Change

In the summer of 1989 my younger yet married sister informed me that, although I was thirty-one and available, I wasn't going to meet anyone in my apartment.
That very evening I coerced one foot to go in front of the other until I was at the downtown Burlington, VT waterfront contra dance. Two men paid attention to me. One was there with an attractive woman who I later found out was his sister. He had gentle eyes and we went out a years worth of contra dances later. The other had piercing blue yet playful eyes. He jumped into a relationship with me like he was bathing in the light then, after four months, dropped me like a hot potato one day because he said he could no longer control his attraction to my roommate. She was in her late twenties and shapely in a tall, thin statuesque kind of way. Her curly chestnut brown hair fell to her shoulders shaping a face I could imagine in a Scottish countryside. She had large clear blue eyes and a light sprinkling of freckles over a perfect nose. There were dimples on her cheeks when she smiled. I still have a picture of me with my roommate on my thirty first birthday. My boyfriend may have been struck by the contrast of northern European light and middle eastern dark features. When I first met him I felt reborn. He ran his fingers through my thick dark wavy hair and complimented my hazel almond eyes. He was my adoring parent and I was floating on a cloud until he grew bored and began talking about his psychological problems enough to put a barrier between us.

Part of my boyfriends intrigue with my roommate was that she was a virgin. I also happened to know that she had trouble going to the bathroom anywhere but her parents house. She drove forty five minutes to visit them once a week. Every night for dinner she ate a large salad that always included purple shredded cabbage and one piece of dry whole grain bread. She was involved in theater and had a strong desire to maintain her thin physical appearance. Secretly she was interested in food. One time she asked me if I wanted to prepare the “easy spring brunch menu” in Eating Well magazine with her. We stuffed ourselves with asparagus omelets, raspberry muffins, wild rice porridge, fruit salad and lattes. Another time we dog sat at my boyfriend's meticulously kept condo while he was away for the weekend. We spilled homemade chocolate chip cookie crumbs and popcorn on his rug while laughing at something stupid on TV. I missed my roommate while she was losing her virginity at my obsessive ex's. I wondered if she found the earring I spitefully left sticking out from under the couch as though instead of breaking up with him the last time I was in his condo we were rolling around on his normally spotless floor.

Although I could not bring myself to be totally angry at her, I was completely hurt and angry at him. My cure was to run every morning at 5:00 a.m. even when it was zero degrees, go to my job as reference librarian at a local college, and fall deeply into dreamless sleep at night. I also practiced yoga and took classes in Swedish massage.

At the college library, wearing my reference librarian hat, I worked with two other professional librarians who were ivy league educated men in a traditionally women dominated profession. Their jobs, beside being library director and head cataloger, were to make me laugh hysterically during academic book selection meetings and teach me to move forward in what was a new profession for me. I learned to write academic book/media reviews, promote new technology to faculty and present myself in slightly sexy collegiate clothing.

After the library director moved across the country for a love interest and scored a job directing a public library by using his wit and charm to entertain the old ladies who mostly enjoyed romance novels, and the head cataloger left with his first advance on a nonfiction book contract, I began to think, in my still broken hearted state of mind, that I was more of a massage therapist / yoga person than a librarian.

The replacement acting director of the library who was an English Professor who had been a professional librarian in a previous incarnation encouraged me to take the easy path. We had enjoyed collaborating on teaching his students to use the library. After I spoke to the faculty about how to use the newly computerized catalog and electronic journal indexes, he developed a new research technology requirement for all students to complete before graduating. He reminded me of how successful I was in my new career and tried to make me see that offering massage, massage classes and yoga classes right on campus as part of my job would add something unique to the academic community.

Walking the half mile home from campus that evening, I thought about the proposal to be a combination academic librarian and promoter of new age holistic health. I didn't feel the sense of dramatic freedom that I had experienced with my ex. He was the one who had encouraged me to pursue massage after I gave him a back rub one night. We went to the bookstore and found a book on Esalen massage technique so I could practice on him. After taking classes with someone who had actually lived in California and learned massage at Esalen, I could picture myself running my own business as a healer.

The entrance to the apartment I no longer shared with my roommate, who spent all her time at my ex boyfriend's, was around the back of a building with an upstairs and downstairs flat. Ours was up the back stairs where there was a back porch landing. When I first saw the light in the kitchen, I thought I may have left it on in the morning. Then I saw my roommate seated at the kitchen table. I wondered if she was eating her dinner salad with shredded purple cabbage and dry whole grain toast. I also wondered if my ex had grown restless again. It turned out that his attention had turned to someone he met at the Unitarian Church who eventually broke up with him for a woman. Without knowing anything, I walked toward the dark stairs, walked half way up the stairs and froze as I was confronted with the black beady eyes of a large raccoon. Because we were blocking each other, we stayed frozen long enough for staccato thoughts about attack, rabies, painful vaccination, friendship, love, career, change and risk to race through my mind. The raccoon looked more confused than violent. I took the first step to the right making room for the raccoon who also took a step. We looked back at each other with less confusion and more courage. I ran up while the raccoon ran down perhaps back to garbage cans or back to family.