She's Writing a Novel

Don't let the door hit you on the way out.

And don't worry about turning off the lights; we'll be drilling enough oil in Alaska to keep them on.

I looked at the calendar today, and realized tommorow is September 11. I hope the media goes easy on us.

I don't have any poignant 9-11 memories. I remember where I was when it happened, blah blah blah. I didn't lose anyone, and I don't know anyone who did. I was shaken up for a day or so, and then I moved on with my life.

I was a bitch who joined up with a peace march the evening of the attacks, and for the life of me couldn't figure out why people shook their fists at us in range. Now I look back at that girl who thought the worst thing we could do was go to war as a country, and realize how much she didn't understand everything that happened that day was war already. Smothered in the anti-capitalist, anti-America environment that is a liberal arts college campus, I blamed us. I was wrapped in self-righteous, self-loathing ideology; so much so that I didn't see the horror and therefore couldn't hate it.

Some years later, I went through a fascination phase with 9-11. I read everything I could find on the topic and let it consume my imagination. Eyewitness accounts, survivor accounts, technical reports. I avoided the conspiracy theory shit; I wanted the real human stories. I wanted to know what had happened; I wanted to know what reality I'd been hiding from when I had my head stuck in the sands of the ultra-left. All the facets of that day's terror tumbled in my head as I tried to make sense of it; I felt somehow that if I read every story, every account, that it would be enough that I would finally understand. If I could fully grasp the whole of it, maybe I could somehow file it away again, except this time put it where it really belonged. Then I could forgive myself for that day when I made smug liberal remarks while people were dying the worst kinds of deaths.

I found out recently that the Russian lover had been conducting business in the Twin Towers late at night, just hours before the attacks. He left in the very early morning when it became apparent a deal wasn't going to be made that day; he left a floor which would have no surivors. I shuddered when he told me this, and he shrugged. Horrible things happen in the world, and mostly we are lucky to have them not happen to us. This was just another time when he was lucky. He was already in another city by the time the plane hit, and so he didn't consider it a close brush at all. It was just one of those things.

Still, I couldn't help but think what would have happened if the negotiations had stretched a few hours longer. And he dismisses my speculation and tells me he would have made it. And he's so fucking smart that I believe him, even as I think about all the widows and girlfriends waiting at home who probably thought the same thing. 9-11 happened before the Russian lover and I met; and I think that as horrific as it would be to lose the amazing man I love, I am more sad at the thought of never having known him at all.

There are times when no one can make you feel better except yourself; when there is no consolation or comfort that anyone could provide that would be enough. Sometimes you have to take matters into your own hands and masturbate your own soul.

I've found various ways of doing this; some of them might be considered destructive. What, you've never felt the need for a vodka shot at 8:30am? That just means you don't know how whacked out and stressful life can be because I assure you, sometimes a vodka shot at 8:30am is the fastest life raft back to sanity. Also, a cigarette or ten can help.

But when I've reached the real depths of panic or despair, when I am existentially overwhelmed and don't even know how to express that to another person, that's when I go shopping for lingerie. As a very late bloomer when it came to sex, I was in my twenties before I owned anything of satin or lace that was meant to be seen. I thought lingerie was something you bought just to wear for men, to make them lusty or at least easy to manipulate. It never occurred to me that buying sexy things for myself, whether or not anyone else would appreciate it, was something that could make me feel infinately better as a result.

The first time I realized this was after an accident my senior year of college. Once the pain subsided slightly and I started to feel remotely human again, my vanity kicked in. I had an eight inch scar stretching from my collar bone to well past my shoulder; they'd finally taken out the twenty or so staples, but an ugly fused gash remained. I tried not to think about it; and really it wasn't something I thought about often, as I was more preoccupied with physical therapy and classes. But one day I decided that after surviving a month of barely be able to wash or dress myself, my milestones in recovery deserved a present to myself, so I went to Victoria's Secret.

New to the world of all things lingerie, I looked for training wheels. No garters or teddys or corsets for me...with my good arm, I browsed a rack of slips. I found exactly what I wanted; short black satin with just a little bit of lace. There was only a size XS, and I thought it probably wouldn't fit, not remembering I'd barely eaten in the weeks since the accident.

In the dressing room, after the long and painful process of undressing, I pulled the slip over my head gingerly. I looked at myself in the mirror, and for a split second I was shocked by the sight of myself in a good way. But I hadn't even exulted over fitting into something size XS before the sight of the angry red deformation on my arm distracted me. And then I broke down sobbing.

For a few minutes, I held a pity party on the dressing room floor. It was one of the first times I'd allowed myself to cry since the accident. I'd had to be strong, I'd had to fight, and I'd had to make sure the people around me felt that I was OK. But there, half-naked under the bright lights, I faced all the ugliness of the past month in the ugliness of the scar it had left behind, and it was overwhelming.

I bought the slip. I brought it home, and instead of lounging around the apartment in dirty t-shirts and sweatpants I lounged in satin and lace. I could never be a sexy woman without a scar, but just because I was a woman with a scar didn't mean I couldn't be sexy. And not having anyone to be sexy for didn't matter quite so much, although I still longed for it.

Lingerie, it is good for my soul. Buying and wearing it makes me feel sexy and beatiful and a little bit spoiled, which in turn makes me feel confident and powerful. And all of that without a male voyeur. I'm not gonna lie, though. A few weeks ago, in the midst of some angst, I bought a lace bra and miniskirt with garters - I felt better after putting it on and prancing around the apartment. But having the Russian lover's appreciation for said lingerie, even if that appreciation was expressed by immediately removing said lingerie, reminded me that lingerie...is good for much more than my soul.

And I don't care that all he wants to do is strip me the second he sees me in something diminuitive I paid a lot of money for. As long as the lingerie isn't the only thing getting off, I don't mind in the least.