Mommies with Soft Voices / Note to Self / I Hope

Mommies with Soft Voices

I admire mommies who use soft voices. You are in Paris, at the Louvre. You see a woman, well-dressed and composed, curly-haired angel in tow. The angel makes a move—to poke the Mona Lisa in the eye, let’s say, with a wet, sticky finger. Maman bends low, strokes the child’s hair, whispers a word. The child allows her wet, sticky finger to be wiped on a fresh linen hanky. Happily she clasps maman’s hand. She cocks her head just like maman. What a pretty still-life they make, gazing at the Mona Lisa gazing back at them.

You can always be the maman to yourself that you wished you had.

Sure. Why not? I give it a try.

No, no sweetie, no tango now, I say to my reflection in the mirror.

In 30 minutes I am due to network with a room full of management consultants. These are big fish in my little pond; it’s my job to go fishing among them for ideas and authors.

But…

There’s a big mirror and the bathroom is spacious. I have no mirrors at home. I strike a pose.

No, no sweetie, I say. Change clothes now.

I take off my shoes. In stocking feet on slick tile, I can pivot.

Oops! Almost. If I adjust my alignment …

No, no sweetie, I say. Get dressed now.

One more. No, wait. One more.

Now! sweetie, I say.

Pulling things off and on, I power up the laptop. It contains my full collection of tango music—all three CDs of it. I put it on shuffle.

Doing makeup and hair, I play Name That Orchestra! This one is Canaro, this one DiSarli, this one Pugliese.

Are you ready yet, sweetie? Inner Maman gives my hair a little tug.

I do not want to go. I don’t like meeting people. I would rather stay here and …

Now, dammit, sweetie!

* * *

Note to Self Riding Hotel Elevator, Polished Marble Floor and Mirrored Walls

A boleo done well is a beautiful thing, no doubt about it, and that cool new hip action Grisha showed you last night certainly gives it a fine, fancy flourish that is lovely to see in the round but difficult to explain as the doors unexpectedly open.

* * *

I am coming off an awful night of tango. Two hours ago, 35,000 feet over Nebraska, I swore off tango for two weeks. It helps that I am out of town without shoes.

* * *

I am right where I have always been. I start from so far behind that my best effort only brings me up to the starting gate.

How do you know when to quit? How do you know when it’s time to say with a self-satisfied air, “I gave it my best shot. I’m done now”?

I would gladly keep at it if there were any real reason to hope I might one day dance well.

Well, there it is. Hope: another name for stubborn. Springing eternal, it won’t let me cut my losses. You wouldn’t believe the ridiculous, worn-out hopes I can’t shake. I still hope Barbara will walk through the door. I am not stupid; I know the rules. Still, my hope won’t let it go. It could happen. When pigs fly. When I dance well.

No. I didn’t mean that literally. Not that last bit. That would be stupid. I am not stupid. I hope.

* * *

Bah. Springtime, the season to miss Barbara. That is sooo last year. I am tired of this cycle. What portion of old grief is habit? What of hope?

* * *

I am discouraged, but not fatally so. It is just that I thought I was making good progress, and on Sunday night I felt I danced very well, and on Tuesday I could do nothing right, and so I believe I have been deceiving myself.

Also, I am not good at being coached. When I hear, “This is what you need to do differently,” I hear “You’ve got it all wrong again” and “Give it up, you miserable, incompetent wreck who will never amount to anything and by the way, sweetie, have you noticed you are having a really bad hair day?”

What is the “it” I am to give up? Hope.

I am mostly only this way with physical things. I can take criticism of my writing—seek it out, in fact, in critique groups and workshops. But when it comes to shooting pool, say, or kissing, I am not a good sport.

Keith was an avid coach. He loved teaching and sharing his discoveries and inventions, and he loved me. But I could not play pool with him. And FYI, guys: when it comes to coaching a woman on kissing, good luck to you.

It is a truism that women tend to take criticism to heart much more than men do. This seems unfair. I believe it’s time for the sisters to stand up and take action.

Are you with me?

Go on now, sisters. Be brave!

OK. I’ll go first.

I may suck at tango. I may have terrible hair days. I may lack the spatial reasoning and small motor coordination required to knock your stupid balls around. And about the other (courtesy Mary Chapin Carpenter): Shut up and kiss me!

I am not a worthless, incompetent wreck. I hope.

* * *

I am hurrying to meet with the management consultants, striding through soft, pretty, oceanside air.

After a day on a plane, it feels good to stand up straight, to take long, stretchy steps. It feels like hiking, like swinging along the open road.

That elevator ride perked me right up!

In my head I am butchering Pugliese. He is OK with that. He was a socialist as well as a musician. I believe he would prefer a person humming badly to no humming at all. Music for all!

Last time I traveled Grisha said, try this: Walk like a dancer.

I put my cool new hip action into it. La Jumba!

Everything is illuminated. There is spring in each step, eternal.

I hope.