Deirdre James

Someone once walked up to me and said, “I’m so sorry that your parents let you go to Yale. You’ll never be able to relate to normal people now.”

I think I know why we do it. Record everything. Filter it, crop it, save it, post it. Every image, every word. For perpetuity’s sake but also for something else, something more urgent. We haven’t yet found out who we are.

It was a serious conversation, but not about love or men or marriage. We used our choices like a friendship ledger. Who claimed spaces in our platonic hearts. Who mattered most. Whose credit ran deepest. Sometimes we would recalculate, drop a name off, add a name on.

Watch the list of entrees diminish from 10 to 2, or 1, or none. Stare at the appetizers and wonder if you can survive indefinitely on meals made of garlic bread, salad, and mozzarella sticks. At least you can still eat the desserts?

When I feel like I can’t be bothered, I still know how to get off my butt and do what needs doing. I have another life depending on me. I can’t always afford to pick the selfish option.

I tell myself that it’s just the weather, that after I break out of my winter doldrums I will happily waltz into the Washington Sports Club every day at 5:30 pm and get in shape for (eek) bikini season. Of course I will.

It’s as if we’re only supposed to like the BFB enough that we would be friends with him under different circumstances — we’re not actually supposed to actively be friends with him.

I’m not interested in a Church that’s too busy hunting Satan to see God, but I don’t want to find a new religion.