Horror-scopes

I spent most of the morning crying about the mistakes I may or may not have made on the Bar Exam, questioning my chances of passing, and considering my options in the event of failure. The embarrassment of informing my friends and family that I have failed at my life’s aspiration plays over and over again in my head. I curl up on the couch, under a blanket, trying to block out the day light. I press my face into a cushion, trying to hide from the humiliation and uncertainty that I feel. I discover, after several minutes of tossing and turning, that I am trying to hide from myself–an impossible endeavor. I wonder if this is normal. My head is pounding with a post-sob head ache, and I know it is time to stop. Worrying will get me nowhere. This paranoid state of distress will certainly destroy me.

I have prayed, but God’s answers do not always come in the form of consolation. My prayers echo in an empty and tired head. I have recently turned to other forms of solace, hoping that God’s words will present themselves to me through a different canvas.

One morning I walked into CC’s coffeehouse, and encountered the most relevant horoscope I have ever read. It was so much better than the ones I used to read in Seventeen Magazine at the Alexandria Senior High library (which is undoubtedly the last time I read such a publication). I walked into CC’s, and was waiting in line to place my order. I had my Louisiana Barbri book tucked firmly under my arm, ready for a day of studying. I looked up, and saw my old roommate-slash-classmate from Houston. He came running over to greet me, and to compare notes on studying. For those of you who have not ever experienced law school exams, talking about techniques and progress with other students is a huge no-no. It will only add anxiety to a stressful situation, and that is exactly what happened during my conversation with Andrew. After he left, I looked frantically around the coffee shop, trying to distract the tears threatening to purge themselves from my overactive tear ducts. And then, taped to the tip jar, I saw it. I can’t quote it exactly, but it said something about blocking outside distractions, and trusting your heart. I knew that this horoscope was meant for me, and I took comfort in the message.

Today, God has sent me another astrological message–another predestined form of relief from the horror that is the Bar exam. Today’s message reads: ” You have an innate love of the law and working things through and you are not put off by problems and obstacles. On the contrary, you look forward to solving them today. You will be working with others regarding vocation or career guidance. This may be a career counseling weekend for the young people in your community. You can wisely advise and guide. Frivolous people and time-wasters, however, had better keep their distance from you. There is a sense of emotional coolness or detachment when you become focused, but you have a special affinity with helping others. Many find you a generous and loving person. Shopping this evening, the new and the unusual may grab your attention. Careful, you may not have gotten paid yet.”

Could it be any more spot on? Granted, the community involvement and career guidance part may be a bit off-centered…. Maybe it is a sign that I should preserve my last sliver of sanity, and do something that doesn’t involve stuffing myself between the couch cushions. After reading the message, I felt okay again. I’m not 100% yet. I know that full recovery will not be had for weeks to come. But I am better, for the moment. And I may even get up and vacuum. TAKE THAT, EVIL BAR EXAMINERS!

Alzheimer’s

I sat for the Louisiana bar last week. In some respects, it was quite possibly the most difficult thing I’ve ever done in my life. The stress drove me to new levels of insanity. I broke out into hives, could barely drive a car. Breathing and walking at the same time is still a challenge.

In others ways, it was just another set of tests. Just another way for the field of law to rape and pillage my feeble and vulnerable mind. My poor mind. My poor mind that can no longer remember where I left the keys, or whether I turned off the coffee pot. My poor mind that forgets to wait for the food at the drive thru window. My poor mind that may have fallen victim to a new sort of insanity–early onset of Alzheimer’s. I know what you’re going to say: “Claire, you’re a hypochondriac! You’re entirely too young for Alzheimer’s Disease!” And, while I wholeheartedly agree with you, I think I have a valid argument for this diagnosis.

Several times a day, the sight, smell, or sound of something conjures up an old memory. A crankity, old movie reel turns on in my head, and I fade into a trance-like state (much like JD’s daydreams, for those of you who watch Scrubs). The memory plays out in my head, in real time, just as if I were still there–in that moment. And then I wake from my trance, moments later, with a room or table full of people staring at me as though I have lost my mind. And I can’t blame them.

Just last night, Bruce and I were at a wedding reception at a museum in Alexandria. It was a beautiful reception. The floral arrangements were very elegant and ladylike, much like the bride. If I could make one complaint about the evening, it would be that it was hotter than David Beckham in there. Nothing, however, could have been done about the heat. It is late July in Louisiana. There isn’t an air conditioner on Earth that could have kept us cool. As Bruce wiped the sweat from his forehead, an eyelash fell to his cheek. Cue the memory reel.

I remember sitting on floor, leaning up against the white cabinets under Shelley’s bay window seat. (See, I know there’s a more articulate way to say this, but the Bar has robbed me of my ability to form sentences…anyway back to the memory). My head was on a green cushion. Shelley was sitting on the floor, opposite me, writing an essay for summer school. She had one of those cool writing boards that you put in your lap. You know, the one with a dry erase board on one side, and a bean bag on the other. The bean bag was made with a little red and white polka dotted fabric, if I remember correctly. I have always wanted one. Between us was a half-empty box of Cheese Nips we’d stolen from the kitchen. Shelley was trying to finish her essay before class.

I desperately wanted to be in school with Shelley. Oh, to have a writing assignment! Shelley was so lucky! I think I was around five years old, and could neither read nor write, but I knew she had the most beautiful manuscript I’d ever seen. Because I couldn’t read what she was writing, I sat there, eating the Cheese Nips, and asking her bothersome questions.

“What does the A with a circle around it mean?” I asked.

“What are you talking about?” she responded, annoyed.

“The one on the skateboard. On the wall. Robbie’s skateboard.” I was completely oblivious to her thinning patience.

“It means anarchy.” She grumbled.

“What’s that mean?”

“Look it up.”

I sighed. Such an unfair answer. I couldn’t look it up if I tried. I couldn’t READ. It was so difficult to be 9 years younger than her. I would never catch up. I yearned to know and experience the things she took for granted. To have a boyfriend. To wear real, big girl lipstick–not the Barbie crap that smelled like bug spray. To go to a Prince concert.

I decided to stop asking questions. I knew I was on the brink of being tossed out of her room. I sat quietly, chewing my handful of Cheese Nips slowly, afraid that loud crunching would have me evicted.

Claudia, her gray tabby cat, rubbed up against me. I was allergic to everything about Claudia. Her fur. Her drool. Her mere presence sent me into fits of sneezing. After my series of sneezing and wheezing ended, Shelley looked up from her paper.

“God bless you,” she said. No matter how obnoxious I had been, she was always a gracious big sister. She looked at me, and smiled. “You’ve got an eyelash.”

An eyelash had fallen to my cheek during the sneezing raucous. I loved it when this happened. Shelley would stop, give me her undivided attention, and carefully lift the eyelash from my cheek. Her fingertips were as soft as my mothers, and I would sit as still as I possibly could, hoping that my good behavior would earn another five more minutes in her room. She would hold the eyelash on the center of her index finger, and say, “Make a wish.” I closed my eyes, and made a wish.

Just then, I snapped back into reality. I sat there with Bruce’s eyelash on my index finger, just as Shelley had taught me. “Make a wish,” I said. He obliged, and then blew the eyelash off of my finger.

“What’d you wish for?” I asked.

“Air conditioning,” he kidded. Or maybe he wasn’t kidding.

I sat there, wondering what it was I’d wished for that day. And then I remembered. I had wished that Shelley would let me take the box of Cheese Nips with me before she kicked me out of her room. CHEESE NIPS! I wished for Cheese Nips! Of all the Barbies and Pound Puppy mixtapes in the world I could have wished for, I WISHED FOR CHEESE NIPS.

These insanely isolated flashbacks, definitive proof of my early onset Alzheimer’s, all seem to have a moral. This particular one reminds me of the many things I have to be thankful for–a great big sister, a simple, uncomplicated childhood, and a love for the finer foods in life.

What would I wish for today? Probably to pass the Bar. Maybe for a more stable economy. Maybe for a trip to Europe. What will I ask for tomorrow? In 10 years?

Regardless of how my priorities shift over time, I hope that this memory stays with me until I am a crazy (err…crazier) old lady, mumbling to my grandchildren about Cheese Nips and eyelashes. Maybe these are the memories that my Grandma was mumbling about to me.

Blue Moon Moments

Yesterday I visited a palm reader. She examined my right hand, and chuckled. “You’ve gotten smarter since last time.” I conceded that I had. Many long nights at the law school library had given me a newfound sense of intellect and insight. Law school had also given me a new political outlook into which my right wing conservative parents couldn’t see.

“Something else is new,” she said. “See this line? This is your heart line. The end of it—the part going up toward your fingers—indicates love. But this—this is different.” She traced my heart line half-way across my hand. “The heart line splits,” she said. She paused, and looked up at me with a furrowed brow. “Most people have one line that goes straight across their palm. Yours splits…” Her sentence
trailed off, and she thought for a moment. “There will be two things in your life that you love with equal, constant, unconditional love. ” She said it as though she had just diagnosed me with cancer.

Although the palm reader seemed surprised at this split in lines, the concept of divided love was not new to me. I had known for years that there were two great loves in my life. And I knew I could love these two simultaneously, whole-heartedly, unfalteringly. I smiled at her, wondering whether I would be charged for this preconceived serendipity.

Every once in a blue moon, a moment occurs in which the world stops turning, every one else ceases to exist, the troubles of the day disappear, and love, friendship, and music transcend reality. It is a cosmic rarity. The stars must align perfectly, it seems. And yet, this is the blue moon moment I share with my six best friends every time a band plays Brown Eyed Girl. The sky opens up and God’s moon spotlights an extravaganza of the best “singing-with-your-eyes-closed-dancing-moves-you-didn’t-even-know-you-had” four minutes of your life. It all happens in slow motion. Just like a Kodak commercial of yesteryear.

It is an occasion that should not be missed. I’ve heard it compared to the Aurora lights. Except we aren’t in Alaska. We’re deep in the heart of Louisiana. And the spectacle is not in the sky. It is right here on Earth, on the back porch of an old plantation home. The only lights in the sky are the stars—and the occasional blue moon—under which 7 best friends dance in the presence of a great brass band, a few bottles of wine, and a crowd of people wishing they’d made friends like these in high school.

These six girls are my other love. The ones with whom Bruce will always share my heart. I suppose I could have told the palm reader that the divided line represented the 6-pak, but it was too much fun to let her think I was a mysterious woman. Besides, you can’t tell those readers too much…they’ll start making educated guesses.