Tiny Steps
Emma sits on her couch, in the spot that now sags because this is where she’s spent most of her time these past three months. She stares at her light pink pajama pants which have little unicorns rearing in front of little rainbows in front of little white clouds. Her sister had gotten these for her as a joke after she and Emma had spotted them in a store, and Emma had told her that she found it pretty ridiculous when grown women wore unicorn-themed clothing. They had both been home for Thanksgiving last year, getting in some early Christmas shopping, and her sister secretly purchased them on the spot when Emma had been browsing in a different section. At Christmas, she had given them to her, dying with laughter as Emma opened the gift. Emma had scoffed when she saw what it was, but then had a good laugh, too. She’d worn them around their mom’s house the rest of their visit to amuse her sister, but once back in LA they immediately went to the back of the drawer. Now, Christmas seemed like ten years ago; laughter seemed like twenty.
Many months, a broken heart, an ongoing pandemic, and little-to-no additional laundry done later, Emma had no choice but to put those stupid unicorn pants back on. She had run out of all of her other pairs because ‘pajama’ was the only type of pants she cared to wear these days. What was the point of dressing with any degree of formality when one had no desire or reason to leave their house? Plus, any sense of comfort was welcome, from legwear or otherwise. She had been wearing this pair for weeks now and they were so well sat in that they were starting to lose color in the butt cheeks. The pink imitation satin tie strings were fraying and more than one stain from her period was visible in the crotch area if you looked hard enough, but there had been no one around to do so, so she didn’t care.
She had had the strength during this time, thankfully, to change her underwear on a pretty regular basis, as well as to change out the oversized sleep t-shirt that she’d wear under her amply stained blue sweatshirt which touted her alma mater. Showering was rare, only done when it became irrefutably evident that she was in need of one. Her face was barely washed and make-up - HA! - she hadn’t touched the stuff since she lost her hotel concierge job, swept away in the tsunami of unemployment that overtook her hospitality industry. She was pretty good about brushing her teeth on a regular basis, but only because she could smell and taste her own breath. “When you’re feeling low, do one thing a day that makes you feel good,” a therapist had once said. This was the only thing she was currently doing that remotely qualified.
These days, anything other than sitting on the couch seemed like too much effort and made her literally want to cry at the thought. Her days were spent drifting in and out of naps, scrolling spacily through social media, and watching a mix of Cheers, Ugly Betty, and Property Brothers - all shows that provided the background noise she needed, but didn’t require too much attention or cause any sort of emotional impact. Because she couldn’t bring herself to do much of anything else, her apartment was in shambles. Kleenex and candy wrappers covered her coffee table, anything that could be out of place seemed to be, and a ubiquitous layer of dust gave the house a general air of shabbiness. The kitchen trash was one full trash can + one full garbage bag, sitting on the floor next to the trash can, deep. She’d always been an ardent recycler, but now any recyclable packaging was left in the spot where she’d finished consuming its contents. The idea of trying to clean or even tidy was so overwhelming that Emma would have to lie down, feeling like a total loser for not being able to do a simple chore. Eventually, she’d just given up on it altogether and accepted her state of squalor.
On this particular day, as she sat staring at her pajama pants that so desperately needed a wash, her phone rang, startling her. She automatically rejected the call, something she did no matter who was calling - she just didn't have the will to talk to anyone. Many people had reached out to her, wanting to connect virtually for a happy hour, or a game night, or to just shoot the breeze, but she had no interest in any of this. Frankly, that all sounded like hell on earth. Furthermore, she didn’t know who knew about her and Eric’s breakup yet and she certainly didn’t want to be the one to broach the subject. So, some people would just have to live without a reply until she could bring herself to do it, which she had no problem admitting could be months from now.
Had it been Eric who was calling, she would have answered the phone in a heartbeat. She was dying to hear his voice, for him to call saying that he had made a mistake and wanted things to go back to the way they were, too. But it was never him. She’d try her hardest to suppress the hopeful rush of adrenaline that swelled up into her chest every time her phone rang and then to meter the inevitable letdown she felt when she saw that it was not him on the other end. But that was much easier said than done and she had come to hate her stupid phone.
The caller ID screen informed her that this call was from her building manager, which sent her into an immediate panic. She hadn’t been able to pay rent the month before, and, spoiler alert: she wouldn’t be able to pay next month either. She lay back on the couch and let the call go to voicemail, dreading the imminent trill of her voicemail alert. When it came, she bolted upright and retrieved the message with shaky hands.
“Hi there! It’s Tom. Just letting you know you’ve got quite a lot of mail here - um, I’m not sure if maybe you’re out of town, or...what…” she assumed he had paused at this point to look over at her car which was obviously still in its parking spot and visible from his window, “Uh, but I’ve got it all at my place because your mailbox was full and our mailman had nowhere to put it. So, come on by and pick it up when you can.”
Before all of this happened, Emma would have been happy to pay Tom a visit. She really liked him and the nice dad vibe he gave off. Plus, she was always up for a good chat, the extrovert that she was, making a point to call one friend or family member a day - usually her sister or mom. Now she only occasionally texted with them and even that seemed hard, sometimes taking her hours to respond to simple questions, so the idea of holding an in-person conversation seemed extremely daunting. And she was sure that the one she was about to have would drain her energy for the rest of the day.
And so, what was supposed to be the predictable beginning of a day that would blur into the day before and melt into the next, instead became a morning full of dread and procrastination and slowly, slowly willing herself to get up and get the damn mail. When she couldn’t put it off any longer, she mustered the energy to put on a bra, slip on some jeans, and pull her unruly, root-stricken brown hair back into a ponytail. She splashed some water on her face, brushed her teeth, and practiced smiling in the mirror. There. If someone didn’t look closely enough they would just think she was having an off day, NOT that this was the most put together she’d looked in months.
She stood outside Tom the Building Manager’s door, trying to be mentally present enough to track the small talk pleasantries they were exchanging. She was relieved when he mentioned the rent freeze the city had in effect but did NOT mention that she was behind in hers. He didn’t even ask why she’d let her mail pile up, but she thought she could detect an air of concern when he asked her how she was doing. Both of them were being careful to keep their six foot distance because she had completely forgotten to wear a mask, only remembering right as she knocked on his door. She wasn’t used to being around other people and so didn’t think about these things. In fact, she realized that this was the first interaction she’d had with someone she knew and who was not delivering something to her since Eric had left that awful night three months ago. She wondered if she should be concerned that she hadn't noticed the absence of human connection until now, if perhaps the isolation further plunged her down her apocalypse-heartbreak-depression spiral.
Before she knew it, the conversation with Tom was over, and she was back in her apartment, her substantial pile of mail tossed to her side on the couch, her cheek pressed into the blue tweed back cushion. She closed her eyes, and groaned from the exhaustion of the excursion. After a moment, the sun sneaking in through the drape-drawn bay window across the room began turning the inside of her eyelids a bright fire truck red and she realized now how good the sun had felt on her skin when she’d been outside.
“Maybe a little more Vitamin D would be nice,” she thought. She’d read once that Vitamin D and sunlight were key in warding off depression and while she didn’t particularly care to try and remedy her current bout, the warmth had felt good enough that she couldn't resist the urge to go back to it. She pulled down the white vinyl covering on the bay window so that the catch released and it snap-back-rolled up. A huge dust shower erupted into the air, and the sun came flooding in. It felt good. She opened the smaller side window covering on the right, and then the one on the left, immersing herself in warmth and light. She stood there soaking it in, her face turned towards the sun, eyes closed, watching the images that had been sun-pressed on her retinas slowly fade away. This felt better than she had anticipated.
When she started to get too hot for comfort, she found her way back to her well grooved spot on the couch, feeling a tiny bit better. The ever-present exhaustion was still there, yes, but on top of that she felt a bit of something like contentment - or maybe pleasure? She heavy-sighed as she looked at the pile of mail to her right, but found that the idea of sorting through it wasn’t totally unfathomable, so she picked it up and began making piles for each category: bills, junk, his, hers. There. She’d done it! A simple household task done.
“No,” she heard Eric’s voice say in her head, “It’s not done. You’ve just made a mess of piles and now there’s even more shit on the couch.” When they had been together, Eric was constantly pushing her to go the extra mile, or at least that’s how she liked to describe it. She had always thought herself to be a pretty on-top-of-it person, but Eric’s encouragement had driven her to be even more so: to make that trip to the post office on her lunch break, to scrub that bathtub even harder, to rest later and organize this drawer now. When he first left and her life rapidly began to fall apart, she would hear his voice in her head often, pointing out things she wasn’t doing right or doing at all. But now, almost completely consumed by sadness and apathy, Emma had become remarkably good at ignoring his imagined voice. Any suggestion he made was added to the pile of “shit you did wrong” or “shit you need to do” with a mental note to worry about it later. These piles were becoming mountains but the anxiety she felt each time she flung something on top of one of them was beginning to subside as she cared less and less. Not in an “I’m letting go of this negative self-talk and being gentle with myself” way, but more in a “I really don’t have the energy to give a fuck anymore” way.
But this time an internal defiance kicked in. She could do this one fucking task, if only to get Eric’s judgy voice out of her head. So she did. What needed to be done with Eric’s mail pile was obvious - this would go on the table by the front door and would sit there until a MUCH later date when she had the strength/nerve/fortitude to contact him about this and his other remaining items at their, wait - ouch - her place. She did not care to hear what his voice in her head might have thought about this, so she moved on. One pile, dealt with! Next: bills. UGH. These were more tricky. She’d need money for these, and with very little unemployment coming in, her credit limit ever nearing, and the complete lack of the mental capacity needed to budget and pay them, these would need to be dealt with at another time. Doing anything more was simply asking too much at the moment, so Imaginary Eric would just have to be satisfied with that. END OF DISCUSSION. She now turned to the pile of her mail, which was mostly catalogues from stores she couldn’t afford anymore, and a few solicitations from non-profit organizations she had supported in the past. She would have normally been happy to peruse through all of this stuff, but now the idea of spending money on ANYTHING made her stomach flip. She realized this had technically become junk mail, too, so she added it to the junk pile, scooped it up, and headed to the recycling bin in the kitchen. DONE.
Lifting the lid of the squat tin recycling pail, she noticed it was only three quarters full. ”I can fill that up,” she thought, surprising herself with her sudden willingness to step up to a challenge. She grabbed some nearby LaCroix cans from the counter, two of the empty wine boxes, and a couple of soup cans to make it a full load. She was surprised to feel the strain as she lifted the full bag out, realizing that her once yoga-toned muscles were long gone. She hauled the bag to the front door where she stopped just short of taking it out to the blue recycling bin in the parking lot. She wasn’t ready to venture back there and possibly see Tom again or any other neighbors just yet. She thought about putting it outside on the stoop, but knew she was likely to forget it was sitting out there entirely. She’d been forgetting a lot of things lately, (unfortunately this did not apply to Eric who she remembered vividly, longingly, frequently), and anything that was not in front of her was just plain not on her radar. So instead she leaned the bag against the front door where she could still see it, and marked this, in itself, as another accomplishment.
Her couch called to her as she passed by, but she wouldn’t be able to rest until she had put a new trash bag in the bin - something Eric had to constantly remind her about. Back in the kitchen, the new bag in place, the amount of dirty dishes on the counter and in the sink suddenly became painfully obvious to her. The dishwasher was mostly full of clean dishes that had been sitting in there for god knows how long and before she could stop herself, Emma began putting them away. Each drawer or cupboard opened, each stack lifted reminded her of how little physical activity she’d had recently, but she kept going. Once finished, she loaded up as many dirty dishes as she could fit in the dishwasher and felt a sense of comfort as it began to whir. She leaned against the appliance, enjoying the light vibrations and gradual warmth. Maybe she wouldn’t get around to putting these dishes away, but this was a start, god damnit, and it felt good to know that something constructive, even if minor, was getting done.
Just then, her heavy-footed neighbor stomped across the floor above her. She’d heard his thudding footsteps so much over these past few months that she had learned to predict his daily schedule. Sometimes, she found it comforting to know there was someone up there, that if something awful were to happen to her she could yell loud enough and he would come to her rescue. At other times, and way more frequently, his footsteps pounded in her head, woke her from restless, troubled sleep, or stole away whatever focus she was able to muster for something. Currently, it was the latter and this unwelcome distraction immediately and overwhelmingly infuriated her. “Shut the fuck up!!!” she yelled, searching for something to throw at the ceiling, but there wasn’t anything nearby that wouldn’t cause damage to it or to herself. She looked for something to punch and then considered breaking one of the plates in front of her - she just desperately needed to expel the frustration that was boiling over inside of her. But there was nothing in reach that would be worth the pain, so she let out an angry scream and then began to cry. The forceful onset of her emotions had scared her, making her want to hurl herself back on the couch and surrender for the day.
Instead, she decided to take a deep breath and close her eyes. She realized she could really use a glass of water, and felt herself calm down as she sipped. This amount of activity was rare for her these days and she had managed to work up quite an appetite - something she thought she’d forgotten how to do! She went to pull a strawberry yogurt from the fridge, but found that the fridge was empty. How had she not registered this before? She grabbed some stale almonds from the cupboard and contemplated placing an order through the grocery delivery app she’d been using, but there was an additional fee for the service, and you know what? She already had jeans AND a bra on, so she might as well just actually go to the store. She put on a clean shirt and some deodorant, found a surgical mask she’d only used once or twice, and grabbed her purse and car keys for the first time in a quarter of a year.
Her little red Mazda hatchback had a pretty significant layer of dust on it because, like her, it hadn’t seen any action in quite some time. It dawned on her as she plunked down in the drivers’ seat that it had been sitting so long that it might not start, and then what would she do? Would she need to call Eric?!? She began to panic. To her relief, the little car revved to life with only slight hesitation. Her heart sank, however, when she noticed that the low tire pressure alert icon was still beaming brightly on her instrument panel. It had first appeared when she and Eric had taken the car outside of the city for a hike right before the first official shut down. He had filled her tires on their way home, but even after he had done so the little yellow icon was still there. He had promised he’d figure out how to clear it but when she reminded him about it later that week, which had been a particularly argument-riddled one, he’d snapped and said, “Can’t you for once in your life just take care of your own shit? Or do I have to do everything for you?” The alert remained un-reset and un-revisited. Seeing it now reminded her of that awful week and that she would now have to figure it out for herself because Eric was gone and would not be there to do it for her. She slumped forward, quietly crying with her head down on the steering wheel.
Maybe she should just go back inside. This was a lot for one day. She wasn’t sure she had the strength for a full shopping trip, not to mention that she hadn’t even made a list! She knew she had to go easy on herself - not out of compassion, but because she really didn’t have a choice. All in all, the grocery store seemed a bit too big of an undertaking for someone who had just had a minor breakdown at the wheel, but the fact remained that she was out of food and she was dressed, so she settled on going the half block to the Rite Aid, where they’d have at least some basics. And, environment be damned, she was gonna drive, she decided, because walking was just asking too much. Sorry not sorry.
Once inside the gleamily sterile-looking store, she was greeted by a cheerful nail polish display. “Ah! Remember manicures?” she thought wistfully. They seemed like such a distant memory and her jagged nails were solid proof that they were. She noticed a small remnant of the dark purple paint that must have been the color she’d gotten when she’d last been to the salon months and months ago. She mused at the things this little speck of polish had been through with her, at what a different person she was when that coat was first applied. Just then, a store clerk greeted her from the nearby cash register counter, snapping her back to the present moment and making her acutely aware that she had been standing in the entryway of the store staring at her fingernails for an uncomfortably long time. She smiled at the clerk and then focused back on the display at hand. She spotted a bright fuschia shade and felt a teeny, tiny spark of delight. She took this as a sign and put the nail polish in her basket as a small declaration to the universe that maybe she was worthy of a little pleasure every now and then. And that alone was worth the 16.99% interest rate, she reasoned.
She headed towards the refrigerated section at the back of the store and found herself near the kleenex. She needed more, she remembered. And face wash! And hand soap. It was miraculously all coming back to her, even without the help of a list. She traded in her basket for a cart and quickly filled it with various basic necessities and some of the rudimentary food items the store offered. She found her favorite Cookies and Cream ice cream and added that to the cart, considering this an addendum to her earlier self-worth declaration. As she headed to check out, she noticed they were selling little potted herb plants and decided she needed some greenery in her life. She loved rosemary, so she picked a scraggly plant that looked like he’d been through hell but was still salvageable - just like her.
“Do you really need that plant?” Eric’s voice was suddenly very audible in her head. “Nail polish at a time like this?? ANOTHER box of wine?” She could picture the look of disapproval that would have been on his face as he took stock of the contents of her cart. It occurred to her that she was actually quite relieved that he wasn’t there to judge her and her modestly decadent purchases. She never in her wildest dreams thought she would feel anything remotely positive surrounding his absence, but here was one instance in which she did. It was nice - and strange - to be making choices for herself, and herself alone.
Back home, she had to make two trips from the car to unload everything she’d bought. On the second trip, she ran into a nice but nosy neighbor who stopped to ask Emma how she was doing with “all of this” - the common phrase for the pandemic these days - and why she hadn’t seen Eric in a while. Emma kept it as together as she could while she explained that they were no longer together and that he had moved out, but she couldn’t close her apartment door behind her fast enough once she got to the safety of her living room, collapsing into a blubbering, tear-drenched mess on the couch. She sobbed until she shook, eventually rolling up into the fetal position and falling asleep, her groceries on the floor by the front door - next to the recycling bag from earlier - melting and forgotten.
Around midnight, Emma woke up, greeted by the disorientation she’d often feel upon waking, the weight in her chest promptly returning when she realized where she was and who she was without. She sat up, taking deep breaths in the dark of her apartment, and noticed the silhouettes of the neglected shopping bags. “Shit,” she thought. She started to slump into the comfort of the couch and concede that she’d just put everything away in the morning, but then she remembered her beloved Cookies and Cream ice cream, and this, if nothing else, was enough to get her up.
The ice cream was almost completely melted but it was still solid enough that it would refreeze into an acceptable state, and more importantly, it would still bring her that small spark of joy, damnit. So into the freezer it went. She examined the other perishable items and wondered if they were spoiled and if eating them would make her terribly sick. This was the type of thing Eric would have known for sure, and not having him there to ask made this job tougher than it needed to be. “Screw it,” she decided. She’d put them all away for now and would determine the potential lethality of each item tomorrow.
She found her rosemary plant in the next bag and before it could even register, she found herself smiling. Like, really smiling, because she was ridiculously excited to have another living thing there with her. Sure, it was a plant, but it was something that would need her to take care of it and knowing she could handle that made her feel really good. She gave him a thorough soaking in the sink, placed him on a saucer, and put him on the counter near the window where she knew he’d get plenty of light the next day. “There,” she thought, giving one of his brittle sprigs a little stroke. For the first time in a very long while, she felt like an actual, functioning human, capable of handling some responsibility - even if it was only a houseplant.
Riding this high, it was time, she decided, to unload the dishwasher and to start the next load. When she glanced at the clock as it approached 2am, she had not only done that, but wiped down the counters, attempted a sweep of the floor, (not as thorough as she would have normally done it, but a start!), and was on her way to take the recycling and even the full trash bags to the bins outside. As she passed her car, she realized there was one more thing she’d really like to cross off her to-do list while she still had the momentum. Before she could change her mind, she had switched on the dome light and dug out her owner’s manual, quickly finding the instructions she needed. On her first try and to her complete surprise, she managed to get rid of that obnoxious low tire pressure alert. Ha! She laughed at how easy this thing she’d thought she’d needed Eric for, (and which he had made such a big deal about having to do for her), had been - it took all of three minutes and a simple sequence of button pushing. That little yellow exclamation point and the painful reminder it brought with it was gone and she suddenly felt just a tiny, tiny little bit better about herself. Maybe if she could do this without Eric’s help, she could do other things without him, too. Whether or not she wanted it that way, she now at least knew it was possible.
She headed back to her apartment, ready to crawl into bed with an exhaustion that for the first time in a long time felt well earned. She washed her face extra thoroughly with the new face wash she’d purchased and brushed her teeth (even flossed!). She stopped herself as she went to put on her trusty unicorn pajama pants and instead tossed them on to the heap of dirty clothes. Lord knows they had earned a break. She noted the mountain of laundry and remembered the dishes that would need to be put away, the possibly spoiled food in the fridge that would need to be dealt with, and that filthy living room that could really use some TLC. But she was surprised to find that her first reaction was not to cry, or to throw these responsibilities atop the “shit you need to do” pile, or to stick her face in her pillow without any real intention of ever pulling it out, but rather that maybe, JUST maybe, she’d be willing to start to tackle all of that tomorrow.
Having spent most of her life in the theater and film world, Ariana Kaiser Varnum has recently been inspired to pick up the pen, (or open the laptop, as it were), to channel her affinity for the make believe into the written word. So far, she’s loving it. She lives in Los Angeles with her husband and their fish, and spends her 9-5 working at an event planning company.
