Page 5 of Ten Rules for Faking It
“Uh, hard no. Sorry, Dad, rule number three—I can’t.” She stared at the text for another few seconds wondering if he realized she’d often been with her family on her birthday and this had never helped make it better.
She set her phone down and focused on her pretzels. A list wasn’t a bad idea.
She bit off one loop of the pretzel. What else could she add? Three things wasn’t enough, really, to be considered a list. Five didn’t seem like enough either. Ten? Ten seemed doable, and in truth, maybe thirty was the time to actually make a list ofrules or goals or some grown-up shit like that. It wasn’t like her unguided life was leading her in amazing directions. She didn’t have any complaints and liked most of what life had thrown her way, but it wouldn’t hurt to be a little more… purposeful.
Blowing out an exaggerated, lip-fluttering breath, she swore out loud when pretzel crumbs littered her pants. She looked down at her legs as she swiped off the remnants, then realized now she’d have to sweep.
“Nice job.”
She tossed the bag back on the table, getting up to grab her broom from the narrow closet slash cupboard—way too narrow for even Harry Potter but perfect for cleaning supplies. As she swept up the crumbs, she considered items for her list. By the time she sat back down, picked up her soda, all she’d come up with was: Eat healthier. She didn’t eat unhealthily, but everyone could stand to eat better, right?
“That’s a resolution, not a rule.” She’d have to be careful not to mix the two up. Rules provided structure and organization. A way to proceed. That’s what she needed. A set of guided principles to help her make decisions. Ones that wouldn’t have her walking in on her boyfriend getting busy with a woman who could easily be nicknamed Elastigirl.
“Better yet, guidelines that would demand you make better choices in that department all the way around.” Not that she’d purposely chosen a cheater. Could people actuallytellif someone was predisposed to cheating? Everly wasn’t sure, but she could be honest enough with herself to admit the men she chose were unlikely to be her soul mates. It was like she thought she could absorb their qualities—being sociable, funny, spontaneous—by becoming their girlfriend. A sort of dating osmosis.
After drinking down almost half her soda, she worried her bottom lip for a few seconds before pushing up and walking to the antique-looking, multi-drawer cabinet that sat against the wall between the door and her hallway. It looked like a great-great-relative had left it to her. She liked things that lookedold but were actually new. Which she was pretty sure should be Pottery Barn’s actual tagline.
Inside one of the drawers were notebooks, used and unused. Now and again, when her thoughts crowded too much of her brain, it helped to let some of them spill out onto the page. It wasn’t something she did with any regularity, though.That could change. Your regularly scheduled programing could stand an overhaul.The first one was red with the wordgratitudewritten across it in gold. She moved it aside. That could be for her forties. The next two already had some writing in them, so she dug deeper and laughed when she saw one Stacey had given her a few years ago. Untraditional, like her friend, the small font on the front read: SEIZE THE DAY (AS SOON AS YOU MAKE A PLAN). That fit. Snagging a pen from a different drawer, she went back to the couch and flipped through the pages. Some were plain, others colorful or decorated with the kinds of doodles Everly could never pull off. A few had quotes that made her grin.
The pen needed a few random squiggly circles to get it going. She wrote across the top of the first page: The Rules for Turning Thirty.
Focus on the good.
No hoarding, animal or otherwise.
Stay home on my birthday.
She could add to it.Wouldadd to it. It didn’t have to be today, though.
She’d told Stacey it was awholelist. That meant thinking about what she actually wanted for herself, what she wanted for this chapter of her life. Thirty was supposed to mean something. Everly put the pen cap between her teeth. She’d told herself the same thing about twenty. And probably her teens. Every twelve-year-old vowed to really live it up once they finally hit thirteen, right? And then told herself maybe next year. Or the year after.
She went back to 4 and wrote: Try new things.Like getting a Brazilian?She shuddered and crossed it out to write: Try something new once a month. That was specific enough. Something she couldn’t let herself slip out of on one of those technicalities.
Tapping the pen against the book, she thought of other ideas and dismissed them almost immediately. Wear high heels to work (or anywhere), go to a costume party, go to a concert, do a workshop on broadcast journalism at her alma mater. They’d been asking for two years, but speaking in front of a crowd was second on her levels-of-hell list. These weren’trules.She needed to add things that would push her to be… more.Add something for work. Hello, comfort zone.
“Push the boundaries of your comfort zone,” she told herself. She’d been thinking about something for a while now and hadn’t had the guts to bring it up to the team or Chris. Her inner cheerleader, which, funnily enough had Stacey’s voice, chanted,Write it. Write it.
Pitch producing a podcast associated with the station.
The idea stemmed from a segment she and Stacey started called “Straight Talk with Stacey.” Once a week, the deejay shared something that seemed popular and gave her unadulterated opinion on it. Their numbers for the show overall might have been low, but they got a lot of feedback on that segment. Listeners chimed in on social media. It made for some fun conversations online and around the station.
Producing something outside of the show would level her up in her career, so to speak. Maybe even give her and Stacey a shot at the coveted morning spot. She scanned the list. God, she was boring.
“You don’t need excitement.” It stressed her out. “You just need to push a little. Stop always choosing the status quo.”Nah.More than a little push was necessary. She needed a shove off a ledge.
Do something exciting. Something that gives you a rush. Even if you get hives.Roller coaster? Impromptu trip to Europe? Driving without a license.
There. Now you’re pushing yourself.
The buzzer alerting her to a visitor pulled her out of her self-congratulatory thoughts.
When she asked who it was, her mom’s voice came through the tinny speaker. Everly opened her apartment door in time to see her mom bounding up the steps with the energy of someone at least ten years younger. She carried a bag in each hand. Long dark hair bounced with each step, and her eyes sparkled when they met Everly’s.
“There’s the birthday girl,” her mom said, her smile rounding out the apples of her cheeks.
“It didn’t work out so well for me the last time someone said that to me today.” If her father heard, her mother would know, and vice versa. Even during separations, they stayed in contact. Hence the reunions.
The good news, Everly realized as she stepped aside to let her mother come in, was that even if thirty sucked, all indicators suggested she’d age well. At fifty-four, Jessica Dean had plenty of energy and enthusiasm that showed in her youthful skin and stylish way of dressing. A registered massage therapist, her mom attributed her strong core—Everly’s words as Jessica used the termseductive curves—to weekly yoga. She was forever trying to get Everly to join.
