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My Friend Vanya

 I do not think my friend Vanya actually emigrated from Russia, but she does evoke thoughts of Chekhov, each time she speaks. "Why do I dress in black? I am in mourning for my life."


I find this so refreshing, because there can be a maddening sunniness, here in the suburbs, and it makes me want to claw at my own skin. When I mention that I'm now in my forties, and feeling clueless about pursuing a job, there is a kind of knee-jerk "GURL YOU GOT THIS!" mentality. "Just find that special switch that turns on all your lights!!!" And I smell bullshit.

By contrast, when I explain to Vanya that both of my children have entered school, she gives me a sober look. "I believe," she says, "that you will struggle, alone, with PTSD, for approximately six months. Then we'll see what happens."

Vanya's five-year-old child is equally wonderful; he sometimes corrects me. I try to explain to another child what sausage tastes like. I suggest that it's a bit like bacon. And Vanya's son shakes his head and points at me. "It is nothing like bacon," he says. "Though both meats come from a pig."

There are people I see on an almost daily basis, and our chit-chat never cuts through the fog; it's always a performance. But then I spot Vanya--and within two minutes, we seem to be confronting taboos. "My mother voted for Donald Trump," says Vanya. "She has borderline personality disorder, and we do not speak. She enjoys watching the suffering of each of her loved ones."

I really admire my friend.
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