Can We Ever See Our Lives As They Are?
Probably not, so let's just be grateful all the time ...
In 2013, I was a grad student working as an off-brand Disney princess running children’s parties on the weekends. The job paid $50 an hour ($60 if the family wanted me to sing “Let It Go”) and took me all over Los Angeles. No matter what crusty wig I was wearing or what subpar balloon animal I was making, all of the parties had one thing in common: adults being weird.
Kids parties are really personal, especially for the parents. They usually hovered around, encouraging little Franny to give Sleeping Beauty a hug or pushing tiny classmates out of the way so the birthday girl could be first in line for face paint (as if I’d ever give up that coveted spot to anyone else; I’m not a monster). Sometimes the parties were in rented rooms in community centers or mall play zones where I avoided the ball pit at all costs.
But mostly, they were in people’s homes.
Recently, a memory resurfaced and I’ve been rolling it around in my mind like a wad of play-doh.
It’s Saturday, it’s hot — like 95* in the shade hot.
I’m dressed as Anna from Frozen, which means I’m wearing clothes someone cold would wear. My Cruella de Vil black and white hair is stuffed under a red pig-tailed wig and did I mention it’s hot?
The party is princess-themed and even the mom is wearing a little tiara. She can’t be more than ten years older than I am, and her daughter is turning seven. The dad looks older; the math makes sense. I can tell we’re in a suburb of L.A. because there is a backyard (with grass) and the parents are notably sober. But that’s not the memory.
After my hour of dollar store magic tricks, upsetting balloon animal pops (IT’S THE HEAT!), and explaining for the eighth time that Olaf is at home in our castle right now, the mom walks me inside to pay me. The living room is two stories tall and the air conditioning smells like a craft store. Most of the decor has words on it and most of the words are in cursive. A family lives here and they are making an effort. I miss my mom.
“Your house is so nice,” I say. I revel in dropping the princess voice during these parent interactions. It’s tempting to put on a Natasha Lyonne “I smoke three packs a day” New York accent, but I’m too tired.
The mom says thanks, hands me cash. Counting the money always embarrasses me, maybe because I worry it implies I don’t trust there’s enough or maybe because I’ve always been bad at math and even counting six ten dollars bills takes me a second.
“Also,” I add, “your kids are so well-behaved.” I never say this unless I mean it. Especially if I’m already holding my tip.
“You don’t have to say things like that,” the mom says.
My parents used to love when people approached them after church to express their amazement at four quiet, respectful kids. When I report good news to parents, I like imagining them congratulating each other after. I recently ran a party dressed as Dorothy from The Wizard of Oz where a tough-looking birthday girl with a blue tongue and teeth requested that I paint a hockey puck on her forehead. After I obliged, a little disturbed by how close and sticky her face was, the girl informed me that she’d been throwing up all morning and also she could tell that wasn’t my real hair. She then rearranged the face-painting line in order of people she liked the best, insisting she butt everyone so I could finish her look. She wanted a net to go with her hockey puck. On her sticky blue recently barfing face. At the end of that party, I took the money and ran.
“I know I don’t have to.” I move towards the front door and can’t help but look up at the big window in awe. I grew up in a house with a foyer and a similar window. That life feels so far away and I regret not understanding how good I had it. “They really were great. I meet a lot of not-so-great kids, so I appreciate when kids are nice to me.”
I’m startled to see the mom’s eyes are angry and … are those tears?
“Really.” Her face is a little red, too. “You don’t have to say that.”
What I hear is: “You don’t have to lie.”
I don’t understand.
This woman has a version of success I can’t even fathom having, especially in the next decade. I can easily imagine her at my age already planning her expensive wedding in Santa Barbara, looking at lots of houses with lots of windows, and comparing dream baby names with her friends. Even though I don’t want her life, I can’t help but admire it.
I want her to know she’s doing great.
But nothing else comes out of my mouth. I walk out of the house and she closes the huge wooden door behind me. I take my wig off for the drive home, wondering what I said wrong.
That’s where the memory ends. Presumably, I drove to my basement apartment and Mister, who was the size of my hand at the time. Sat outside in the heat. Made a cocktail. Called my mom. Worried about that woman not appreciating her life.
Worried about not appreciating mine.