Darting Around Town In A "Riddler" Outfit

Like my cat, Nigel, who devours his cat chow without chewing, I swallow things whole: statistics, folded inserts delineating life threatening side effects, gulps of Reisling, promises, lies, ill-fated relationships, buttery praise, emergency preparedness plans, and the evening news.

Things consume me, and on a good day, I would say that I'm passionate, and on a bad one, I'd call myself obsessive. And I sort of like that, too . . . smirk at the idea that some things burrow into the landscape of my mind and take root, carving out secure and shaded homes. But it's when I'm blindsided, or afterward, lamenting lost hours, that I wonder if I should have taken my time a bit--focused, noticed, nibbled. Small bites, Cate, not gulps.

It's in the question asking, I think. In the effort to not always be impulsive. To accumulate information and sort through it before making a decision. Because the sky might be blue right now--and that's real nice to notice--but what does that really mean? Does it mean that I can leave the shoes out on the back porch, or that I should pack up the boys and take them over to the community pool for a swim? What if the clouds unfurl into soft, wispy letters that spell out a recipe for coffee-infused barbecue sauce? Would I write it down? Would I trust the ingredients? Would I make it to slather on some ribs for the Fourth of July, or would it taste better on white meat chicken? And what would I make with it? Fresh broccoli? Who says that fresh is better than frozen, and why do I believe that if someone says it, it must be true? And even if it is true, maybe that's just somebody else's reality, not necessarily my own; isn't it my right, if not my obligation, to stand firm on what I believe, yet remain malleable enough to listen and consider and decide?

Years ago, a friend and I had gone out for an expensive dinner together. At her insistence, we ordered caviar. It was expensive. My friend told me that she believed that caviar, like good wine and good olive oil, was the height of sophistication. I told her that I thought it tasted nasty. She threw back her head and laughed and said, "It's an acquired taste, Cathie. You'll get used to it."

You'll get used to it . . . or what? You won't be sophisticated? She paid for her "sophisticated" portion of our meal with her nearly maxed out Mastercard, as I thought to myself, wouldn't it have been more sophisticated to have made something we could've afforded at home (i.e. Hamburger Helper)?

Apparently, spending money equals sophistication. And good taste. Not having money. Just spending it.

The problem is that I eventually accepted this as the truth, just as I have accepted, at various times, that traveling, tans, goat cheese, limo rides, undercooked meats, designer handbags, and luxury cars all equal sophistication. I never thought to ask why . . .

There aren't always answers, but there are certainly always questions.

I'm obviously reading Erica Jong again, and although I don't really like her, I love her writing and I admire the strength in her convictions. She makes me question everything, and I flip through the pages, pausing to scribble down my own thoughts. Working on developing a philosophy as though I were sludging through a muddy proof in algebra.

I have not been asking questions for awhile. I've learned, somewhere on this journey, to notice the big picture and all of its details. But I've forgotten to ask any questions, even the easy ones.

And I think that I do that because I believe that I don't count. Who cares that I'm confused. Who cares that I don't understand. Who cares that I've realized that actions don't match words. Who cares that lies are offered like facts carved into a headstone. Who cares that I'd like some definitions, some clarification.

Well, I guess, I do. I care. And maybe that caring, that puffing myself up, just a bit, is the first step.

If you see someone darting around town in a Riddler outfit, asking questions, don't panic.

It's just me.