“I let go of negative self-talk.“I radiate confidence.“I focus on positivity.”I was staring at my 61-year-old reflection as I repeated these mantras suggested by my new therapist SuzAnn, embarrassed at the idiocy although I lived alone in a small West L.A. guesthouse.My husband of over 30 years and I had recently separated — the past five years, I was sober.My therapist was the only one from my HMO provider list who had openings. Together we addressed my combination of crippling anxiety, debilitating fear and crushingly low self-image. These characteristics were present throughout my youth and resurfacing. During our last session, I told her about a text from Jim, a man who attended the same weekly recovery Zoom meeting as me.“Would you like to join me for coffee?” he asked in a private chat. His eight simple words caused me to circle the therapeutic drain. Since I became sober, my interpersonal skills seemed to have dried out along with my liver. I recounted the incident to my therapist, panicking at the prospect of a “date.” My recently single self couldn’t figure out which was worse: the discomfort of making small talk with a male human minus the aid of Two Buck Chuck or the terror of dying alone wearing beige suede Birkenstock or sipping chamomile tea and surrounded by six cats.SuzAnn observed my unhinged tirade. “You must rewire your brain. I … urge … you,” she enunciated. “Get out of your comfort zone, look in the mirror and say 10 positive affirmations for the next 30 days. Then ask the universe to provide all the gifts you want for yourself to be given to others.” Her eyes penetrated mine as I waited for a loud Tibetan gong to sound.Walking to my car, I thought, “Maybe I needed to get out of my ‘comfort zone.’ ” So I texted Jim, “Coffee sounds good,” pushed send and immediately wanted to vomit.Before the date, I was about to recite my fourth affirmation when my phone pinged. I had recently told Mona, my older sister, about the caffeine liaison, and I instantly had regretted it as I glanced at her text.“It’s the big day. ‘Who’ are you wearing?”Not wanting to engage, I sent a picture of the clothes laid out on my bed: a white turtleneck, black jeans, a gray flannel blazer and my lace-up Knock (a.k.a. fake) Martens.Less than six seconds passed, and an all-caps alert came through, signaling urgency. “WHY MUST YOU ALWAYS INSIST ON GOING OUTDOORS LOOKING LIKE K.D. LANG? You have such a cute figure.”Mona had an interesting way of complimenting me, like the time she told me I was the highest functioning alcoholic she ever knew.Knowing that I was about to swan dive into a pool that I didn’t even want to dip my toe in, I replied, “It’s cloudy outside, and my therapist said that I should embrace my true self.”“Well, fine, but embrace it with a little cleavage.”We were different, but I envied Mona. Growing up she was the gorgeous outgoing risk-taker with ringlet hair. I was a painfully shy introvert with a unibrow who yearned to be an elderly shut-in by age 9. Where Mona believed any outfit could benefit from a splash of animal print and kitten heels, I found fashion inspiration from behind the wheels of oversize red shopping carts.Jim chose Cafe Gratitude on Rose Avenue in Venice. I got there early, and the place was packed with customers who had a sun-kissed glow that only comes with an abundance of spare time and disposable income. Men with bandannas and buns paired with women clad in booty shorts and crop tops and who‘d obviously received Mona’s “mammary memo.”I put on my glasses to read the breakfast selections, which were printed in a microscopic font. I Am Trusting was apparently roasted veggie hash, I Am Hearty was a tofu scramble and I Am Valued was a chorizo breakfast burrito. I couldn’t help but wonder if my therapist was part of the restaurant’s marketing team.Anxious sweat started to pool under my k.d. lang blazer. I tried channeling my inner Mona: brilliant with the confidence that only comes with a leopard-print neckerchief. I spied Jim entering. I had only ever seen him on Zoom, and although he was tall, which was nice, I tried not to judge his brown cracked-leather buckled pilgrim shoes paired with high-waist Wrangler jeans. “Nice to meet you, Jim,” I said as I reached out my hand. Jim went in for a hug, one that was too close, too tight and several seconds too long. “Exhale,” he whispered in my ear.I froze and wondered if he sensed my fight-or-flight response.“What would you like?” he asked.I wanted something small like a bran muffin and quickly scanned the menu for “I Am Regular” to no avail. “I’ll have the I Am Precious smoothie,” I said, instantly feeling like a fraud.We sat at a table outside, where Jim launched into his background. He had been sober for 33 years, and although impressive, he took this as a cue to tell me everything. He basically started with his emergence from the birth canal. For the next 49 minutes, I learned about his unhealthy relationships with his siblings, his need for approval from his father, his spiral into addiction, his two past marriages, which he explained were not failed but “opportunities for growth,” his spiritual journey and how he learned to love himself. With his monologue coming to a close, I perked up when he finally said, “I have a question for you. Would you be interested in taking ballroom dancing classes with me?”Where had this man gotten the impression that I enjoyed dancing, my nervous foot swinging under the table? My stomach was in knots as I pictured myself clad in a lemon chiffon dress looking like a dollop of meringue, doing the Viennese waltz — something resembling a Centrum Silver commercial.“That’s not something I have ever considered,” I replied, proud of myself that I was not agreeing and then having to fake a terminal illness.I had recently heard that “no” was a complete sentence, and I craved the self-esteem that came with that simple word. “No” to the Hollywood Bowl, where a concerto lasts longer than most L.A. marriages, “no” to hiking in Fryman Canyon and certainly “no” to ballroom dancing.Jim was not a bad person, just not my person, and unlike me, he had the clarity of who he was, what he wanted and actually liked himself — qualities I had yet to attain.My smoothie churned in my stomach, and I told Jim that I needed to go. He stood, smiled and said, “My takeaway is that I would enjoy meeting again.” I considered a snarky “takeaway” but stopped. It was time to shed my armor of judgment and negativity. “That’s kind of you to say. Thank you for the I Am Precious smoothie.” He then put his hands together, bowed slightly and murmured, “Go in grace.”It was not what I wanted for myself, but driving on Ocean Park Boulevard, I asked the universe to give Jim a long-stemmed rose and a partner to tango with, SuzAnn’s practice to thrive with wealthy women wearing lavender oil, and for Mona to be blessed with an unlimited supply of zebra-print accessories.I entered the cocoon of my guesthouse, and my reflection blurred as I looked in the mirror. I pushed my shoulders back, stood up a little straighter and instead said:“I am not afraid to be alone.“I am worth getting to know.“My life is unfolding exactly as it should.“I looked outside.”It was overcast outside, but I knew the sun could break through at any moment.The author is an essayist and native Angeleno. She can be reached at lorirwrites@gmail.com.L.A. Affairs chronicles the search for romantic love in all its glorious expressions in the L.A. area, and we want to hear your true story. We pay $400 for a published essay. Email LAAffairs@latimes.com. You can find submission guidelines here. You can find past columns here.
