Chapter 1 : Part 2

Five Things I Can't Live Without
by Holly Shumas

(Page 2 of 4)

Dan gives me semiregular interventions, which are much appreciated. The only problem is, he thinks of me as having discreet episodes of meta-life, when, in fact, it's more like meta-life is the norm with discreet episodes of being fully, wonderfully, unthinkingly present. Maybe I should correct his perception, but I don't want to scare him off.

I completely adore Dan, but we've only been together six months, and I've been around long enough to know that you just never know. We're still in the flush of it all, though moving in together wasn't even a decision born of that flush. It was born of my roommate Fara asking me to move out so her boyfriend could move in. Dan and I had one of those "Well, you're over here so much anyway . . ." conversations, and after the decision was made, we were both lying there, looking up at the ceiling, trying not to let on to each other how freaked out we were at the prospect, and we sealed the deal with some perfunctory sex.

Speaking of my freak-outs, lately they're coming hard and fast. It's probably the stress of being only nine months from thirty. Now, I'm fairly certain that once I actually turn thirty, it'll be fine. But the approach - well, that's something else entirely. It lends a whole other level to my self-evaluation process, and believe me, what I don't need is another level.

It's worth noting that I'm not actually worried about my diminishing fertility, and I'm nowhere near ready for a husband or kids. But it's hard to resist feeling on edge when everyone takes it as a given that thirty will inspire panic, when well-meaning friends have started asking "how I'm doing with that whole turning thirty thing" and my friends who have rounded the corner pat my hand reassuringly and say, apropos of nothing, "Thirty is actually really great."

Okay, so it's not all cultural anxiety. I've got more than my share of personal anxiety. Turning thirty puts me in mind of something one of my ex-boyfriends once said while he was trying to pass a minivan illegally on a two-lane highway across a solid yellow line: "Life is about jockeying for position." Asshole context aside, it's true. Before I'm actually ready for marriage and kids, I need to get in position. Certain things need to be lined up: the great relationship, the satisfying career, the level of success that will allow me to, say, cut back to part-time while still maintaining the fantastic lifestyle to which I will have become accustomed. So on one hand, I've got the run-of-the-mill, pervasive, irrational, culturally driven backseat-borderline panic, and on the other, I've got the fact that for me, personally, turning thirty is about having a secure place in the world, the beginnings of a nest. Meta-life means all I see are a bunch of twigs.

That night, I made a vow. I pledged to go a full twenty-four hours without self-investigation, starting first thing the following morning. I swore I'd be vigilant about not getting too much into my own head, and planned to internally yell "Stop!" every time I felt myself waxing self-referential. What this would accomplish, I wasn't yet sure, but it felt significant.

It definitely lent a pleasant clarity of purpose at the outset of my day. I read on the train, as always, but every time I found my mind wandering to a moment of self-congratulation about how well my plan was proceeding, I did my silent yell and returned to my place. I smiled at strangers instead of averting my eyes. I felt freer somehow.

When I arrived at work, it was 7:30 am. I worked on Market Street, San Francisco's main drag. At one end, there's a farmers' market, the beautiful Ferry Building, picturesque views of the bay, and some of the world's greatest shopping. I worked at the other, nonprofit end, at an animal rescue shelter wedged between a furniture rental store and a fast-food joint.

My desk was right inside the door, since in addition to my other duties I got to play receptionist. My official job title, though, was coordinator. I could coordinate anything; really, you'd be amazed. I'd become a master of organization over the past two and a half years. The place ran nearly exclusively on donations, so there were fund-raisers to be coordinated and volunteer drives to be coordinated, and then once we had the volunteers, well, they had to be coordinated, too. I didn't coordinate the animals themselves, thankfully. I did observe them at the beginning of their tenure because I wrote the descriptions of each animal that were posted weekly on our Web site to be viewed by potential owners. I also interviewed staff about the animals, particularly the dogs, to find out how they behaved on walks, interacted with children, responded to commands, etc. I'd saved all the dog and cat bios I'd ever written as clippings for the portfolio I meant to have someday.

As I was stowing my purse, Denise came toward me with Norman on a leash, about to go for their morning constitutional. Norman was one of our long-term residents. We were overrun with pit bulls, and unfortunately Norman - who had reportedly developed a rather sweet personality in his time with us - had a mean little face that rendered him pretty unadoptable. Our animal rescue actually did the bulk of its rescuing of dogs and cats from other shelters that were about to euthanize them. That meant we didn't always get the most appealing animals, and if they're not adopted, they're lifers with us.

"Hi, Nora!" Denise said brightly.

"Hi, Denise." I smiled at her, and down at Norman. I very rarely petted the dogs, or walked them, but I did smile down at them fairly regularly, especially when they're on the leash of someone I like as much as I like Denise.

Denise was twenty-three and started working at the shelter right out of college. She'd been with her boyfriend since they were both fourteen, and they lived happily together in a studio apartment with four miniature schnauzers named after members of the band Phish. She's earnest and guileless and sometimes just talking to her made me feel clean.

"What time did you get here?" I asked her.

Copyright © 2007 by Holly Shumas

About the Author

I grew up dreaming of being a writer. I woke up after two semesters at an MFA program in creative writing. There are people who are born writers, I decided, people for whom it's write or die. And for me, it just wasn't like that. I could live without it.