Do you think interviewing yourself is like talking to yourself? The way your Grandma Stanton mumbled in the kitchen when she made English tea and challah toast?
Maybe.
What did you do today?
I got a mammogram, which is always a traumatic (but not physically painful) experience. Did a lot of waiting before the mammogram with about ten women, most of them older than me, all of us in white robes that said “Memorial Breast Center” in yellow stitching in the corners above our breasts (of course), all of us sitting in a little room with magazines pretending not to see each other. I wasn’t nuts about the silence and had to say hello and ask questions and comment on the place and suggest to the other women that things would be nicer if they stocked the room with good wines and fancy chocolate instead of People magazine and Modern Bride. Modern Bride? The average age in the room was sixty-five, I thought. Eventually the women did start talking to each other and by the time my name was called, one woman was actually crying, talking about her son’s depression, and I thought that crying and having a discussion, no matter how sad, was better than sitting there in stony silence.
