An Ordinary Life Closely Examined

"

What makes you think you can be so pretty?
And what makes you think you can be so great?
And what makes you think you can be so intelligent?
And what makes you think you can be so far away?

It’s no stretch to say that I am pulling out my hair
And darling I’m patiently waiting to fly my ass out there
And I love you

What makes you think you can be so wonderful?
And what makes you think you can be so keen?
And what makes me think I can be so hurtful?
And what makes me think I can be so mean?

Girl you know I’m sorry I haven’t been the best support
But darling you know that I love you,
And i would build a fort to protect you
From the wind

What makes you think you can be so terrific?
And what makes you think you can be be so neat?
And what makes you think you can be so beau-ti-fic?
And what makes you think you can be so sweet?

It’s no stretch to say that I am pulling out my hair
And darling I’m patiently waiting to fly my ass out there
And I love you

"

"Girls, from a distance, and the heartbreaking recognition of their superiority to boys, their fleeting perfection, the curve of them in jeans, the strap of a bra peeking out of a V-neck sweater, smudged eyeliner, there was nothing more perfect than that smudge of eyeliner; a sobbing girl (perhaps disconsolate over some brutality of the word, the starvation of distant children, the local athlete with his neck broken); weeping girls; disheveled girls; girls at dusk; girls in autumn; girls running; girls laughing; girls growing up."

"All these years later, fifteen years later, she remembered the sad parts of the story, but the good parts too, as one thinks of youth after it is gone, a laugh, a goof, a riot, made some bad decisions, made some worse decisions, made awful decisions, smoked a Quaalude, slept with a boy on antipsychotic medication, wrecked a car, watched thirteen dawns in thirteen towns, loved people otherwise spoken for, wrote a life story, threw it out, spent recklessly, gave a dog to the ASPCA because it barked, quit speaking to a guy and his friends, gave up dancing, above all, gave up dancing. Tried out for Arnie Zane and Bill T. Jones, stayed up nights, didn’t get the job, and then the knee problems, and then social work school, after which she got married to somebody, some other guy….The disappointments from later on never interfered with the memory of washing paintbrushes and rollers with Gerry, holding his hands under the faucet. His hands: long and narrow, fingernails incredibly short, the hair on his hands strawberry blond. All this, his hands under the faucets, the big soft part at the base of his thumb. If she had these hands, fifteen years later, in her own hands, if she had back her youth, she knew she would prize these things in a way she hadn’t then."