In homage to the wiser characters that came before me, and those that will inevitably come after, I have to say that I agree with the motto that appearances can be deceiving.

I was sitting here on a conference call this morning, trying to keep my mind from wandering and pay attention to what was happening, when I peeled a satsuma. A lovely, perfect, orange satsuma, the perfect fruit, a baby orange and grown-up mandarin all in one. The peel came off in one long strip, popping out the lovely white navel out of the fruit. I peeled each slice and got ready, pleased that the white stringy bits had come off of the satsuma with the smooth de-gloving motion of the peel. I bite into the satsuma, waiting for the sweet explosion of juices in my mouth, the tongue-curling sour and the gentle ease of juice, and nothing happened. The satsuma was disappointingly dry and tasteless, my tongue quivering in disappointment.

My perfect satsuma was not what it looked like.

What you see isn't always what you get when you start exploring beneath the skin. The onion peel splits as and it unravels, it makes you cry as you get closer to the core, through the happiness and sadness. Sometimes a big and pretty package doesn't equate to the best gift, it's the little ones nestled under the green needles, hiding in the shadow of a Christmas ornament that you want to look out for.

Monday night we watched a new ITV show called The Commander. It looked interesting-tough-as-nails police captain, this time played by a woman. The commercials showed witty script and I was pleased to see the police captain played by a woman with a simple blunt cut hairdo and minimum make-up. It had promise, as we are always shopping for a new series on TV to watch together.

But once we turned it on, we were dismayed to see that in the first scene she totters to Scotland Yard on spindly stiletto heels and the chippie police uniform. Surely a police captain would be of the sensible shoes variety. As we sit it out to unravel what lies beneath the stiletto-heels wearing police captain, we see a sitcom obviously written by men-she's not clever, she's a real bitch, and she tries to sleep with anything that might have three dangling body parts from the lower extremities. We turn off the show.

It looked good but was so disappointing.

Reminds me of a book I read once. I am someone that can be grabbed by titles and by title covers. If it has an intriguing title, it will make me pick up the fragile spine in my hand, flip it over, and read the back. If the back sounds interesting, I will flip open to somewhere in the middle of the book to do a taste test of the dialog-many books start off well, it's a true winner that keeps up the pace. If that satisfies, then more often than not the book will come home with me (I am not a glutton in anything but literature, and for that I offer no apology, not even to my bank manager). If the cover is something of note-not too many riots of color, not some knee-jerk picture, then it too will get a perusal. Some of my favorite authors came about this way. It's a method that works.

One day I was perusing just such a book when my briefcase swung off my shoulder and knocked off an inoffensive pile of neighboring books. I picked them up, red-faced in my clumsiness, when at the end I held just one book that needed to be resurfaced on the book-piled wood table, entrancing and intriguing. The book was simple. Plain. A blue cover the color of a robin's egg and a title that passed by, unnoticable. Something made me turn the book over and read the back. The back was meager in its explanation, so I opened the book somewhere in the middle and began to read.

I was hooked.

I bought the book and took it with me on a holiday, and unusually, the book came home with me. I usually write my name, the date, and where I bought the book before I leave it behind-I figure if I liked it then maybe someone else will (and it also means I can buy a lot of things to fill their space-I generally take 5 to 8 books with me on holiday, if it's a long one). It was the only book that I took home with me, and I have read it hungrily 3 more times after that and suspect I will read it many more.

The book was Alice Sebold's The Lovely Bones.

I think it's brilliant. It puts many other books to shame. It made me want to stop writing altogether, since her writing is the way it should be done. Sometimes a writer can touch your life so profoundly that the word "humble" doesn't even begin to explain it.

Yesterday in London I was walking to the tube when I caught a split-second sight of a woman in the reflection of the glass of the tube. Even as tired as I was feeling, I was struck by her, intimidated by her. She looked polished and perfect, makeup perfectly applied and a dash of auburn on her full lips. Her hair in an expertly messy chignon in the back of her head. Silver hoops in her ears and an expensive cashmere wrap tucked around her shoulders in lieu of a coat. A rose-colored cowl neck sweater peeked out and black trousers, slung low around her waist, bellowed out to shiny black boots. She looked smooth and professional, a picture of control.

With a shock, I came to on the platform and realized that reflection was of me.

I couldn't believe I didn't recognize myself, but once I did, I stopped thinking the woman looked so beautiful. She was just me. Just me is not polished. Just me does not intimidate. Just me is definitely not in control. But it surprised me that on the inside my shrink wrap contains a mushy tomato paste of emotions, and my outside presentation was...well...polished.

Ah, but look deeper. She has two rings on her right hand, but none on her left. She's single.

Indeed, her left hand was dangling naked and vulnerable, cupped around her briefcase handle.

And see under her left hand sleeve? That strange looking bracelet? It's a Navajo ghost bead bracelet. It looks so weird, doesn't it? Made of dried juniper berries and glass beads, the Navajos believe it wards off bad dreams. She got it for Christmas and hasn't taken it off since. That must mean she has issues. Somehow, she's burning inside.

And sure enough, when I pull back the rose-colored wool, indeed there is a strange bracelet, one unlike any others I've seen in London.

Ooh, and if you think she's so perfect, what's up with those two tattooes? Two tattooes on her body that mark where her heart peeked through her skin, screaming her devotion to two men in her life with thick black ink. That must mean something. No professional businesswoman would have those.

It's true. With my eye-spy glasses I see a tattoo on her left shoulder, for Angus, and a tattoo on her right leg, for Kim. She is a marked woman. She has been owned, and still is.

And finally, if you think she's so cut and polished and in control, what's up with all those scars on her body? She falls, she trips, she has no control. She's a salvage yard, a broken train, a rescue puppy from the pound. And those thin white scar on her wrists? They fade neatly into the creases of her wrist, but if you look, you can see them. Two tiny lines that are forever etched into her skin, the mark of a mind gone mad. No perfect woman would ever have such a dark secret.

Under the sleeves of her sweater are indeed two white lines, almost hidden in the skin but still visible if you look.

On the surface, it looks so together. Smooth. Calm. Serene. Inside, things are different-a riot of emotions. Love. Lust. Anger. Childlike wonder. Stress.

Scratch the surface and you never know what you're going to sniff.

It might all seem so ordinary, but to me, it's so extraordinary if you're willing to take the time.

-H.

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 11:17 AM | Comments (18) | Add Comment
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