I recently finished The Ugly History of Beautiful Things. Among other topics, the book reminded me that it is okay to find happiness in material objects, just like it is okay to find happiness in music, food, and movies. It is also important to notice the objects that make us happy, so we can learn more about ourselves.
The other topic I’ve been thinking a lot about is menopause. For women who live long enough, it is inevitable. If society’s devaluation of women past reproductive age wasn’t obvious enough, the dearth of training, peer-reviewed literature, and general awareness about menopause should clue you in (to say nothing of the harms perpetuated to women in this age group in other societal sectors).
Gaps in research have always interested (and troubled) me; when it pertains to something that happens not only to me, but to roughly half of the population…
Just something to think about. But if you’re tired of thinking and you just came here to read goddamnit—I have just the story.
prologue (Freja)
Freja was drunk in a basement when she saw the notification:
“1 new message from Stephen Cohen.”
It was hot, but she felt her cheeks go redder still. Steph was an infrequent (but not wholly unwelcome) guest in her dreams; but she wasn’t sure what made him, after five years, think of her. Freja’s head swam with possibilities. They bubbled up to the surface of her mind like koi violently thrashing in a pond.
Don’t feed the fish, she thought. Freja took one last glance at the screen, then shook her head. Turning her phone off, she resolved not to look at it for the rest of the night.
Stephen Cohen was tomorrow’s problem.
The next day, Freja woke up to the harsh sunlight, overheated and nauseated from the night before. She turned on her phone and saw the notification for Steph’s unread message. Last night’s thoughts came back and rattled inside her skull. She groaned and reached for the jug of water she responsibly filled up the night before.
Freja checked her watch—she still had an hour or so before Greta picked her up for their weekly hike. That sounded like enough time to rehydrate and process whatever it was that Steph had to say.
After finishing the water jug, eating some plain toast and coffee, and a quick, cold shower, Freja dressed and plopped down on her couch. She unlocked her phone and read Steph’s message. And then she read it again. And again. Then, one more time for good measure. Hands shaking, heart beating, she slowly typed out her reply.
Then, she threw her phone across the room and let out a giant exhale.
Three honks sounded outside her apartment door. Greta had arrived.
~
Miles and miles and years and years away, Freja sat on a bench underneath her favorite tree. It felt like the first true day of spring: the breeze was perfect, the birds sang, and the flowers had never been more beautiful. Sunshine shone through the leaves, dappling the pages of her book in patterns she scarcely noticed: this book was just that good.
A bright flash of bronze and white whizzed past her. Freja, unconcerned, turned the page. It was only until the figure doubled back and stood in front of her that she looked up.
After all, he was blocking her light.
Freja looked up and saw a familiar face. They had never spoken before, as they occupied different roles in the Rosa Parks High School ecosystem. She was, however, well-acquainted with Stephen Cohen’s face from the various campaign posters plastered around campus; and, of course, his electoral speech for Class President on the school news channel.
Stephen Cohen did not get Freja’s vote; but he didn’t need it. Freja wasn’t surprised that he won the election. Ever since charisma became more important than things like platform, competency, and work ethic, guys like Steph won elections from class rep all the way up to the Oval Office.
It was only American that Stephen Cohen was elected Senior Class President.
Here, in front of her, Steph was less picture-perfect than his campaign posters. He was slightly out of breath. His thick olive hair and sun-kissed skin were streaked with sweat: the Wilson sweatband around his head caught most of the perspiration, but a few stray drops trickled down his face and neck. When the breeze passed over them, Freja smelt it, surprised that it wasn’t wholly unpleasant.
She was about to say something, to tell Steph to leave. While she was deciding how nice to be about it, Steph beat her to it.
“Hey,” he said, flashing her a smile that matched the bleached color of his tennis whites. The way he smiled was almost mechanical, as if he was swiping an ID badge instead of exchanging pleasantries. Nevertheless, this was a smile that charmed principals, students and teachers. It got Steph out of homework assignments, quelled suspicious ex-girlfriends, and won elections. So, of course, Freja found her annoyance melting away. She mirrored his smile and closed her book, careful to mark the place with her thumb.
“Hey,” she replied, hoping that her tone, soft smile, and slight eyebrow raise conveyed the subtext: You and I wouldn’t be talking unless you needed something—so what is it?
“So I’m in a bit of a—” he paused. His breathing slowed and he looked around, searching for something—or someone—before continuing. “sticky situation.”
“How could I possibly help you? We don’t even know each other.”
“Steph,” he held out his hand.
“Freja,” she shook it.
“You have a great handshake.” His grin settled into a more natural-looking lopsided orientation. “Have you ever thought about running for office?”
“We both know I wouldn’t stand a chance against you, Steph,” Freja wasn’t kidding, but she said it mockingly just the same. He laughed.
“May I sit?”
“Of course,” she said. “And just so we’re clear, I did not vote for you.”
“I’m more than just a pretty face, you know. There’s a brain in here, too. And it was good enough to get me into Stanford”
“Is that right?” she shifted to better face him. “And yet that was the same brain that came up with that ridiculous campaign slogan”
“Ridiculous?” Steph asked incredulously. “That slogan was genius.”
” ‘Ask not what your high school can do for you, but what you can do for your high school’,” Freja mocked. “Do you see how stupid it sounds now, when I say it out loud?”
“I think it sounds beautiful.” Before she knew what was happening, Freja’s cheeks reddened. Whatever process was responsible for supplying oxygen to her brain suddenly stopped. Get it together. He’s just a person—and for people like him, conversation is a game that you’re forced into playing.
So Freja decided to play.
“You didn’t come here to flirt, did you Mr. President?”
“Alright, you got me there,” Steph took off his sweatband and ran his hands through his hair. “I was wondering if you happened to see anyone—dressed like me but not even half as good looking—come past here with a black and yellow racket?”
“Not half as good looking,” Freja considered. “So that rules out most human beings.” A pause. “I think a rat may have crawled by here.”
“You know, if he was dressed in this uniform, he may be the one that sits in my hat and controls me while I play tennis”
“If he’s in your hat, why does he have to wear the uniform?”
“Hey,” Steph put his hands up, “He tells me what to do, not the other way around.”
“Alright, Steph, if the tennis playing rat comes back over here, I’ll let him know that you’re looking for him,” Freja said dryly. “But in the meantime, I would like to finish this book.”
“This is more important than a book” Steph leaned in a little bit closer. Freja’s heart skipped a beat while her oxygen-starved brain tried to keep things under control. You can’t let him corner you, she reminded the less-evolved parts of her brain. “You see, every year, the tennis team hides the Captain’s racket as kind of a reverse-hazing-bonding type thing. If I don’t get it back by the end of practice, I’m going in the dunk tank”
“If you’re not smart enough to get your racket back from a bunch of freshmen, I don’t know how you think you’ll survive at Stanford.” Freja said. He really was sitting too close: she could see the different shades of blue in his irises and how they glittered in the sun.
“Come on, Freja,” he said in a breathless whisper, his eyes shining. “Your brother’s on the team. You must know something.”
Freja was about to reply when two honks sounded from across the street. “That’s my ride,” Freja said with an exhale that was, in hindsight, maybe a bit too loud. “Good luck getting your racket back,” she grinned.
When Freja got into the car, she texted her brother. “Steph is clueless, you guys did good… he’s never finding that racket.”
~
Freja recounted her first—and last—conversation with Steph while she and Greta scrambled through the Fire Trails.
“And what happened after?” Greta asked, hungry for more information.
“Nothing,” Freja shrugged.
“Nothing?”
“He smiled at me in the hallway when we passed by each other, but he never spoke to me like that again. He graduated that Spring, and I never saw him again.”
After Steph graduated, Freja fell in an and floated through what she thought was love. But, every once in awhile, she still thought back to that day underneath the tree. She thought about how perfect that moment was. Forget that nothing became of it, or that the chemistry between them was human-manufactured. The hope of it all put all her senses into overdrive and made sure that she’d never forget how it felt to be fully immersed in a moment where every second was precious and full of promise.
At the time, she was too young to appreciate how one person can mean so much to another. How two people can share a memory and one can hold onto it for life and the other never gives it a second thought.
“And so, what—he’s asking you to give his little brother a tour of campus?” Greta’s voice brought Freja back to the Berkeley Hills.
“Yeah. He’s apparently trying to decide between here and Stanford,” Greta made a face at the mention of their rival school. “That’s where Steph went,” Freja explained.
“Have you met the brother before?”
“Yeah—we had photography together” Freja paused to get some water. “Seth was like… a raccoon that hid in the back of our darkroom. Every so often, you’d see his eyes look back at you when you thought you were alone in there.” She took a sip from her bottle. “But I don’t think I ever heard him talk once.”
“Is Steph gonna come on this tour with you, or is it just going to be you and the brother?”
“Well,” Freja said, “I said I’d give the tour if we all went to lunch when Steph came to pick him up to take him back to Stanford.”
“Did he say yes?”
“I don’t know,” Freja admitted. “I turned my phone off and flung it across the room after I sent it.”
Greta laughed. “Well, once we get cell service, we should check on that. We might have some planning to do.”
This Week’s Top 3
- Jungle’s ARTE set 🪩
- Gabrielle Lyon x Gunnar Peterson 🏋🏾♂️ – interview on lifting & designing a successful training plan
- Breaking Bad 🧪 – I know. I’m super late to the game… no spoilers please