New Year, New Me
Claire made the announcement—well,
it was really more of a proclamation—at her Annual Christmas Gathering in
Flushing.
She called
it a ‘gathering’ and not a ‘party’ because Claire’s landlady, Mrs. Zaplinski
forbade parties, pets and pot smoking plus the only people Claire ever invited
were her friends Lisa, Amy and Gretchen.
The four
of them—in Christmas sweaters bought specifically for the event—had already
consumed several Solo cups of the punch Claire had seen on TikTok made with Red
Bull, vodka and raspberry sherbet—were seated around the coffee table snacking
on spinach dip and Triscuits warmed in the microwave.
Claire
cleared her throat. “I’ve come up with my New Year’s Resolution,” she said as
she plunged a Triscuit into the dip. “You know all those commercials on
TV? New Year, New You? That’s what I’m going to do. Only it’ll be New Year,
New Me, of course. I’m going to become a completely different person.”
She
brought the cracker up to her mouth and the dip slid onto the angora beard of
the Santa on her sweater.
Lisa
rolled her eyes. Amy snickered and Gretchen handed Claire a poinsettia paper
napkin.
Claire
took the napkin, but scraped the dip off her sweater with the Triscuit and
popped it in her mouth.
“I’m going
to go blond,” she said as she chewed, “and get my hair cut. Or maybe get
extensions. Maybe both. And I’m going to get a capsule wardrobe that I can mix
and match into chic outfits. And I’m going to join a book club and start dating
a really cool guy with tattoos.”
“Good luck
with all that,” said Lisa.
“Let us
know how it works out for you,” said Amy.
“Very
ambitious,” said Gretchen.
“But wait
there’s more,” said Claire, grabbing Gretchen’s arm “I’m going to get a dog and
dress it in outfits that match my capsule wardrobe. And I’m going to start
listening to jazz. And I’m going to drink more water—the kind with alkaline.
I’m going to buy throw pillows that say things like ‘Live, Love, Laugh.’ And
I’m going to eat free range eggs. And I’m going to learn calligraphy and watch
documentaries and get eight hours of sleep every night.”
“We get
it,” said Lisa, noticing a chip in the polish of her press-on nails.
“You’re
gonna become a new person,” said Amy, taking out her phone.
“Maybe you
should write this all down,” said Gretchen finishing her third cup of punch.
“New Year,
New Me,” continued Claire. “I’m going to take up the harp. And I’m going to
subscribe to The New Yorker and start
carrying around one of those tote bags. And I’m going to get the new iPhone.
And I’m going to moisturize every day with a high SPF and every night with
retinol and collagen. New Year, New Me.”
“Did I
tell you they were filming Blue Bloods
on my block?” said Amy. “They wouldn’t let me get to my apartment for like,
fifteen minutes. But I was so close to Donnie Wahlberg. Look at these photos.”
Lisa and
Gretchen huddled over Amy’s phone as Claire went on. “New Year, New Me. Maybe
I’ll even change my name. Numee. Get it? New Me, but N-u-m-e-e. It sounds
sophisticated, right?”
During the six days between
Christmas and New Year’s Eve, as the store windows went from displays of elves,
angels and reindeer to plain red signs reading ‘SALE’ in white sans serif
letters—Claire broadcasted her plan—well, it was really a more a stream of
consciousness. She told her sister Sara in White Plains; Mr. David, her boss at
Corporate Inc; her landlady, Mrs. Zaplinski; the sales clerk at Zara who helped
her with her capsule wardrobe and every other random soul she encountered.
“New Year,
New Me,” she’d always start and then, “I’m going to paint my apartment with
whatever the Sherwin Williams Color of the Year is. I’m going to drink matcha
tea instead of coffee. I’m going to get my perfect match of foundation at
Sephora and I’m going to start doing hot yoga. New Year, New Me.
Her
sister, her boss, the sales clerk at Zara—and everyone else—were very
encouraging to the first five or six things Claire planned to do, but as she
ranted on, they’d nod their heads and look at the plant that needed watering or
the moth hole in their sweater or the star-shaped stain on the rug.
Claire
never noticed anyone’s disinterest. She was too far deep into her vision, but
the more she talked to people about the things she was going to do, she kept
thinking of more items she needed to buy to do the things, and while she was
procuring those items, she’d encounter more people that she’d burble to and
come up with even more things to do and even more items to buy.
It was
exhausting.
By New
Year’s Eve, Claire’s apartment was crammed with cases of alkaline water; gallon
buckets of Shift—the Sherwin Williams Color of the Year; bags from Sephora; bags from Zara; bags from Nordstrom Rack;
a Rees 22-string harp; a Peloton and
everything else she’d bought for the New Me.
She stood
on line in Life Thyme Natural Market to purchase the very last item—a Chansen bamboo whisk to properly prepare
matcha tea.
She wasn’t
talking to anybody. She wasn’t allowing any more ideas to spew forth. She was
just patiently waiting to pay, shuffling from one foot to the other when she
saw it.
On the
clearance table along with boxes of compostable cling wrap; anise sugar-free
toothpaste and period panties size 4XL—was The Blund—a weighted sleep mask made
with non-GMO buckwheat and lavender organically grown in the Canary Islands and
marked down to $5.99.
It was
exactly what Claire needed to get eight hours of sleep every night and was
truly the very last thing she had to
buy.
Cha-ching.
She
hurried home and read on the packaging that The Blund was microwavable, so she
zapped it for sixty seconds, filling the air with the scent of organically
grown lavender. It was as if she was actually standing in the middle of a lavender
field in the Canary Islands instead of a merchandise-cramped apartment in
Flushing, Queens.
After she
changed into her new pink silk nightie, she slipped into bed with the warm
Blund and using the Velcro closure, she fit the mask snuggly—but not too
snuggly—around her head. It was wonderfully comforting, like a non-GMO
buckwheat hug. She closed her eyes and
whispered “New Year, New Me” as she deeply inhaled. In a matter of minutes, she
was in a coma-deep, dreamless sleep.
When she opened her eyes the next
morning, she was confused. She saw nothing but
darkness, then she realized she was wearing The Blund. She took it off with a
startling rip of Velcro and was even further confused.
Her
harsh white walls were now painted in the flattering creaminess of Shift. Her
Rees 22-string harp and its 18 inch-stool were tucked into one corner of her
bedroom where she could comfortably play once she learned how. In another
corner was her new Peloton, plugged in and ready for action.
She
sprang out of bed, still holding The Blund and scoped out the rest of her apartment.
The piles of boxes and
bags were unpacked and neatly put away. She marveled at the orderly stacks of alkaline water in her
fridge; her new bookcase with all the tomes alphabetized by author; her
organized closet where her capsule wardrobe hung wrinkle-free; her new shoes
lined up like soldiers on the floor below.
Then
she saw someone in the full-length mirror on the closet door.
This
someone—dressed in the same pink nightie that Claire wore and holding The Blund
in her right hand—was taller than Claire, her hair was the color of sunshine,
cut in a way that made her all cheekbones, eyes and lips—even without make-up.
Peeking out from the hem of the someone’s nightie were sleek, toned thighs. A
fresh pedicure in Lovely Lilac was on the someone’s toes.
Claire
touched her own face, ran her own fingers through her hair and watched the
figure in the mirror perform the exact same actions. That figure in the mirror
was her. That figure was the New Me.
The
doorbell rang and she was so shook she opened it without looking through the
peephole, still dressed in her pink nightie and still holding The Blund. On her
welcome mat, stood a tall,
chiseled man—although ‘hunk’ was the word that she immediately thought
of—dressed in a black kilt and black motorcycle jacket with nothing underneath
but tattooed pecs. He held a black velvet leash attached to the most adorable fawn-colored pug.
“Who
are you?” she asked, hearing that her voice no longer betrayed her Queens
origin. It was cultured, refined and most importantly—pleasant—like the sound of bluebirds celebrating
the arrival of Spring.
“Silly
girl,” the hunk said and kissed her on her lips. “I’m Sebastian, your
boyfriend. I was just taking Daisy for a walk.”
“Oh,”
she said, “of course.” She clutched her hands over her heart and noticed The
Blund was still warm from the microwave last night.
At 11 AM she arrived—well, it was
actually more like ‘made an entrance’—at Oscar’s for Bottomless Brunch with
Lisa, Amy and Gretchen. She wore a black cashmere sweater and winter-white
gabardine trousers. Draped over her shoulders was a camelhair coat lined with
Burberry plaid and in the crook of her left elbow was a New Yorker tote bag containing the pug—also wearing a Burberry
camelhair coat. On her right was Sebastian.
For a long
moment Lisa, Amy and Gretchen couldn’t speak, their mouths frozen into goldfish
o’s, the only sounds were the clatter and clink of flatware to china and
drunken mumblings from the other tables.
“Claire?”
they finally said in unison.
“My name
is Numee now. And this is Daisy.” She lifted the pug’s paw and made it wave to
the trio. “And this,” she looked to the right and lifted her camel-coated
shoulder to meet her chin, “is my boyfriend Sebastian. He had a painting in
last year’s Whitney Biennial.”
Numee
handed him the New Yorker tote bag. “Take
Daisy for a walk while I have brunch with my besties.”
“You’ve
got one hour and six minutes,” said Sebastian. “Remember we’ve got the
Livingston’s party uptown.”
“Gottcha,”
said Numee.
The two of
them kissed for an uncomfortably long time, then he turned to leave and she
patted his kilted butt goodbye. With a satisfied sigh, she sat down and
shimmied the coat off her shoulders.
“Is this
really you?” said Lisa.
“How did
you ever do it?” said Amy.
“What’s
your secret?” asked Gretchen.
“It’s the
New Me.” She unfolded a white linen napkin onto her lap. “And I did it by
simply setting my intentions.”
What she
didn’t say was that she’d gone over $20,000 in debt paying for her intentions.
And she didn’t say that she’d woken up transformed, as if by magic. And she
especially didn’t say anything about The Blund. Numee didn’t want to think that
a $5.99 weighted sleep mask was the secret of her success—but she had inklings,
she had suspicions.
During the first two weeks of
January, when the temperature dropped and the corpses of Christmas trees began
piling up on the mounds of dirty snow on the sidewalks—the people that knew the
old Claire—her sister Sara in White Plains; her boss Mr. David at Corporate
Inc; her landlady, Mrs. Zaplinski—gushed over the New Me—and treated Numee with
awe and reverence.
“I’m so
proud,” said Sara, “and honored that we share DNA.”
“Remarkable,”
said Mr. David. “I’m giving you a promotion and a raise.”
“You’re
like a hot-shot model now,” said Mrs.
Zaplinski. “And of course, you can keep Daisy. She’s so sweet.”
The new
people in her life—Sebastian, her harp teacher, Pauline; the members of the book
club she’d joined and everyone she met at the galas, openings and premieres
Sebastian squired her and Daisy to—didn’t know there was a New Me since they
didn’t know there was an old Claire. They simply thought she was the most
fabulous, fascinating woman they’d met in absolute ages.
As far as
Lisa, Amy and Gretchen were concerned, Numee didn’t include them in her new
life and all the new events. It wasn’t that she was embarrassed by them—she was
embarrassed for them. How could she
possibly invite them to The Frick Collection Young Fellows Ball when the nicest
dress Lisa owned was from Temu? Or a book launch where Amy would whip out her
phone and try to impress David Remnick with her blurry photos of Donnie
Wahlberg? And poor Gretchen. Quite honestly, talking to her was like talking to
a damp ball of yarn.
Numee simply
couldn’t subject them to that kind of humiliation. And going to the things they
invited her to? Well, who had the time for Free Wings and Trivia at Paddy’s
Tavern or a Paint and Sip when she had the opening of the Jim Seffens exhibit
at MoMA PS 1?
Sebastian was especially devoted and
smitten to Numee. He constantly fawned over her beauty, wit and grace. He had
her pose—nude—at her harp—that she was actually quite good at for a
beginner—for a painting he declared would be his masterpiece. “You are my
muse,” he’d said. “And now you’ll become my Venus.”
He brought
her flowers, sent her emoji-filled texts and had her name tattooed on his
forearm in bold, block letters.
And after
each and every date, after they’d Uber-ed to her apartment, after they’d made
tender but passionate love—he’d go home to his loft in SoHo so she could get
her full eight hours of sleep. Although he wanted to spend the whole night with
her and wake up with her in his arms—he knew how important her beauty sleep was.
What he
didn’t know was that Numee’s ‘beauty sleep’ included The Blund that she kept in
the drawer of her nightstand.
There was
still no proof that it was the secret behind her transformation but Numee’s
inklings and suspicions constantly needled at her. Every morning she sat down
at her computer with her matcha tea and typed ‘The Blund’ into the search
bar—wondering if she’d find stories of people who had a similar experience—but
always clicked out of the page before hitting ‘enter’—afraid that looking for
the answers would somehow break the spell—if it was indeed a spell—and she’d go
back to the old Claire.
Why take a
chance on that?
Until that first week of February,
Numee lived her best New Life—full of everything she’d wanted, full of everything
she’d wanted to be. Then the headache began. Not headaches since it was just one and it never went away. A low hum of pain
that parked itself in a band across her forehead and never budged. Not with
aspirin, Tylenol or even Extra Strength Excedrin for Migraines.
The
headache made Numee irritable. She picked a fight with Sebastian over dinner at
Four Twenty Five about his annoying habit of smacking his lips three times
after every sip of liquid.
“I’m
sorry,” he said. “I had no idea I did that.”
“Well,
stop.”
“I will.”
And he
did, but Numee went home alone after dinner, took Daisy for a long, grumpy walk
in Corona Park and went to bed, the perpetually warm Blund snug over her eyes
and thumping head. She didn’t want to believe it caused the headache, but she
had inklings, she had suspicions.
The next
morning she woke up with a rash—barely pink and slightly tender—in the exact
shape of The Blund. She was able to cover it up with her perfect match of
foundation from Sephora and went to work, took a hot yoga class and attended a
screening of Chronic with Sebastian
at The Ziegfeld Theater—her harsh behavior from the night before—as well as any
of those inklings or suspicions that The Blund could be blamed for her woes—was
conveniently swept under the red carpet.
The rash progressed from barely pink to a petulant magenta
and then on February 14th, Numee awoke to a hue perfectly fitting for Valentine’s
Day and it couldn’t be hidden with any make-up—even NYX Professional HD Photo Concealer. Plus there was now a vulgar constellation
of throbbing, belligerent pimples around her eyes that made putting on any
make-up particularly painful.
She was
unfit to be seen in public.
“I have
Covid,” she told Mr. David at Corporate Inc since it was still a perfectly
acceptable excuse to get out of any obligations for at least five days. Then
she coughed dramatically into the phone.
She texted
Sebastian the same fib—along with an emoji-only Valentine’s Day greeting and an
apology for breaking their date for tonight. He was at her door twenty minutes
later.
Looking
through the peephole—carefully so she wouldn’t further irritate the rash—she
saw he had a dozen red roses and two bags from Zabar’s.
“Babe,” he
said, “I brought you chicken soup. And freshly squeezed orange juice and fair trade
dark chocolate with crystalized ginger. And Paxlovid.”
“I can’t
let you in. I’m contagious.”
“I don’t
care. I’ll probably get it anyway. We can quarantine together. It’s Valentine’s
Day.”
“No,” she
said and fake coughed. “I feel awful. Please, go away.”
And he
did.
At this point, Numee was beyond inklings
and suspicions. The Blund was definitely causing the rash and the headache.
No
longer caring about breaking the spell—if indeed there was one— because what
was the point of being fit and beautiful and fashionably dressed and not having
a voice that made people cringe if you were in pain—and what was the point of
having a cool boyfriend if you couldn’t let him see you because you had a
biblical-worthy rash—she sat down at her computer, typed ‘The Blund’ into
Google and smacked ‘enter.’
Finally.
She
was prepared to find dozens—if not hundreds or thousands—of lawsuits from
rashes and headaches. Maybe a recall. That’s probably why it had been on the
sale table at LifeTyme.
But
nothing came up for The Blund at all.
She
tried ‘lavender sleep mask canary islands;’ ‘microwavable sleep mask headache;’
‘rash caused by non-GMO buckwheat;’ and every other combination she could think
of until the day turned to night.
There
was nothing. Absolutely nothing.
Zippo.
Zilch.
It
was as if The Blund had never existed.
She
clicked out of the pages and sat staring at her rashy self in the reflection of the computer screen and
pondered.
Would it all—the headache, the rash, Sebastian, Daisy and the New
Me—go away if she stopped wearing the mask? Was there a little of the New
Me—like joining the book club and moisturizing with collagen and being able to
play Hallelujah on the harp—that had come
from old Claire’s vision, determination and now maxed-out credit card? Did the
fact that it had been her idea to
make the resolution in the first place count for anything?
She got up
from the computer and sat down on her sofa. Six weeks of New Yorker magazines were stacked neatly on the coffee table that
had held spinach dip and Triscuits on Christmas Eve when she’d first declared
her resolution, surrounded by Amy, Lisa and Gretchen.
Should she
call one of them and tell them about the headache and rash? Would they know
what to do? Would they care? Would they even pick up the phone? Or do they
think she’s gotten too big for her
britches?
She picked up the top copy of The New Yorker from the pile, the
current issue. She hadn’t read it yet. She actually hadn’t read any of them yet.
Just flipped through them and cut out a couple of cartoons that she’d magneted
to her fridge.
She’d really only subscribed so she
could get the tote bag.
It was really just for show.
It was all really just for show.
Numee
stood, rushed into her bedroom, opened the drawer of her nightstand and took
out The Blund. It was now viciously hot and Numee dropped it into her New Yorker tote bag before it could burn
her fingers, tied the straps into a knot that could never be undone and slipped
into her camelhair coat. “C’mon, Daisy,” she said, holding up the leash and the
dog version of the coat. “We’re going for a walk.”
The air was cold and dry, but felt good against Numee’s rash. The
two of them walked quickly—heels and toenails clicking against the sidewalk—until
they reached the bank of Meadow Lake in Corona Park. The lake was laced by a
very thin layer of ice on the edges and the moon was out, not quite full, but bright.
Daisy sniffed at the ground and sat.
“Good
girl,” said Numee without taking her eyes off the lake. She rolled her
shoulders back, took the kind of deep breath she’d learned in hot yoga, then
she swung the New Yorker tote bag over her head by its
tied-tight straps and threw it as hard as she could into the water. It landed
with a loud splash and then sizzled malevolently before it sunk with an obscene
glug, filling with the air with the surprisingly not unpleasant scent of
sulfur and organically grown lavender.
Numee picked up Daisy and walked back to her apartment.
Without turning on lights or taking off Burberry camelhair coats, the two of
them curled up on the sofa. Numee held onto Daisy tightly—but not too
tightly—and wondered if she’d still be there in the morning.