Three Dog Life

A sister of one of the preschoolers named her new Barbie after me. I told my daughter, thinking this would impress her.

"Mom, she's two," said my daughter.

Well, so? Today she's two, tomorrow she's accepting a Pulitzer and thanking her sister's preschool teacher. Or maybe her Barbie, but still, she named the Barbie after me.

Back in the Olden Days I taught eighth grade English for a year. Back in the Olden Days we still called it "English." One of my students went on to become a journalist for a major national magazine, I forget which one. But I had her writing slam-dunk poetry when she was fourteen. All about War and Death and Rainbows and shit. Now she has bylines. To my bygones.

Speaking of which.

I can measure my life in students. Dogs. Boyfriends. Cats. Drugs. Jobs. Shoulder pads. Also, apartments. Houses. Cars. Weight. There's a good one. For instance, the U-of-M-Screaming-Yellow-Zonkers-Harvard-Market- Cookies phase, which preceded the Three-in-the-Morning-Bridgeman's- Barge-I've-Got-the-Dorm-Room-Blues phase, which preceded the Panama-Red-Acapulco-Gold- I've-Got-the-Major-Munchies phase, which preceded the College-Dropout-Starter-Marriage-Marrakech-Express- First-Dog phase.

Now I'm in Third Dog. But back to that last part.

I got stoned, dropped out of college, got married, went to Morocco and got a dog. Not in Morocco, when I came back. I stepped out onto the tarmac (in the Olden Days we still stepped out onto the tarmac), took one look at the person I'd accidentally married (I was stoned), and drove to the Humane Society. And left him there.

Just kidding.

The things we people leave behind. Other people. Places. Furniture. Parking tickets. Our hearts.

I didn't leave my heart in Morocco, but I left something as significant. My naivete. Like a snake shedding its skin. Bumping through the night with the soldiers and goats on the Marrakech Express as it wound down the coast of Africa from Casablanca to the desert while the ocean crashed and the unrecognizable universe exploded with stars proved a pivotal moment in my heretofore smallass smalltown American life.

Well, duh.

I hadn't yet wandered the souks or bargained for a djellabah over a smoky hookah or met a Blueman or a water carrier or discovered kohl or tasted green tea or smelled camel shit, all that exotica was still to come. But I sensed it was coming. I could feel my skin loosening around me like a girdle coming off, to be thrown onto the pyre alongside my bra.

That's another one. I can measure my life in underwear.

Speaking of which.

I'll bet Barbie never burned her bra. For one thing, she doesn't need one, not with those steel-belted knockers. Besides, she isn't the bra-burner type. I wonder if she considers herself a feminist. I mean, just look at all she's accomplished. Flight attendant. Librarian. Teacher. Doctor. CEO of major pharmaceutical company. Governor of Alaska. Not to mention the accompanying fabulous wardrobe, which to my recollection has never included underwear. What a ho.

Now there's a Barbie out there with my name on it. And she can't even stand on her own two feet, let alone fill my shoes. She has to lean up against things to remain upright. Turns out we have more in common than I'd thought.

(1975)