Under My Hat

This is the best selfie I’ve ever taken, and it’s not even that good. But compared to my others, where I look confused, annoyed or deranged, it’s a Vogue cover.

I took the shot at Little Island on a pretty June day three years ago. It was lunchtime and the place was buzzing with 75 degrees of humidity-free sunshine. It felt like the place to be - except that I wasn’t supposed to be there. I was supposed to be at the beach.

I had recently lost my job of 26 years and impulsively decided to hop on a train - me, a book and a day to myself. I popped into a sundress, packed a bag, said bye to my husband, and then, halfway out the door, decided I might need a long-sleeved top. I ended up changing my outfit completely and missed the train.

It was a perfectly pretty sundress, but…

…I put this on instead.

No big deal. There were trains to Long Beach every hour. I’d be early for the next. I started to walk to Penn Station. Then turned back, because I’d left my book home. And my bathing suit was bothering me.

I don’t remember if this is the suit I changed into or out of because it’s all a blur.

So I changed to a different one, grabbed my book, and realized I’d missed the next train.

I kept doing it. Getting ready, then un-ready, until I’d missed four trains and it was early afternoon. I slammed my bag onto the bed. A can of sunscreen rolled onto the floor, and I kicked it. I laid down, swiping under the bed to reach it and couldn’t. The more I swiped, the more upset I got. I shook my head and muttered, “You idiot.” And then, still unable to reach it, “You stupid idiot.” And then, “You stupid fucking idiot.”

I continued flailing and tried to bat the sunscreen out with a rolled-up magazine, only to push it further under the bed. “What a moron,” I hissed. And then, “I hate myself.” By now, I wasn’t whispering. And I was repeating it. I stamped into the bathroom, fuming. The redness of my cheeks shouldn’t have surprised me, but it did.

“I hate you,” I said to the mirror.

My sneer unnerved me. My unchecked glare scared me. It reminded me of the glare in my father’s eyes when his temper flared. Sneer. Glare. Flare. The escalation was quick, and usually, so was the de-escalation. But that didn’t make it less ugly.

I took a breath and had to look down. When I looked back up, I saw pain. The pain of rejection. The pain of self-blame. The pain of realizing I had no idea what to do.

I heard footsteps, so I ran the water, still muttering “stupid,” but trying to make it sound normal, even playful, as if I was referring to the faucet, not myself.

When I got out of the bathroom, my husband was sitting on the edge of the bed. He looked at me with the kind of concern I had no room for.

“I was just frustrated,” I said before he could ask. I mumbled something about the sunscreen and he reached under the bed and handed it to me. He looked worried. I said I’d be ok. That I was just letting off steam. Frustrated with myself. I convinced him I wasn’t losing it and said I needed a walk. I made sure not to slam the front door as I went out.

By this time, I’d changed into a beige linen shirtdress and a hat. I wished it had a bigger brim.

With no destination except normalcy, I walked west. And kept going. The more I walked, the less angry I felt. It’s hard to call yourself a moron in public, and being forced to walk and not stamp was helping.

When I got to the West Side Highway, I was thankful to see The Tulips of Little Island. The light changed and I began to feel better. Purpose - even if it only gives meaning to the next half-hour - has a calming effect.

Winding paths and flowers beat missed trains and self-loathing.

With its tulip-shaped structures, musical hopscotch boards and giant, spinning pinwheels, Little Island is designed to be shared. Children squealed as they scampered up the climbing paths. Snippets of conversation buzzed around me.

“So, I was like, dude, I just met you…”

“Ok, I’m officially ditching work today.”

“I mean, that woman is batshit crazy.”

I found it banal, but that was because I was jealous. And to be fair, the conversation in my head was hardly clever. “This path, or that one?” was the only thought I had. Or the only thought I’d let myself have.

I let people pass me, because I’d crossed the divide between spending time and killing it. I let out a sigh and chose a path. I got almost to the top and was stopped by two young women blocking the way. One stood with her back to me, her phone held sideways, while the other smiled. She gazed directly at the camera and I marveled at the frank confidence of an entire generation. When I was in my 20’s, the only people who carried cameras were parents, rendering most people my age incapable of anything but awkwardness when a camera is aimed at them.

One of the girls noticed me.

“Oh my god, so sorry!” she said, making room for me to pass.

I asked if they wanted me to take a shot of the two of them (people with nothing to do are ridiculously helpful.) Within seconds, they were making kiss faces, peace signs and laughing with enviable ease.

“You’re both so pretty!” I said, the way fashion photographers I’d worked with did with models - “Beautiful, beautiful!” all day long. Does anyone really tire of hearing they’re beautiful? I snapped a few more shots - maybe more than they wanted - and moved on.

When I got to the top of the path, I realized how perfect Little Island was for the likes of me. Every trail leads you up, then back down. You can wander, but you can’t get lost. I was lost enough as it was.

I took a path to what Little Island clumsily calls “The Amph” (short for amphitheater) - and took a seat. Wooden bleachers with tall backs are incredibly comfortable, so I settled in. I gazed at the stage, which was as empty as I felt.

I thought about the layoff. How it had happened to most everyone I knew and about how, despite saying, “I’m sure I’ll be next,” I never really thought I would be. I may even have thought it was because I was different - better with clients - better with account people, a better writer - none of which was so, and all, embarrassing to admit. I wonder if everyone who dodges a layoff has quiet thoughts that would shame the dead.

What I saw - what I couldn’t stop seeing, as I stared at the stage, was my face in the mirror, saying “I hate you.” I listened to the conversations around me - the laughter of people grabbing a quick coffee between meetings - the gossip about coworkers, the griping over bosses - and realized how lonely I felt.

I pictured my squinting, accusatory eyes in the mirror, saying “I hate you.” I hate you for not having even the shred of a plan.

“I hate you.” Because this must have been my fault. I could have tried harder toward the end.

“I hate you.” For having the utter nerve to feel sorry for myself. I had savings. Resources. A loving family and friends. How dare I wallow?

I thought about the advice I’d been given - take a breath. Reset. Take the summer off. You know so many people - you’ll be fine. All of which seemed true. Or would have seemed true, had I been someone who could make it to Penn Station in time for a train.

This was untrodden terrain and I wasn’t even that good at the trodden kind.

The last time I’d felt this unsure of myself was when I was pregnant. During my ninth month, I started to wish I could turn the clock back. I’d become good at pregnancy but had no idea how to be a mother. I hadn’t even read the books. Someone should have given me a book called What To Expect When You Don’t Read The Damned Books. It would have been filled with blank pages.

I thought of my mother’s advice when I told her how scared I was to have twins - I knew nothing about caring for a baby, much less two. I said I was sure I couldn’t do it. She said she’d felt the same before having her first baby.

“You know what my mother told me?” I leaned in.

She said, “Honey, don’t worry. Bigger dopes than you have done this.”

“You calling me a dope?” I smiled.

“I’m calling the whole world dopes,” she said. “And that includes me. I knew way less than you when I was pregnant and somehow I made it. And so will you.”

She was right. We’re all dopes when it comes right down to it. Especially when we’re doing something we’ve never done before. And yet, in our sweet, dopey innocence, we forge on.

I’d reached the top of the tulip and the light was lovely. Impulsively, I took a picture of myself before I had a chance to feel embarrassed. I tried another and then a third. Shyly, I checked them, my thumb on the Delete button. I was taken aback. I looked like a normal person. A confident person. A person who might even be happy one day.

I smiled to myself, at all of us beautiful dopes tiptoeing through life’s tulips. Telling ourselves we know what we’re doing, when really, all we know is how to put one foot in front of the other.

Some people really seem to know what they’re doing.

They read the books. They know what to expect. They’re actually prepared. God bless them.

This is for the rest of us.

The ones who miss trains because we can’t get our shit together.

The ones who aren’t always kind to ourselves.

The ones who pretend to have destinations, but usually just wind up somewhere because we couldn’t figure anything else out.

The beautiful dopes amongst us.

Lest you think I was exaggerating about my lack of selfie skills, here I am trying to look cool.