Vivian Lives

Prologue There's something about happy endings that makes me feel like everything's possible.Even for a fleeting moment. Do you know what I mean? Suddenly I'm optimistic, adventurous, determined, confident . . . all things good. The future looks bright and I'm part of it. And I make a promise to myself to remember that feeling and live it when deemed necessary. If you're wondering, YES, I'm part of that small majority--thatgroup of gals who look in the mirror and see the negative beforethe positive. Overly sensitive, slightly neurotic. Yes it's true. My selfesteemplays me like a seesaw. I need that soundtrack, a cocktail, hell, the immediate-gratification impulse purchase to kickthe week, the weekend, the evening off right. Pretty pathetic allthings considered: the therapy, the achievements, the betterthan-average job. But if you're looking for a rosy tale filled withbogus antidotes and naive untruths, you should probably set thisnovel down and head back to the chick lit table. 'Cause my story is real. My ambition to fix what's broken, my fear of looking backwith regret, the way I jones for first-kiss intensity every timearound, and this relentless inner tic that feels as though it is deservingof anything that this once-in-a-lifetime life has to offerseems to always land me right smack in the thick of it. So far anyway. My silent dreams and smallish wishes follow me around likepuppy dogs. They constantly propel me to take chances. Theymake me believe in myself even if the odds are against me. And, suddenly, I become "that girl," the chick who throws one backand walks up to "that guy"--the one, of course, I think is out ofmy league. Likely, the same guy you chose not to make eyecontact with 'cause you probably don't give yourself enoughcredit and instead make a buzzy beeline over to the coatcheck, wondering "what-if "during your cab ride home. I becomethe rookie in the conference room who every once in a while offersup an opinion while simultaneously receiving glares thatcould light a match from the venomous veterans who havelearned to be agreeable. I don those threads even though theydon't fit me quite the same way they do the sticks in the ads. Ibelieve. I savor. I imagine. When I get a "Why? "I inevitably ask, "Why not? "And if I get a "no"--well, I'll bet you can guess what thatdoes to me. Now, now--before you get all cranky and think me arrogantand unrelatable, let me say this: Nine times out of ten my instinctsare disastrous, the outcome becomes a bad joke, and the subtleconfidence you're picking up on is undoubtedly underwrittenwith sweaty palms, a dry mouth, and a heart beating so boldlyyou'd think I had my own personal base turned up way too high. But alas, what kind of person, friend, tenant to myself would Ibe if I quietly let my gluttonous gut go unheard? Seriously, if Ican't sit through my own movie and leave the theater thinking, "Yes! I really did live my life," well then a full refund is in order! Andtherein lies the problem. Doubtful any of us get a "refund