Barbara Santarelli - Everything I Never Wanted: A Memoir of Excess

Copyright 2017 by Barbara Santarelli

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, digital scanning, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, please address She Writes Press.

Published 2017

Printed in the United States of America

Print ISBN: 978-1-63152-258-1
E-ISBN: 978-1-63152-259-8
Library of Congress Control Number: 2017942674

For information, address:
She Writes Press
1563 Solano Ave #546
Berkeley, CA 94707

Cover design Julie Metz, Ltd./metzdesign.com
Cover photo TK
Interior formatting by Katherine Lloyd/theDESKonline.com

She Writes Press is a division of SparkPoint Studio, LLC.

Names and identifying characteristics have been changed to protect the privacy of certain individuals.

For my mother, Charlotte Payne,
who gave as best she could and more
than she ever realized.

The greatest thing in the world
is to know how to belong to oneself.

Michel de Montaigne

T he same biting cold that stole the leaves and colors from the trees is now stinging my eyes and numbing the tip of my nose. Its January; colorless, cold January. The trees are in a winter coma, but resilient enough to weather the misery. Im giving resilience my best effort. Its just a matter of counting down and keeping distracted. At the moment, Im actually counting time. In just six minutes our train will arrive. No winter coma for me. Unlike trees, human coma often precedes death. Im not ready for that. I have other plans.

We are waiting for the southbound 10:15 Harlem line train to Grand Central. Its off-peak for the one-hour express ride on this Sunday. My husband, Nick, and I are huddled closely in the January cold. Whose idea was this anyway? he asks.

I think I remember it was you who said, Lets grab The Times and a train to the city this morning, I remind him. I was content to spend the day in the house watching TV or reading and not bothering to change out of my weekend uniform of sweatpants with frayed edges and a few stains.

We take temporary shelter in the glass kiosk meant to protect commuters from rain, snow, stinging sleet, and brutally cold temperatures like todays frigid sixteen degrees. Inside the glass rectangle, I feel like a human trapped in a fish tank. The little cubicle only serves to cut the days biting wind, which comes in gusts. How many days till May? I ask. I get a dirty look in response. Wearing a thick knit watch cap and wool scarf that covers his nose and mouth, all I can see are Nicks eyes. Even with just that inch of his face exposed, I know it was his dirty look. The sarcasm is okay. We are both tired of spending cold Sunday mornings drinking too much coffee and waiting for spring. We feel a bit self-congratulatory this morning for breaking the pattern of Sunday stupor. We have forced our sluggish, bulky-clothed bodies out of the house and onto this platform. We think of the train as a magic bullet we will step into, knowing it will eject us into a beaux arts building throbbing with life in only an hour. This plan rarely fails or deviates. First, we will spend only ten or fifteen minutes in the grand space of the main concourse. Usually we are as still as the painted pale-blue heavenly sky above. Tourists and travelers will swirl around us in constant deliberate motion. We will plant ourselves instead and collect their energy. This vast space connects to platforms, passages, and tracks that move the others away as if pumping blood through vessels and feeding the city.

Next, we will go below to the market. Why is food so much more important in winter? Today, I will buy smoked paprika for turkey chili. The spice stall is crowded with stainless bowls brimming with colorful flavors from exotic places we will never visit. I think of the palette of colors as art. The sight is visually intoxicating. Next, the food court. We will look at the menu, but I know beforehand that we will share a panini of smoked turkey and brie. A glass of pinot will make it festive and special. Relaxed, we will then watch the purposeful people and play a game of guessing who they are, what they are named, and where they are going. The wine warms our brains and stretches our imaginations. We check the schedule because we are ready now to return. We have fought boredom, fat, and the status quo of marital inertia. Our arsenal includes sixty-five combined years of marriage. The last fifteen of those years have been together. Obstacles are our allies.

A woman and what appears to be a teenaged granddaughter walk toward our glass box. The elder woman casually opens the door, and they step in. The door closes softly behind them. Just good timing, I think, as just minutes before, the gusting wind challenged Nicks ability to pry the same door open. We squeezed quickly through a narrow opening and were unceremoniously smacked on our backs when the wind claimed the doors intention and shoved us forward. There are four of us in the fish tank now. Together, we wait behind glass.

She appears to be sixty something, like me. We are women of a certain age. We are contemporaries. Well, maybe not. She is absolutely elegant in her winter-white melton wool knee-length swing coat. It flares perfectly from the funnel neck to a gentle bell curve, dipping an inch or two longer in the back to ensure a graceful silhouette. The hem ends an inch above spidery-thin legs clad in black tights. The sleeves also end in gentle bell curves. Each cuff has a single, beautifully finished bound buttonhole. It is finely tailored. I imagine she would not expect me to know about these details. The buttonholes are there to embrace two domed, jet black, honeycomb-faceted buttons. Her slim wrists and small hands are covered in fine black kid gloves. They are unadorned. She wears the softest, rich, black suede boots over the black tights. They are so slim, encasing her spider legs. I am sure she is an AAA-width shoe. The narrow point of the boot extends several inches unnaturally beyond her toes, lengthening their appearance. Perhaps it is this shoe gear that helps her to hover and glide rather than seem to take real steps. Perhaps this is why she was able to sail through the same door that held us back. Her hair is a cool, soft blonde in a wind-swept, carefully casual, ear-length style. That little bob easily costs $400 to trim and maintain every five to six weeks, Im sure. From head to toe, I know she is always perfectly stylish. I dislike her easy elegance. Ive decided to dislike this perfect stranger.

I cannot see but imagine that under the coat is a nicely textured wool boucl tweed pencil skirt. I imagine it might be cranberry and charcoal with just enough nap to offset the fine-gauge dove-gray cashmere turtleneck above it. The skirt has French seams and a hidden zipper. Absolutely not any extra fabric over pencil-thin hips. God forbid! Without the benefit of actually seeing her clothes, I know exactly how she is dressed. The look is a perfect choice for an afternoon in the city with Amanda or Skylar or Chloe or whatever the girls name is. It is a perfect choice for shopping, theater, or dining. Everything about her is perfect. I absolutely dont like her.