Life's Too Short to Go So F*cking Slow by Susan Lacke

Author:Susan Lacke
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781937716936
Publisher: VeloPress
Published: 2017-08-05T04:00:00+00:00

13

WASTED

During the week, Carlos filled his days with hospital visits and pharmacy refills. But Sunday mornings were still ours. One Sunday, after the bikes had been put away and the coffee brewed, Carlos tilted his head to one side and looked at me with an astute smile.

“You know, you’ve really grown up since I first met you,” he said, taking a sip of his mocha. “You’re not such a fuck-up anymore.”

“That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me,” I said with a laugh, knowing how hard it must have been for him. The man could give an outstanding pep talk, but compliments were not his strong suit. I should have been flattered, yet inside I was cringing.

Because the truth was this: I was still a total fuck-up. I had just gotten better at hiding it.

I lied a lot. I lied when my boyfriend asked why I had been acting so strangely the night before; I lied when colleagues asked why I was late for work; I lied when friends asked, “We talked about this last night. Don’t you remember?” And I lied when my doctor inquired about my drinking habits during my yearly checkup—Oh, you know, just socially.

I lied about my reasons for buying wine in a box, even though there is really no good reason why a single woman, living alone and drinking socially, should ever require a box-sized quantity of wine.

I lied about why there was an empty box of wine under my bed.

I lied when I was arrested for driving under the influence, blowing a blood alcohol level almost two times the legal limit.

And I lied a lot on Sunday mornings.

In my mind, dishonesty was a lesser crime than disappointment. I had successfully maintained the illusion that I could be all things to all people. In the course of a single day, I could be a stellar employee, doting girlfriend, loyal friend, and tenacious triathlete. I could have it all. Hell, I did have it all. My life was pretty great.

And I was absolutely convinced that this success was a cosmic mistake.

I feared the day when someone would realize my good fortune was a clerical error. It was coming, I was sure. I was not intelligent enough to be a college professor; I had only fooled enough people into thinking otherwise. I had a recurring dream of a representative from Ironman demanding that I return my finisher medals. When I went shopping for clothes, I grabbed items several sizes too large for my body. An e-mail from the editor of a running magazine, offering me a monthly column, was surely meant for someone else. Whenever Neil gazed lovingly in my direction, I wanted to grab him by the shoulders and shake him: Wake up! Don’t you know you can do better than me?

This was not false modesty. This wasn’t an aw-shucks when someone compliments your outfit or says you had a good race. This was a daily crippling fear that my life did not match the person living it.

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