The Rest of Us by Emily Written in 2003 "I'm depressed," one of the women told me upon entering. "So what else is wrong?" was my response. No doubt hers had been a giant confession. She must have thought I was crazy then, just as they all must have. Crazy, yes. And right. Some of us learn the truth early on. It's pounded into us, made into an echo of our heart's own beat, or it slowly shows itself. The rest of us never think to listen, and that's where we make our mistake. We try to tell ourselves we're different, not just like the rest of those sorry old women with all of their regrets scribbled on mirrors hanging by their doors. That's just what we say. We all know how it really is. How silly we all are. How pathetic. How stupid. How alike. We spend our years decorating our houses, making them unique, making names for ourselves and our people and our possessions and renaming everything we can't change, painting our nails and our faces and our pets, denying time for ourselves, making lives for ourselves, telling everyone what we deserve. That doesn't mean we don't spend our nights preparing for retirement, cleaning up our houses, peering out of the sides of our eyes, letting the little things slip. Doesn't mean we're not afraid - afraid of what happens when we get all we deserve. When we become heiresses and mothers-in-law and experts on vacations. In the beginning they were reluctant. "Why are your nails painted peach?" I'd ask, and the response was always the same: "The woman said it suited me." They'd always shift in their seats, cross their legs, uncross their legs, touch their hair, blink and touch their hair again. They'd always look so proud. At first I would try harder. I would be direct. "You're sitting up awfully straight," I'd say. "Do you eat midnight snacks in that position?" Some of them would laugh at that. But they'd still hesitate. For months, the women fooled themselves. They thought they were making progress. They'd bring their friends. They'd tell their hairdressers. I was recommended. I was paid well. I was brought coffee. I don't think I was pointless. Not entirely. They thought I was witty, at best. Even fresh, at times, and that was a good thing. I was a rumor. I was a secret. They'd compare their schedules and talk about our sessions with their friends. Their spouses would ring me up and thank me. On reflection, maybe they did make some progress. But it wasn't thanks to me. The problems early on were all my own, or that is what I tend to think. I went in with a mission: confrontation. When it was time for my trip to Europe that August, I came to a realization. I thought I understood why I had failed, why nothing had worked as I'd wanted it to: I wasn't any different. During the day I'd make them uncomfortable. I'd stir their thoughts. I'd try to help them. But at night, in the morning, over the years, I was exactly the same. I'd dress up myself and my hair and my husband, coat my throat with sticky pastries and gourmet chocolates, care for flowers, dispose of weeds, iron every Thursday, form hobbies and habits, and convince myself I was the queen of landscaping. And when the clock struck twelve, I too would trick myself into thinking I wasn't one of those old women, one of those snobby old honeys with their noses held high, their collars curled under, their homes and neighbors always in order alongside their bank notes, their diseases and fancies tucked into their hair, their growing lists and outdated calendars and trousers two sizes too large kept in closets and under mats and in eyebrows plucked away on schedule. If I wanted to, I could see it just like the rest of them, and I could deny it just as skillfully - and perhaps more so given my expertise. Indeed, my profession was my tool, the pin I wore over my buttoned-up blouses; that was what set me apart. So I'd soak it up and let them think what they wanted to and needed to. And even after it came to me at those sidewalk cafés in Paris with their delicious bread and smoky atmosphere, even then, the women didn't see it. And all through year two, I'd continue on as though nothing had changed. As far as the shop owners and bookworms and gossip queens and housewives were concerned, nothing had. "Don't you think you're a little quiet for someone so very chatty?" I'd say to one of them. By the time our second spring had arrived, she'd laugh at me then and kick back on the loveseat that cozy office of mine so generously provided. We'd reschedule shortly after that, after something had transpired between us. She'd think she understood it that day. She'd explain it to Albert or Herbie or Frank and her cheeks would shine even more the next week when we met again and moved on. It never occurred to her, or to the next, that she wasn't getting what I was sending and that whatever she was getting hadn't come from me. They'd bring me a beverage and the paper, but they never asked about me. They never thought not to trust me. They never considered the fact that I too was just a woman. I wasn't any older than they were. It was obvious enough to them, given my line of questions, that I didn't associate myself with that older generation, the one with which they had nothing in common, and so they never associated me with those women. But I was never one of them. I was never as vulnerable as they were, never as innocent or ignorant or pitiful or proud. And I never made any progress. To their eyes, I was what helped them, enlightened them, changed them. Never did I mirror them. I wasn't what listened, commiserated, or shared. I was not a friend. I was simply what moved them along, what made them individual. I find it ironic, every now and then, that they never understood. They never saw it. To them, it all came from me. I gave them their thoughts, their ideas, their changes. I gave them something to be proud of, to be valued for, to use as permanent paint. But I wasn't what changed them. I wasn't what inspired them. I didn't give them what they got. I showed them only the way to get it. And did they get it? Eventually, perhaps. Maybe when there was need for a mortgage or a transplant or a night alone in silence. Maybe at a party on grass not well enough mowed. Maybe at one o'clock or in the shower on the eve of a daughter's wedding or a husband's unveiling. Maybe. But for some of us it takes longer. We don't always see it or let ourselves see it. And when the opportunity presents itself, we grab hold and look away, for we are only women, no matter what we say. I gave up after that second year. Progress seemed like a myth, no matter what the women raved about. For years after that, I was the talk of every beauty parlor and grocery shop. I was even asked to return. I was appreciated, certainly. I was valued for something. I had something to wear, to show, to grow old with. But that wasn't what marked up my mirror as I grew old and let my hair down. It wasn't that nervous glance or that hearty laugh or even the affirmation I got by the end. It wasn't the muffins that sat in whicker baskets on my desk and went stale by the end of the week. It wasn't the change in nail color or in the position of their shoulders. By the time my reflection had been scratched up, it wasn't any one of them. Not the way she'd think she'd changed or think she was on the way up. Not the role she'd think I'd played. Not the way she'd learn to stop confessing and start looking, listening, learning. It wasn't the way she kept saying she was sorry or how by the end she'd started saying, "He'll be so pleased," in place of, "He thinks it's silly." In the end, it wasn't any of those things. What I'd write never had to do with progress or change or my position or my hairdo. Just like those of the rest of them, mine were never phrases about problems or people. They were never about my mission or my failure, my clients or what I'd learned from them. What it was for me was nothing but time. There was never any epiphany, never even any inane details or profound reflections. I learned in that room that evidence is always just evidence. Fingerprints are always just fingerprints. Records are simply records. That's how it all starts out. And the women are included. We're just women. Are we portraits or accounts or faces or answers? That is never what they were, or what I was, or what the other ones had ever been. "What else is wrong?" I'd ask those women, and their friends, and their sisters. And the response was always the same. No matter what they'd write that night or what they'd tell each other, no matter what shade they wore that day, what happened never changed. We'd laugh. Reschedule. Go home, change clothes and servants, apply new lipstick, live a little and tell each other how to live a lot. And listen? Turn off our mowers and hairdryers, take out our bobby pins, and listen? We would tell ourselves we did. Those days, the women would tell me they did. They'd think I'd let them. But I would always fail. I'd always take the same thing. "The woman said it suited me," she'd say of her ensemble, or her son in Vietnam, or her husband's navy blazer, or one of those new Mustangs. "It's all falling apart." Upon entering, they had a list of expectations. That list never went away. Instead, it grew longer as items were crossed off and they were made aware of new things. I made the women aware, they'd say. That's what I was known for. But I was never aware of it. I was just another sorry girl who chose the routes she could map out herself. I was just another one of them: a gardener, a changeling, someone's pride, progress self-reported, a wall of masks, a woman. And I took it all in stride, in silence. Just like them, I thought it suited me.