It's Not TV,  It's HBO

            by Ada Ruzer

 

                        “Knock on wood,” I wrote in my purposefully tacky snakeskin diary. It was the day before school started, and my mind raced toward the next day. Laughing at my own superstition, I wrote quickly. I had just come off the best summer I could remember working as a camp counselor, and I was sure that if the summer had been great, the year was going to be fantastic.

                                                            * * *

            The smell of mildew hit my nose as I slipped into the video store. The bleariness of the day had forced me into this black hole of Richmond. I scanned the shelves, but nothing caught my eye except for a cover adorned with four fashionable women, head to toe couture and the word ‘SEX’. I held the cold and impersonal plastic in my hands. Like a deer in headlights I pushed my crumpled dollars forward and held my breath. Jeff the video guy and his smoker cough sent goose bumps up my spine. He forced a grin and handed me my change. Little did I know that this would soon become my Friday night ritual, and that these women in many ways would become my quasi-best friends. Carrie. Charlotte. Miranda. Samantha.

            “Three dollars, and this will be due on Monday.”

                                                            * * *

            “Can you believe we’re no longer fresh meat?!” I squealed. In the middle of the vast Berkeley High School courtyard I stood, surrounded by freshly popped collars and North Face backpacks. I had always secretly loved the first day of school. Besides the obvious new back-to-school outfits and school supplies, the first day of school seemed like finding money in your pocket. Serendipitous.

            The yellow earwax color of the C-building didn’t nauseate me yet, and instead I felt as if I was starting everything over. This would be my first year in high school without my older sister, and I was pumped.

            “Chemistry is not a subject to be taken lightly. I expect all of you to put in a lot of work every night,” my chemistry teacher droned on and on, going over all the typical procedures. Like a football, which he cherished so much, he was a uniform man, stocky and stitched together. To him I was just another play he would watch unfold; he never really cared if I ‘fumbled.’ That day I sat in the back feeling cool and sophisticated. The whole pep talk about doing well in school had gotten old around the eighth grade. I’m a good student, I definitely won’t have any trouble with this, I thought.

            The first day was a blur, as always. I rushed from one classroom to the next, and my confidence seemed to pulse through my veins. With each new class I found my friends all sitting excitedly, ready with a seat for me.

                                                            *   *    *

            All four women of Sex and the City captured me on their first lunch date, a cornerstone of the show. Their witty repartee made it seem as if there was nothing these women couldn’t and wouldn’t talk about. They were everything I aspired to be: confident, beautiful, funny, and independent. Postmodern feminists who shaved their armpits and knew how to get the best Alexander McQueen outfit for the fabulous red carpet event they needed to attend the next night. And the men were ever coming.  

                                                      *   *  *

            School took all my expectations and stomped on them. Chemistry flew right over my head no matter how hard I tried to learn the polyatomic ions. I couldn’t seem to conjugate a verb in Spanish to save my life. Dance was filled with people merely trying to fulfill their P.E. requirements not further their creativity. History, my favorite subject, was less rigorous than a Carmen Sandiego computer game. Math was once again a puzzle that I couldn’t solve. And during English I constantly felt like a guest at a birthday party, playing boggle and getting stickers for right answers.

            I was Alice in Wonderland falling down the rabbit hole. The more I tried to get back to normalcy, the more complicated my world seemed to get. I knew my way around the school, yet I still felt like a freshmen. I felt awkward and intimidated. Everyday I came to school and stared at the clock, counting the minutes until the end of the day. Dance class, my usual escape had turned into a class filled with all my friends, which was great, but it was no longer a place for me to be alone with my thoughts. I felt as if I exerted low self-esteem through every step I took, while everyone else seemed to be having a great time. I was miserable.

                                                            * * *

            Hyde took his shoes off, and rubbed them against my back. The corner of my English class was the place where it seemed everyone sat. Each day everyone fought over a coveted place in that nook. We were like elementary schoolers fighting over a place in line. Sitting in my desk I felt so small and helpless. He took his shoes off! Why was no one saying anything? I sat dumbfounded and embarrassed at my inability to reply to his form of comedy, comedy that consisted of humiliating me. My two friends grinned, thinking I was being over sensitive for caring. Hyde had never displayed any dislike toward me before that day and I was confused by his actions. Maybe I’m being overly dramatic and reading into everything too much. I sat mute and decided to ignore the situation because wasn’t this what they always said about bullies? Ignore them and they’ll go away. But Hyde took pleasure in gnawing on my insecurities. To him I was a scab, something he desperately wanted to pick off in order to make himself feel better.

                                                 *     *     *

                        Her Manolo Blahniks hit the pavement at a sharp speed. Carrie Bradshaw ran to catch a taxi looking effortlessly chic and put-together while still managing to be human and personable. Played by Sarah Jessica Parker, Bradshaw became my muse. There was nothing she couldn’t do. Living in a rent-controlled apartment on the upper

East Side, buying Jimmy Choo’s, while working as a columnist, being beautiful, but not possessing the classic looks, she had it all. Her friends adored her, and she always knew what to say. I wanted to be just like her. My quest to be her started with me joining the Jacket, my high school newspaper. Then I started quoting lines. Soon, my computer’s screensaver contained only photos taken from the show. My friends rolled their eyes, but went along with my new obsession.

            Staying in on Friday nights quickly became my routine. Some people might have called it anti-social. I called it “hermitting.” Nothing seemed to be going on anyway, so why wouldn’t I just stay at home and relax? Every weekend, the white noise of the HBO intro sucked me in, and I would nod along with their slogan “It’s not T.V. Its HBO.” They were right! It wasn’t T.V. Television doesn’t make you believe that a life as extravagant as Carries’ is possible. Television rarely has the capability to make a sane person believe that the world inside the box is real.                             

                        “What would Carrie do?” had become my mantra.  I’m Jewish; Jesus hadn’t really worked out, so I had conveniently picked the next best thing. As school became progressively worse I slipped in and out of reality in order to make things bearable. My desk stopped being a small roughly assembled surface used by countless Berkeley High generations and became Carrie’s black Mac laptop. My clothes melted into designer labels, instead of the random shirts I had found in my hamper. Nothing could touch me.

            Unfortunately, my fantasy bubble was enormously transparent. Although I could hide away behind the blue haze of a television, the problems that surrounded me at school were evident and very present. Everywhere I looked, Hyde seemed ready to terrorize me, and my friends seemed to be blind to it all.  Unlike the girls in Sex and the City who drank coffee and became brilliant and inspired, my latte seemed to contain some different ingredient because after drinking one, I only felt nauseous.

                                                            *  *   *

            Miranda is the ornery, stubborn and pushy one of the four women. Her flaming red hair seems to light up when she is pissed like the barrel of a gun. She makes fun of herself to hide her insecurities and heavily guards her fragile personality.

            I didn’t like her.  She was unconventional and her insecurities stood out no matter how hard she tried to hide them and so she used her job as a lawyer as a façade to cover up the childish woman inside. I didn’t like her, yet some how we were very similar. When Miranda was upset over her break up to Steve, she replaced him with Ti-vo, managing her life in a similar way that I was. Unafraid of her beliefs, Miranda didn’t kiss ass to anyone. I felt that I once was that brave and should have been able to stand up to Hyde, but had somehow lost my fearlessness that year. I felt defeated before I had even begun fighting.

            My cheeks grew red, like Miranda’s when something didn’t go her way as I searched my pockets hopelessly looking for some change. I didn’t have any money, so I dragged my feet and started my long walk home from the Bart station. I was angry and frustrated, a common mood that year. The sun was shining (although it was February), and the day dripped with an astounding glow, but all I could concentrate on was the weight of my books and the sweat on my neck.  The girls would never have to do this! All they have to do is hail a cab…Peeking over my shoulder at each odd noise, I stopped. Richmond isn’t known for its beauty but sometimes the city surprises me. The bike track that I walked home on that day was filled with wild blooming flowers. Shades of purple captured my attention, as forget-me-nots sparkled gaily. All my foolish irritation over the day, from not being able to make my dancers listen to me to feeling like I didn’t matter to my friends, suddenly melted like ice cream left out too long.

            My sixteenth birthday was coming up, and for the first time in a very long time I wasn’t excited. I’m kind of a birthday junky; I soak up the presents, the fun, and the attention. I wished for a fabulous birthday with all my hopes and dreams fulfilled, one that even Sarah Jessica Parker would want to come to. However, I had no money, or time. My expectations were set so high that I was doomed for disappointment. Anna my best friend had seamlessly put together a BBQ with all my closest friends for my birthday; all I could do was sit and frown.

            My parents rarely spoil me, but that year they blew my expectations out of the water. As we ate my favorite Russian food, and made toasts upon toasts, a brown box appeared in the living room. Searing, sparkling white hit my eyes, as the joy that an ipod’s materialism brings made contact with my hands. I was floored. Then, my mom off-handedly placed an envelope in my lap. Opening it up, I saw a plane ticket to New York. New York, New York! We were off to Manhattan, to the city that never sleeps, to the home of: Carrie, Charlotte, Miranda, and Samantha. And not only that, but we were off to the Sex and the City tour, a sort of Star Trek convention, but for more normal people.

            “And right on your left, is where Carrie discussed her relationship with Aiden Shaw and ate the city’s best cupcakes with Miranda.” My tour guide was a bubbly, put together, Sex and the City extraordinaire. Our tour bus traveled and navigated itself through out the many locations that the actors had filmed at. Mother-daughter pairs sat huddled in their matching winter coats. Thump, Thump, Thump! My heart raced. We were actually approaching Carrie’s apartment! A Brownstone never looked so good. My trip to New York had so far been the most magical event of my life, but this was the icing on the cake. It didn’t matter to me that it had just snowed the night before, I plopped myself down and smiled. The fact that I was missing a chemistry test (when I was barely passing) and that I hardly recognized the timid person I had become dissolved. My heart was at home.

                                                                        *   *  *

            Charlotte is about as blue-blooded as people come. Classically feminine, her Audrey Hepburn cocktail dresses and put together demeanor evoke feelings of chocolate chip cookies and white picket fences. She has the capability to go from philosophical to shallow and plain. As my hair fell flat, Charlotte’s swished and shined from side to side.  Everyone liked her. It seemed as if she had never had to battle the chaos of high school, with all of its braces and clumsy conversations. Charlotte always knew what to say. So I studied her, wistfully trying to impersonate her natural grace.                                                                                                           *   *  *

            The harsh reality of coming back to school, bit at me. I tapped my fingers, and curled my hair, but the days still went by disgustingly slow.  Like a machine I talked, I laughed, and I answered questions.

            Like everyone else that year, I had become addicted to Friendster an Internet meeting site. Vanity was key. The amount of comments and friends was a constant source of competition. One night I decided to confront Hyde about his actions, which had gotten progressively worse. No matter how much I stayed away from him, he sought me out. I nervously typed out the words I had been so afraid to say for such a long time. Are you mad at me, what did I do?

             Clutching the phone to my tear streamed face, I sobbed. It was as if I had water up my nose, I couldn’t draw air. Anna’s voice came across from a different world. 

“Ada… are you ok? You sound awful….”

            Somehow I sputtered out what had happened. I had just received a message from Hyde in response to my own.  Every uncertainty that I had tried to hide, and every negative thought I had ever thought about myself, he wrote to me were true. Laid out like a deck of cards a page of hate lay out on my desktop.

            Shaking and unable to walk, I clamored to stay afloat.  Choosing my words carefully I wrote to Hyde how much he had hurt me. I told him how he had crossed a line, from annoyance, to repulsive anger. I told him that I understood if he didn’t like me, but that he had no right to use his dislike to hurt me. Everything I told him did little to erase the imprint of pain that was quickly spreading all over my body.

             The next day in class I sat silently. They had watched it unfold, but my two close friends went on as if nothing had happened. They felt it was my problem not theirs. I felt more pathetic day by day as I called them to try to work things out; I screamed and grew sick when they failed to understand why I was so upset. I could no longer pretend that chocolate and Sex and the City would heal what had been broken inside of me. As a friend I have always trusted with my whole heart and believed that my friends would always be there for me. Trust and naivety disappeared. My tears could have filled a lake and with every tear I realized more and more that I needed to become my own person. Nurtured by Anna and the private ice cream socials she planned for just the two of us, I knew that the problems that I had been avoiding finally had to be dealt with. It was not an overnight process but when I grew weak I looked to my four role models for support. Slowly, my DVDs began to grow dust as I had less time to watch them. They sat forlornly as I first crawled and then walked to become a stronger person. And when I was ready, I put my Sex and the City DVDs completely away, and put on a truly happy face.

                                                            *   *  *

            Bold. Daring. Sexual. Samantha Jones. No man would ever want to cross her the wrong way. High powered and driven, she knows how to get what she wants. No matter what the situation, Samantha pushes her way to the top. Crashing to the bottom was the hardest thing I have ever done. I decided to take a page out of Samantha’s book. I would not be censored.

                                                            *    *   *

                        A month after school was done that year I lay under the mind-numbing Israeli sun. Away from my family and friends for the first time for an entire month, I felt my heart stir. Looking at the historic buildings, the limestone still standing strong after all of these years I knew that I had become a different person. Parts of me had shattered in the past year but I had pieced myself back together with some stronger glue. Carrie. Charlotte. Miranda. Samantha. They knew me before I even knew myself.

 As if climbing out of hibernation, the pain that had driven me crazy for months seemed to be melting away in the 110-degree heat.

            Putting my book over my face I squinted at the glow of the Mediterranean’s horizon, and dozed off.