Hmmm.

I stare through the glass door, scanning the rows intently. Left, right. Left, right. About two thirds of the way through my slightly intense examination, something catches my eye. I bend down slightly. Lean in. Pause. A moment of contemplation. Nah. I stand up, shuffle to the right and repeat the process.

Damn it’s gotten harder to pick out the exact-right-for-this-moment ice cream flavor over the years. 

Between the regular flavors, the limited edition flavors, the holiday flavors and the rapidly multiplying brands, there was…dare I say…too much to choose from. 

I decide to go for a vanilla caramel variety with a layer of sprinkles at the bottom and chunks of cake throughout. Partially because it looks pretty in its pint-sized plastic container. But also because people are starting to walk down the aisle and I tend to get self-conscious in front of an ice cream audience. Selection in hand, I head for the checkout and then make my way home.

After eating dinner (I think. I mean, I did, but I don’t remember much because I was already imagining what the ice cream – softening in the fridge at that very moment – would taste like), I grab a spoon, napkin, the plastic pint and head to the couch. 

I wish I could tell you a bowl was involved, but I can’t. In fact, I don’t remember the last time I used a bowl when eating ice cream. I’m quite sure this is one of the reasons I’m rather overweight at the moment, along with a lack of desire to exercise.

Settling into the couch, I toss a blanket over my outstretched legs, press play on Episode 6 of Lessons in Chemistry and grab the container. Right hand on the lid, I try to turn it towards me. Nothing. I press down a little harder, pulling with increased determination.

Huh.

I move my legs out from under the blanket and plant my feet firmly on the floor. Leaning over, I strategically position each elbow against a leg, grab the lid again and try to turn it to the left with what feels like a ridiculous amount of pressure. I may have even gritted my teeth.

It doesn’t budge.

I take a deep breath. Then I have an idea. I’ll get that pink jar opener thingy they gave me at the pharmacy when I picked up my new high blood pressure medicine. 

No, the irony of this does not escape me.

I stand up, realize I’m about three minutes behind in the storyline playing out on the TV and sigh. I pick up the remote, hit rewind, pause and head to the kitchen.

Pink jar opener in hand, I press down, turn and wait for the satisfying movement of the lid. 

GOOD GOD. 

Have I forgotten how to open a jar? Wait…are you supposed to turn it right to loosen? I stand there perplexed for a moment. No no, that’s not how the rhyme goes.

Ok ok. The lid must be frozen on. Stuck. I move to the sink, awkwardly attempting to shield the main part of the container as I run hot water over the lid. I feel myself getting a little desperate. 

After what seems like an appropriate amount of time (indicated by my hands no longer being able to tolerate the hot water), I dry off the container and pick up the pink jar opener thingy. Press down and make a turning motion. Press harder. My right hand starts to hurt and I realize I’m holding my breath. 

ARE YOU KIDDING ME?

I take a few more deep breaths. This can not be happening. How is it possible that I’m unable to open a container of ice cream? My mind flashes forward thirty years. I’m sitting in a big dining hall, waiting for the assisted living waiter to hand me my bowl of ice cream. 

Oh hell no.

I look around the kitchen. The chef’s knife beckons. 

I take a step toward it. Stop. 

No, no I can’t.

I mean…I may or may not have had stitches from chopping a slippery onion with that very same knife. 

I look back at the ice cream sitting on the counter. 

Oh fuck it.

Grabbing the knife, I lay the container on its side, making sure to move my hand out of the way, and begin to saw. Miraculously, the knife cuts through the plastic container. Only there’s one small problem. I started the incision in the middle of the container, not near the lid. And now ice cream is oozing out between the widening crack of hard plastic.

I keep sawing.

Ice cream begins dripping onto the floor. The dogs leap into action, tongues in attack mode. I put the knife down. Grabbing the container, I try to pull the halves apart. Ice cream lumps fly out. My hands are now covered in sprinkles. I think I see a cake piece on the counter. The plastic barely separates. 

I hear Lessons in Chemistry start back up from the living room. The TV has unpaused itself.

This has now gotten serious.

An idea hits. With sticky hands, I pull a bowl from the cabinet and let it drop onto the counter. I shove the knife in between the two halves and start dragging ice cream through the ragged opening and into the bowl. Finally I can’t get any more out. I look down. Staring back at me from the bowl is a mess of almost completely melted vanilla caramel ice cream, with approximately three cake pieces and a smattering of sprinkles. 

One. Single. Serving.

With what I hoped conveyed an air of confident casualness, I selected a chilled bottle of New Zealand Sauvignon Blanc from the assortment of wine bottles grouped on the counter and poured a glass.

Glancing around the host’s living room, I could see women chatting in groups of twos and threes as they waited for the event to get started. The atmosphere was a lively one, filled with laughter and animated talking. Everyone seemed to know each other. 

If I’m going to be honest, I came that night hoping to meet some new friends. New friends meant new adventures and I wanted to fill the widening void in my life.

Wine in hand, I walk over to the one person I knew (and the reason I was there) who was finishing a conversation. She motions to a woman standing apart from the small group. “Let’s get our pictures taken while the line is short.”

Ordinarily I really hate getting my picture taken. It’s a byproduct of being in a constant battle with your outside, all thanks to the war that’s raging inside. 

But this time was going to be different. THIS time the picture was going to be of my aura, not my body. I just knew my aura was going to be thin and beautiful, things I hadn’t felt in years (yes, thin is a feeling, ask any woman who was a teenager in the 80’s). 

Yep, my aura was going to radiate some serious enlightened being energy. I could feel it.

My friend sits down, matching her fingers on each hand to the silver fingers on two blue metal boxes placed either side of the chair. She looks at the camera, smiles, and poof. Aura picture taken.

The photographer pulls a Polaroid-like photo out of the camera, sticks it to a piece of yellow paper and places it next to the other photos, all in various stages of development. 

My friend waits while I sit in front of the camera. I stare straight into the lens, willing my glorious aura to spill it’s shiny brilliance onto the photo that’s about to be. The aura photographer repeats the same stick-it-to-a-yellow-piece-of-paper process, and my developing photo is added to the others.

Feeling more relaxed, I wandered off to grab another glass of wine (and perhaps surreptitiously check out what appears to be a plate of chocolate chip cookies). My brain leaps three months into the future. I imagine myself surrounded by a table of smiling faces, laughing at a retelling of my latest adventure.

A few moments later, the last photo is taken and we are asked to pick up our photo and sit down for a personalized aura reading. I stare at the photos, trying to locate mine. Starting to get self-conscious, I look at aura lady and tell her that I can’t find me. 

“You mean you don’t know what you look like?”

Um, no. I don’t know what my AURA looks like.

She picks up a photo and hands it to me. “This is you.”

Sheepishly I thank her and apologize for not recognizing my aura. I look more closely at the photo. You can barely see a person. But there, on the bottom left, I can just make out the name tag I crookedly applied when I arrived. 

Photo in hand, I walk past the coach where people are settling in and make my way to the back of the living room so I don’t have to go first. One by one, the women hand their photos over, iPhone video buttons on record. The aura photographer begins reading the photos, explaining what the different colors in each mean. I take in the beautiful blues, purples, greens, yellows and pinks as she works her way down the coach.

“See this blue? You need to speak up more so you can share your wisdom.” “This purple means you’re very intuitive and your friends rely on you to help them.” “You lead with your heart and only want to do good in this world, see this pink here?” 

But it’s not just colors. There are angels and guides in each of these photos. “You have four angels watching over you.” “Look at this! One, two, three…FIVE angels and TWO guides!” A round of enthusiastic applause breaks out in acknowledgement of this impressive collection of otherworldly beings. 

She continues moving through the room.

“This blue? That’s Archangel Michael and he’s protecting you.” “Oh and this green? Archangel Gabriel is by your side, helping you navigate this difficult time in your life.” Cue amazed murmurs, acknowledging we’ve crossed over from run-of-the-mill angels to 

ARCHANGELS for heaven’s sake. 

Finally she gets to me, the very last person. Twenty pairs of eyes turn to look. Dutifully I turn on my video and hand her my photo.

She looks down at it, frowns, then holds it up to share with the rest of the group. A collective gasp goes around the room.

I feel a hot flash coming on.

I look at her through my phone as she flips the photo towards me. The image of a dark black figure surrounded by devil red fills the screen. She jabs at the photo.

“See this black? You’re incredibly stressed. You’re not managing your life; it’s managing you.”

“This red? You need to change your career immediately or you’re going to get sick.” “Oh and the black up here? You’re not eating well. AT ALL. You need to take better care of yourself – get outside, exercise, go to sleep earlier.”

Finally, she’s wrapping up. “I think this might be a guide here, trying to get through to you, but you’re not listening. “I don’t see any angels.” She holds the photo up more closely. “Nope, no angels at all.”

My eyes start watering in front of 19 people I don’t know. I look at number 20, my friend, and she gives me a “I told you so” look while handing me a tissue. I glare at her, sniffling. 

Damn it. 

My aura has betrayed me.

In five short minutes, I’ve been laid bare. All my neurosis, insecurities and shameful secrets, spilled out in front of an audience of intuitive, selfless, accomplished, pretty auras.

My hopes of new friendships and exciting adventures are dashed. No one is going to want to get their aura dirty by hanging out with me.

I turn off the video and wipe my nose with the mascara-stained tissue, quickly stuffing the photo into my purse. 

My friend points at my face helpfully and says, “You have mascara on your nose.”