Ariel's Office:
Moon Void of Course
by Laura Lynn


EXCERPT

1

It’s Thursday morning, and once again hundreds of landscapers descend on our lawns, waging war against overgrown grass, weeds, and yes, even unruly edges. By then end of the day their battle has been won; but they’ll be back next week, and the week after, to fight the fight again in good faith.

Actually, I’ve come to know some of their faces. During my morning walks, I shyly glance up at them and nod thank you as they politely turn off their mowers so I can push my stroller by. It’s a shame how the August sun has ravaged so much of their hard work. Everything was so pretty a month ago. Now all of the lawns look brown and fried. Oh well. Maybe the heat will put itself to good use and fry a few pounds off my butt, too.

I stop under a shady tree and check under the stroller bonnet. My daughter is fast asleep. I turn up my headphones, pick up the pace, and make my way up and down the winding, hilly streets. I walk to the beat of the music.

My husband tells me exercise is the best way to clear my head. I really don’t know what he’s talking about. Today I’m pondering the difference between “sacrifice” and “compromise.” Here’s the quandary: In my personal lexicon, sacrifice suggests the need to give something up, mostly for a purpose other than yourself. Compromise, on the other hand, is a settlement reached from give and take, a happy medium between selfishness and sacrifice. They’re clearly two different words with two different meanings. So how then have they managed to become interchangeable?

I walk past house after house. They all look somewhat different, whether it’s the color of their driveway pavers, whether they’re brick, vinyl or aluminum sided, whether they’re a ranch or colonial. But when you get down to it, they’re all really same. They’re upper-middle class homes in suburban New Jersey. Plain and simple.

Then I think about the people who live in these homes. Are they all the same, too? Of course they’re not. Everyone’s different. We all have different needs, different interests, wants, desires (and judging by some of these homes, different taste). It stands to reason that someone in this idyllic neighborhood has to be a little unhappy. Someone’s not living the life they’ve envisioned. Someone had to have given up a dream or two. But no one’s letting on. Everyone I see just skips merrily along. Even me.

Perhaps that’s because we’re led to believe that the adult thing to do is to accept that life, especially if you choose to share it with someone else, is about compromise. Right? Wrong. Apparently it’s more about sacrifice. Someone ultimately gives up just a little bit more than they should. At least it feels that way to me.

Ah, nothing like a clear head.

As I make my way up my driveway, I avoid eye contact with my elderly neighbor who is always eager to chat. Sorry, but I’ve got a sleeping kid and a thousand things to do. I whiz by and she thinks I’m engrossed in my music. Good.

Sweating and exhausted from the summer heat, I stumble as I push the stroller through my front door. Thankfully my daughter stays asleep. I’m greeted by a waft of cool, air-conditioned air. I go to the kitchen and gulp down a glass of water.

I take a good look around the house and survey the damage from the night before. You would think I have a family of ten living here or I run a daycare or something. Every morning it’s the same thing: my house is a complete disaster area. And it’s just three of us – my husband, my daughter and me (oh yes, and one cat). My daughter I can excuse, she’s just a toddler and I expect to be picking up after her for a long time to come. My husband, on the other hand, is just a slob. There’s no excuse. Personally, I think he throws things around just to spite me. He figures I’m no longer an active member of the work force, so he might as well keep me busy.

My daughter wakes up. I let her out of the stroller, hand her a juice box, and lead her into the family room. Thank God for Noggin, I think to myself. She’s transfixed by Oobi and is letting me clean up. For eons mothers have been trying to find ways to entertain their kids so they could get stuff done around the house. Who knew all it would take is a talking hand?

I look at the clock. It’s 10:00. I think it’s weird how my concept of time has changed. Ten o’clock used to mean a mid-morning meeting. Now it means ‘I better take the chicken out of the freezer pronto or it won’t be defrosted for dinner’.

I sigh. Once again I’m reminded of compromise and sacrifice. And though watching chicken melt is far more riveting than those boring, demoralizing meetings, I often long for the life I once had. Not because I miss my job – hell no, I hated my job. And not because I gave up so many material things like a new Kate Spade bag each season, my apartment in the city, expensive dinners at trendy restaurants, and the frequent spa visits (even though I did get a great seaweed wrap last week after getting engulfed by a wave at the shore.)

No, what I really miss is my autonomy, my life, my me. You know, that thing I spent 37 years cultivating and nurturing. I often feel like a stranger in this home, this neighborhood, my own skin. It’s not me. It’s us. I traded in my life for the married woman’s model: our life. So how is it that our life is not my life? I sigh. Therein lies the rub.

But I’m not a whiner, and I’m not a complainer. On the contrary, I’m actually pretty resourceful. And because of that, I’ve brought about an upside to my situation. I’ve taken this “down time” in my life to rediscover another passion of mine, to reclaim a life-long love. Astrology. Yes, when I’m not taking care of my daughter, I’m working on building my home-based astrology practice.

Ever since I was a kid, I was obsessed with astrology. For years I read and read about the subject, learning everything I could on my own. Then right after college, I took some courses and actually got myself certified. (Yes, there is a certification.) That meant more to me than getting my Master’s degree. OK, far less lucrative, but far more meaningful.

Even my name is astrologically appropriate: it’s Ariel, which means “little lion.” Coincidentally, I am a petite Leo woman. I have some of the typical Leo features, like long, wavy golden brown hair and big, golden brown eyes. Like most of us Sun-ruled, hedonistic, bon vivants, just give me a few drinks, and I’m the life of the party. Shit, we Leos don’t even need the drinks; we can get stupid drunk from mere compliments and attention.

However, if you should be lucky enough to catch me during one of my more sober moments, I can bore holes through you with my eyes and cut you to threads with my tongue. You can thank my Scorpio rising for that, along with the penetrating observations and aloof attitude. Leo is gregarious and extroverted while Scorpio is guarded and secretive. As you can imagine, I always feel like I’m teetering between and introverted extrovert or extroverted introvert. Anyway, enough about me.

So after I had my daughter, we left the Upper East Side and moved to suburbs—partly because it’s cheaper to raise a kid out here, and partly because my husband’s company’s headquarters is located out here. At that time we decided it would be best if I gave up my high-paying corporate job in the city to stay at home with the kid for a while. Sure, money would be tighter than we were used to, but the benefits of my daughter having me around 24/7 outweighed any financial sacrifices we’d have to make. I guess I should add I was let go from my job while I was pregnant, so I really had no job to return to.

It took about five minutes of staying home full-time before I found myself wanting to do something more stimulating than watch the Wiggles. Plus, I really hated having to account for every dime of “my husband’s money” that I spent. So I decided that this was my chance to seize an opportunity, follow my heart, and to do something with my life that I really felt passionate about. I put a flyer up in the local new age bookstore advertising my astrological services. Since then the response has been lukewarm, but I’m slowly building a clientele, I have some extra cash in my pocket, and I’m doing something I love, to boot.

So despite the sacrifices I’ve made, I’m at least happy to be spending my days and nights with my two greatest loves: my daughter and astrology. Right now I can only see clients at night when my husband comes home so he can watch the kid. I have a little office above the garage. Hopefully when my daughter gets older and she goes to school I can expand my hours to daytime, too. Of course my husband has different plans. He’d rather see me rejoin the rat race – sooner rather than later, I might add.

Anyway, now that the kid is engrossed in TV, I make a mad dash for the shower. I have a chart to analyze for a new client coming over tonight that I haven’t even had a chance to look at, yet. Plus I have Stella’s playgroup this afternoon. I better get cracking.

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