Tuesday after work I was talking to one of the dentists in the back office about patient junk when Carolina walked in to say she was leaving for the night. Carolina is from Columbia, and shares a lot of the vivacious personality of her countrymates. She’s noisy and funny, quite a prankster, and very kind. She’s probably my favorite coworker. When she came in to let us know she was leaving she already had her coat on: a very bright, puffy, red thing. One of the dentists said, “That coat is really bright!” Carolina said, “Jes! Like me!” He turned to me and said, “You’re not really a red coat, are you? You’re more of a…” he considered my muted green sweater and gray pants, “…a green sweater, I guess.”
In another recent circumstance it was pointed out to me that
I am too serious, that I think about things too much, that I’m not “bubbly”. More
like a green sweater, I guess.
I suppose it’s true. But it hasn’t always been true. I mean,
I’ve never been Carolina’s red coat, but I’ve at least had one, ya know? In fact, I used to be really funny, I used to go
dancing, I used to wear rainbow shoe laces and laugh a lot. But I got sick and then I got sad. Or maybe it was the other way 'round. And, probably, my red
coat days were really shared 50/50 with some really drab London Fog black raincoat
days. Maybe 50/50 is even too generous… But, as I acknowledged to a friend recently,
I’m actually happy. It’s been a long time. Maybe it’s the first time.
A long time ago I was in love with a man who I thought was
in love with me. We talked about marriage as if it was an eventuality, not an “if”,
but he decided that I wasn’t “bubbly” or cheerful enough. I just didn’t have
enough red coat days to make it worth the risk. So we ended things in a
haphazard, sloppy way, and he married Cindy Lou Who: an adorable, pocket-sized triathlete
majoring in exercise and sports science. She was nice, but vapid. Years later,
as he was dying of cancer, I sat by him in the hospital while Cindy Lou went to
have lunch, and a well-deserved break. “She’ll forget me.” He said. “Don’t be
stupid,” I said, “You’ve got kids that look just like you.” He shook his head,
looked at me, looked at the floor, “You didn’t forget me,” and then mumbled, “Sometimes
I wonder if I made a mistake.” Turns out Cindy Lou struggled with depression,
too. She was just a lot better at hiding it than I was. Like there were two coats
and she’d figured out how to wear the red one over the London Fog trench.
That last conversation whirs through my head all the time. A
few times a week, probably. Like the jingle to a commercial that I just can’t
forget. Two notes of some other song will sort of sound like the jingle, and
just when I think I’ve forgotten it, it’s playing on repeat again.
*sigh*
I will never be Carolina’s red coat, and I will never be
Cindy Lou Who, because I am Rebecca. And maybe that means I’m just a green
sweater, but I’m learning to be a happy
green sweater. Who knows, maybe someday I’ll even be cheerful. After all, I
have a uke.
