Damage Control

Twice during this vacation, I have almost killed my new friend Qi. Both times, she smiled graciously. Qi is not dumb. She scored near perfect 1600 on the GRE, missing only a couple of Verbal questions. English isn’t her first language. (Qi doesn’t brag, either -- she revealed her GRE score in a sunny but offhand way, as one might mention a spotless dental record. Sure, it’s an accomplishment....but don’t you know someone with the same good fortune? A cousin, maybe?)

The brushes with homicide occurred in my car, as you might expect. Most of New Orleans’ streetlights remain busted, so four-way stops have become Roulette-ish. On our Thursday-night drive back from Muses, I reached a busy intersection inches ahead (I swear!) of a tan Chevy and paused just briefly before continuing straight ahead. Had I not slammed my brakes, Andie Acura’s front bumper would be a permanent attachment on the Chevy’s left fender. Qi lurched forward. I indulged my inner Howard Stern. Katie, in the backseat, groaned softly. Katie wasn’t supposed to be with us, but moments earlier -- toward the end of the parade -- she had yakked on herself, thus demonstrating incapability of driving her own car. Good news for her, though: she must have been feeling better at the time of our near-collision; otherwise, she would’ve yakked on Qi. Perhaps Qi smiled in gratitude. Hawaiian Punch-and-rum leaves a pretty heinous stain.

Our second cheat of death was much less interesting. En route home from Winn-Dixie, at yet another intersection, I failed to see the Jeep with the right-of-way. Again, I hit the brakes. The Jeep honked. Qi may have frowned slightly, but she thanked me for the lift anyway. In addition to being smart and calm, Qi is clearly a very good person. I hope we’ll stay friends.

I’m not sure what Qi’s definition of “a very good person” is. Almost every time we’re together, she tells me, “You’re so good!” Yesterday, she said it twice: once when I checked out an Anne Tyler book from the library; once while we were running around the track at Tulane’s gym. Her use of “good” may have referred to my literary selection or my exercise habit -- but, let’s face it, Anne Tyler is not Chekhov, and the track isn’t the Olympics. And besides, Qi was running, too.

In fact, I did many “not good” things in February. I won’t list them, lest you think I’m proud of them -- or lest you, like Qi, have any lingering illusions about my good-ness.

I will admit I haven’t gone to church since September. Felt especially guilty about this yesterday, as it was Ash Wednesday, and Ash Wednesday is my favorite holiday, next to Thanksgiving.

I know, it’s puzzling. If I decide to create a Match.com profile in the next few days, I’ll selectively omit my affinity for Ash Wednesday, as I might gloss over those DSM-IV diagnoses and the hari kari knives in my closet (just kidding). SWF, blonde, average build, likes: long walks on the beach; candlelit dinners; deep conversations; holidays commemorating death and loss; Italian food; swing dancing. Interested?

No doubt Jesus is scratching His head. Historically, He has likely noted that I don’t handle loss particularly well. I’m not even talking about death -- that’s a whole different plane. This morning I lost Internet connectivity for two hours, and I almost clawed a hole in my modem. Each time I lose my cell phone -- more times than a person my age should -- I teeter dangerously close to nervous breakdown.

Then, there’s the “saying goodbye” sort of loss: goodbye Honesdale; goodbye Murfreesboro; goodbye New Orleans; goodbye Charlottesville. My friend Joelle, who does not often read this blog, sent me a housewarming email shortly after I (re)arrived in NOLA: “I can just imagine you happily bouncing from place to place, bringing grace and cheer wherever you land.” Given a limited amount of information, I suppose our friends will always give us the benefit of the doubt. God bless them.

So, it’s not that I have a loss fetish. On the contrary, I’m big on togetherness. At Thanksgiving, my family (usually) comes together to eat tofurkey, watch Macy’s, and avoid political discussion. No stocking stuffers to organize or blinky lights to untangle -- just you/me/us and a variety of pies.

On Ash Wednesday, I get the same feeling. The “part of something bigger” feeling. I guess the “bigger” thing is death and sin and mistakes....all that “inappropriate dinner conversation” stuff. But it’s also the jumping-off point for forgiveness, which is the upside of screw-ups. I tend to forget I’m forgiven -- and that’s good, because otherwise I’d drink a lot more.

After Qi and I got back from the gym yesterday, I ate a salad, looked at “American Idol,” and tried to appreciate God’s forgiveness. I couldn’t. I know I couldn‘t, because I had trouble sleeping, and it seems to me that the peace of forgiveness should work at least as well as Tylenol PM. As a back-up for sedatives, I listened to three James Taylor songs (“Fire and Rain,” “Sweet Baby James,” “You’ve Got a Friend”). Didn’t work. It’s tough enough to accept Qi’s unflinching good humor. God’s? Forget it.

Finally, I turned to Anne Lamott. Traveling Mercies goes everywhere with me - Charlottesville, Tennessee, Louisiana. W. and I have a private Anne Lamott fan club -- we even tracked down her IM moniker. “Anne Lamott is online!” I announce on cell phone, when I hear the happy little creak of an open e-door. We’re not stalkers. Truly. We just feel reassured by “Annie’s” faith. At least I do. Seattle Times calls her “sidesplittingly funny, patiently wise, and alternately cranky and kind.” The New Yorker says she’s “cause for celebration.” I have to borrow these book-jacket acclamations, because I don’t have any words for her. She’s great.

In Traveling Mercies, Anne Lamott describes ashes as “contradictory”: “They’re impossible to let go of entirely. They stick to things, to your fingers, to your sweater...It’s frustrating if you are hoping to have a happy ending, or at least a little closure, a movie moment where you toss them into the air and they flutter and disperse. They don’t. They cling, they haunt. They get in your eyes, in your clothes.”

I’m waiting for the “movie moment” when I can reconcile togetherness/loss and morph into a very, very, exceptionally good person. In the meantime, I am grateful for my friends and -- amen -- my brake pads.