendes.”

“Me rindo,” was the last thing she could make out and

instead of letting on that she knew exactly what was

going on, she resumed business as usual. She knew this

would be her last day as a kept woman gazing at

multidimensional eggs by day and charming barkeeps

by night. She paid at least that much attention in

Spanish class.

She poured herself a cup of coffee, comfortably covered

in the cotton caftan that had accompanied yesterdays

note and alternated her gaze from the eggs to the

freckles on his nose that kind of melted into his dark

skin.

They had likely been their own entities once upon a

time, but after years taking sunkissed, adventure filled

breaks from real life, they’d all kind of blended together

to make a muddled mess.

As he hung up the phone, the Spaniard looked like a

defeated soldier coming home from war. “My mother!”

he kept repeating. Finally, Jill looked at him, at the eggs

and back at him. She rose from her chair, removed the

cotton caftan and summoned him, his bruised ego and

all of his grief to the sundrenched bedroom where they

had one more adventure together before she got up,

gathered her things and used his (well, his mother’s)

credit card to change and upgrade her ticket home.

The Thursday Night Tortilla reminded Jill that the sum is

always greater than it’s parts.

Slide the tortilla from the pan carefully to a cutting

board, slice and enjoy hot, cold or room

temperature. Serve with everything or nothing.

Jill looked up from slicing the tortilla, the one she would

serve tonight with frozen peas for Maude and glasses of

3 buck chuck for her and Stu. She hadn’t thought about

the Spainard since she found a box of his notes a few

years ago during a move. Their lust had truly been but a

freckle in time.

She had met Stu just months after she had left the

terrace lined flat in Barcelona and was taken with his

real intelligence, his ability to say no to his mother and

the freckles that spread independently across his nose,

like tiny sovereign nations. And today, even with the

gassy guilt, eggs for dinner, and chronic love in place of

adventurous lust - here she was, yearning for not much

more than tomorrow’s paycheck.

End.