Friday, March 7, 1997:
Life goes on. The world keeps turning. And the fun never stops. Went to the gynecologist today and faced my worst fears: questions.
Dr. Harris: Are you still with the same boyfriend?
Me: No.
Dr. Harris: Do you have a new boyfriend?
Me: No.
Dr. Harris: Have you been sexually active since your last visit?
Me (proudly): Yes!
Dr. Harris: (skeptically): With more than one partner?
Me (deflated): Oh. You mean sexually active with a partner?
Well then, no, I guess I haven't been
sexually active with a partner.
And then no more words were exchanged. The facts were, I guess, recorded in my chart:
Name: Anita Liberty
Weight: 100 lbs
Date of last period: The fifth
Status: Alone.
Not getting any.
Hasn't in a long time.
After the examination, Dr. Harris told me that my vagina "looked beautiful" and I knew that I would hold onto that compliment for days, like a shipwrecked survivor clings to a piece of driftwood.
Saturday, March 8, 1997:
Went to a party tonight. A party made up of two categories: stars and starfuckers. It was as delineated as gender. But what about me? Where did I fit in? I want to be a star, not fuck one. Starfucker party. I can't believe I left before Gwyneth showed. I always seem to just miss her. We're never in the same place at the same time. Are we the same person? Makes you wonder. And Ethan was there.
The famous Ethan.
The one I've heard so much about.
The one who has so many friends.
So many friends who wear his friendship like a badge of honor (see Datebook) meant to impress and seduce.
I finally met Ethan. Well, actually I stood in the path of his unfocused gaze for about seven seconds, which is kind of the same as meeting him. I think, in those seven seconds, we found out all we need to know about each other.
Sunday, March 9, 1997:
Had brunch with my parents and my sister and her fiancé today. My sister's wedding is impending. Her shower is next weekend. Her best friend from college has organized everything, even though I am the maid of honor. She wanted to do it. She knew what my sister would want and I'm too bitter. Anyway, my parents were bugging me about it and I thought: Life is just one huge mental de-infestation. You bomb, you spray, you put out traps for the scrambling remnants of ancestral influence that continue to live inside your mind. You play host to masses of opinionated parental pupae ready to hatch at any moment. Assert your independence, trust yourself, ignore their advice and the hordes appear, ready to judge, manipulate, subvert. They feed off of your fear and insecurity. Vulnerability is their Cracker Jack. And just when you think you have the problem under control...you're tired one night and you go to bed without washing the emotional dishes. When you wake up, signs of your parents are everywhere, in everything--swarming, infecting, fighting among themselves in your head. There is no relief. They're immune to every poison. There's no off-the-shelf product that can get rid of this kind of persistent vermin. They'll just live on in you until there's nothing left for them to feed on.
My Eggs Benedict was good.
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