"You've written three books and delivered countless inspirational talks urging women to rid themselves of the deference to other people's expectations, yet here you are, dancing furiously to a tune of others," Susan adds. "It's kind of weird—don't you think?"
She's right. I've been fitting in my personal life and needs around my work ever since A Year by the Sea became a best-seller—on top of which I've had five grandchildren arrive, a husband retire, and my mother go through a series of eye and stomach surgeries. There is never enough of me to go around. So while I would prefer to laugh their comments away, I can't. Instead I bite my tongue and turn back toward the marsh, where a mother osprey is coaxing her babies to fly, and feel the peace I seek whenever I am in the presence of something wild and natural.
"Don't go passive on us," Ro says, picking up on my subtle withdrawal.
"I'm not. I'm just concentrating on what you're saying. It's kind of profound for early morning." The high spirits I brought to the porch are beginning to plummet. I've been up and down a lot lately, relaxed and expansive, like I felt a minute ago, and falling precipitously into exhaustion and gloom. I know that this moodiness is just one more by-product of a cluttered calendar, but I am truly at a loss for what to change. When I wrote my first book, I had no idea success would be so busy. At one point, I naïvely thought it would mean more freedom, but I've learned that I am only as good as my latest sales figures. The trouble is, I like what I do. Sure I spend more time talking on the phone, returning e mails, meeting with fans and business associates, and whatever else it takes to promote my work than I do actually writing, but I'm glad to feel so productive and fulfilled.
"Look, I'm doing the best I can," I answer defensively. Besides, it's easy for them to point their fingers; they are both retired, with comfortable financial packages and lots of free time on their hands. My husband retired on the early side, and his educator's pension doesn't always reach far enough.
"We just want you to get your priorities straight," Susan continues, sounding a tad patronizing. "Remember, we've been there. Both of us let our work suck the life out of us, and we just want to help you before it's too late. Whatever I was chasing at my job was always a hair out of reach."
"My job was just the same," Ro chimes in. "Before I retired, my life was like a Dilbert cartoon with irritable bowel syndrome. I never had a chance to recharge. We would no sooner finish one marketing campaign than the next would begin. Everything was about the deadline—never my personal deadlines, mind you, but the deadlines set by the marketplace. I tried for a while to justify all the imbalance with illusions about the good service my company provided for people. But those excuses all disappeared when the personal products company I worked for bought Ben and Jerry's ice cream and Slim-Fast on the same day. My first reaction was, I gave my forties and fifties for that? Joan, neither of us wants you to repeat our mistakes."
"So, it is time to ask yourself just what is driving you: the money or the message?" Susan pushes on. "You toss around amazing nuggets of wisdom, but are you living your message? Ro is right—you look haggard and tired."
"Well, thanks for the compliment," I say, dumbfounded by her frankness and at a loss as to how to reply. Like most good friends, they have been in on too many of my secrets, but I'm not ready to declare defeat. There are so many differences between their corporate work experiences and the life I am living, and there is still so much I want to do. I just have to become more organized and gain a little more control over my schedule. I reach for another croissant.
I am curious, though, about why they are suddenly so riled up. I remember hearing a sitcom star say at the close of her long-running show that she hoped to get back all of the friendships she hadn't had time for when she was working. Is that what is going on right now?
"Do you guys feel as though I've left you out somehow?" I ask.
"No," Ro says too quickly for my liking. "We feel that you are cutting yourself out of your life—giving it away and taking none of the goodies for yourself. It's got to be damn lonely being you—best-seller aside. You are chained to your computer, and when you do go away, it's to an empty hotel room."
"Yes, we do miss you," Susan adds. "We don't care about your competency, or your Amazon numbers—what happened to plain old Joan—the loosey-goosey woman who parties hard, skinny-dips in the moonlight, and drinks too much wine?"
I remember that woman, too, and the memory makes me smile. Still, this morning's mood has turned, and now I feel awkward. I want to remain aloof and pretend, somehow, that they are talking about someone else, not me. Ro must sense my discomfort, because she quickly switches from pointing out the problem to proposing a solution.
"So here's the deal. I'm making you sign back up for the gym," she insists, passing me the registration card she just happens to have tucked in her back pocket.
