In the Weak Hour

As I lift and then start pushing the knife down again to dice the strips of a Roma tomato, I can see one second into the future.

The top skin-covered layer glides forward, revealing the tomato’s mesocarp, and with it slides my left thumb, right underneath the brand-new, factory-sharpened blade. It cuts through the nail and the tip of the finger and then continues through the tomato as if this and that flesh were the same.

I get another mere second to grab a paper towel before the stream of crimson starts pouring out, and the hot flash that radiates through my body turns the yellow walls around me into a swirl of colors and forces my head to level with my feet. I clutch the folded piece of soft paper to my thumb without looking at it, painfully aware that it isn’t sterile or otherwise up to par, as I know from my very recent CPR training. The smell of burning butter wafts through the kitchen, and I wonder if I’ll have it forever associated with nausea.

Now, I should clarify that I didn’t sever my finger, though I wasn’t all that sure in the moment, as I’m unable to look at blood coming out of places it shouldn’t. All I knew was that I was pushing the blood-soaked paper towel against a part of my body I hadn’t ever touched before and should feel a bit more oblong than it did.

I cannot tell for how long I’ve been curled into a child’s pose with my forehead pressed against the cool faux hardwood floor, too long by any measure, but the red keeps seeping through the paper towel, and I start contemplating how I’ll decide if I require professional help. And because the head-spinning isn’t easing up, I start thinking who I could call, should it come to it. Who’d be available on immediate notice. I hear the voice of Esther Perel in my head, saying the thing she often says, “We have hundreds of virtual ‘friends’ but no one we can ask to feed the cat.” I try to shut her out by shutting my eyes more firmly.

My mind, in an apparent attempt to distract me from what’s happening, next replays a Gilmore Girls scene where Lorelai meets her new neighbor, Dwight, welcomes him, and tells him to reach out if he needs anything. He answers that, actually, he’s going on a work trip and could use help watering his lawn while he’s gone. Lorelai is annoyed by that, which, in turn, annoys me, just as much as the real-life vague conversation wrap that is supposed to sound pleasant but means absolutely nothing. “We should grab coffee sometimes.” “Let’s plan something soon.” “Let me know if you need anything…”

The point is, I know I have friends, not just “friends”—I have ridiculously high standards and am picky about who I let into my life, nevertheless, a small doubt still creeps in.

I touched on that during my recent call with my high-school group on the other side of the Atlantic when answering what’s been up with me lately. To these new-or-ish moms who are never alone, I tried to explain that life in my small town sometimes feels lonely, not because I don’t have friends, but because my friends have their own lives, and significant others, and families nearby, and I don’t, and so they don’t often have time for a spontaneous coffee meetup in 20 minutes when I need one.

To that, one of these high-school friends answered that maybe I should put it on my to-do list this year to find a life partner. It’s only because we’ve been friends since we were 11 and I know she has my best interest at heart that I didn’t immediately flip out.

But as I feel another oncoming hot flush while adjusting the paper towel and covering my thumb with a clean part (Red Cross would be within its right to revoke the CPR certification at this point), I give in to the idea for a moment. What if there was someone I wouldn’t have to call to help because they’d just be there. Someone who’d scrape me up off the floor, literally and figuratively. Who’d run to the store for Band-Aids and a wound wash I definitely don’t have in my makeshift shoebox medical kit. Then make me ginger tea to help with the nausea. Then finish the dinner I was making. And maybe make some more dinners hereinafter, since I obviously don’t do well with sharp objects.

During that call, I somewhat calmly explained that there is no way in hell I’m putting something I have no control over on my to-do list, and anyway, I’m desperate for an occasional short-notice ice cream date, not being trapped in a companionship for companionship’s sake.

To that, another one of these high-school friends answered that maybe I’m lying to myself, that subconsciously I want a relationship but am choosing the safer way and focusing on friendships instead.

At that point, the call was getting a bit frustrating. For years now I’ve been fighting the inventory of single men my friends would list for me at weddings, the blind date with a guy someone knows and I should go out with because we’d be a great match based on a singular activity we’re both into, and the sad smiles when I mention someone I was seeing just wasn’t it, and the “don’t worry, you’ll meet someone else” that follows. I’m not worried, I’m far from worried. And if I’m worried, it’s about the notion that I simply must be aspiring to find a significant other, as the only goal worth pursuing. If I’m worried, it’s about being in a relationship that feels lonelier than being single.

Because I know that one: who’d call my occasional need to be by myself selfish. Who’d expect me to put them first but not care what it is that I want. Who’d tell me that no one will ever love me like they do. Who’d blame me for ruining their day if I wasn’t feeling cheerful. Who’d shout that I try to suppress their emotions anytime they succumb to an angry outburst and I’d ask to continue the conversation when the feelings don’t run that high. Who’d then not talk to me for days to teach me a lesson.

If it so happened that someone would come along and become not my life, but an addition to it, it would be nice. If it so happened, it would be a want, not a need.

An hour later, it’s clear that I’ll live to tell the tale. Though the dinner won’t be finished that night, the finger will stop bleeding, and I’ll get up, open the door to let fresh air deal with the pungent butter smell, and drive myself to the closest CVS.

I’ll eventually recount all of that to my therapist, and say how silly it all was, but how much mental gymnastics I’d done on the kitchen floor. She’ll ask me what would have to happen for me not to consider the situation silly and ask for help. I’ll laugh and say, actually severing a finger. She’ll give me her all-knowing smile. That would be a whole nother kind of emergency, wouldn’t it?

I’ll eventually brief my friends, too, in the way of retelling a fun story about what a sissy I’m. They’ll tell me to call next time.

I don’t have a cat, but if I did, she’d be just fine.