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Pieces of Me

Sometimes you know what you want to do—you’re just not ready to admit it.

by Natalie
posted on March 01, 2007

Credits: Rachel Domm

We are taught from a young age to differentiate between right and wrong. But as with all things, the older we get, the more complicated the issue becomes: The rightness of sharing and the wrongness of forcing a Dorothy Hamill haircut on your little sister give way to blurrier questions concerning foreign policy or—dicier still—the compatibility of leggings with a business-casual dress code. And while relativists claim that what’s important is making the “right decision for you,” even that’s not always easy to discern when today’s modern, urban You has multiple identities.

Recently, two of my most prominent identities, Friend Me and Career Me, found themselves at a crossroads. As one of a dozen bridesmaids in the upcoming wedding of a best friend from high school, I was more spectator than ringleader in the planning of her bachelorette party—a spring-break-style bash in Miami set for May. Jules, Sia and I hadn’t spoken about it much, aside from the odd “Miami should be fun” comment, until I received an early-morning call from an acquaintance who now worked at a small fashion mag in London.

“Natalie, darling! How are you?” she gushed into the phone in stereotypical fashion-editor speak. After making the requisite chitchat, she cut to the chase: “Listen, I know this is out of the blue, but my fashion writer just went on hiatus, and I need someone to cover the after-parties at Cannes. I remembered from back in our intern days that it was always a dream of yours to go, so I figured I’d give you first pass. Any interest?”

I fought to quell the “Ohmygod” forming on my lips. “Victoria, that’s so incredibly nice of you,” I stammered into the phone. “Of course I’d love to do it!”

“Great,” she said. “I’ll call soon with all the details. Don’t make any plans for the end of May!” I set the phone down and reached for my day planner, knowing with a sinking feeling what I’d find when I opened it. I promptly called an emergency meeting with Sia and Jules at Amélie. Over flutes of Prosecco, I broke the news. “I’ve been asked to cover Cannes for my friend Victoria’s magazine,” I said calmly, not quite believing it. “That’s amazing!” they squealed in unison. “It’s at the end of May,” I said. “During Rachel’s bachelorette party. I feel awful, but I don’t know how I can pass this up.”

“It sucks, but I’m sure Rachel will understand,” Sia said.

“Don’t be so sure,” Jules said.

“Come on, it’s not like she’s some crazy bridezilla,” I said. “Besides, I’m thinking I’ll offer to fly her out here for a special girls’ weekend to make it up to her—you know, wine tasting, spa treatments, deluxe dinners. She’d love that, don’t you think?”

“It can’t hurt,” Sia said. Jules shrugged. The next day, I called Rachel with my pitch. I was met with a stunned silence. After breaking the news about Cannes, I launched headlong into my weekend idea, hoping it would soften the blow. “So you’re definitely going to Cannes.” she said.

“I wish I could do both, but this is a really big opportunity for me,” I said. “It’s not like I’m missing the wedding!”

“I can’t really talk about this right now,” she said. “I’m happy for you, but I have to admit I’m really hurt. I’m going to need some time. I have to go,” she said and hung up the phone. I felt as if I’d been punched in the stomach—her “I’m happy for you” rang in my ears—an ironic echo of the words I’d uttered not so long ago upon hearing of her engagement.

“Look, it’s not surprising,” Jules said. “She’ll get over it, but she’s not going to be happy about it. And that weekend-in-SF offer may not have been the best move. Basically, her cat just died, and you showed up two minutes later with a replacement kitten, expecting it to be the same.”

I felt a twinge of anger toward her. “Let’s not talk about it,” I said, attempting to push the issue out of my mind. But all that week, said issue continued to occupy a prime-time slot—I casually polled nearly everyone I knew, seeking an answer that would make me feel good about going to Cannes while supplying some sort of magic solution for making it up to Rachel. Instead, I received a wide range of reactions. Having always prided myself on being an exceptional friend, I suddenly felt as if all of my years of “being there” for Rachel would be excised from our history book and replaced by a grim footnote: “Natalie chose career over friendship and was never heard of again.” It was almost as if my pristine record was now being held against me—having earned a black belt in friendship, I was expected to perform brick-breaking feats like passing on Cannes, whereas a yellow belt like our mutual friend Cara (who went to prom with Rachel’s crush in high school and flaked on plans as a rule) was awarded a medal merely for remembering to call on a birthday.

I met Sia and her new beau, Will, in SoMa for dinner at Osha Thai on Thursday night. Will was the most promising candidate I’d heard about in a long time, and I was anxious for an in-person interview. Will had just finished telling a story about a recent business trip to Paris when Sia—eager to keep the convo flowing—jumped in with, “Natalie’s planning a trip to France too—in fact, she’s going to be covering Cannes!”

“Impressive!” Will enthused, beaming on my behalf.

“Thanks,” I said, a bit halfheartedly.

“I suppose it’s not quite as glamorous as it sounds?” he asked, inferring as much from my lack of enthusiasm. I explained my dilemma to Will, figuring I could count on a levelheaded guy’s guy like him to assuage my guilt. “And you’re in the wedding?” he asked. “And she’s one of your best friends?”
I nodded yes to both.

“That’s a tough one,” he said. “I totally understand the career thing, but a bachelorette only happens once—hopefully.” This sensitive reaction (from a guy, no less!) stung so badly that I suddenly had no energy to respond. Sia sensed as much and changed the topic, refusing to let the conversation take a downward spiral—but I had already lost my appetite. After dinner, I declined their offer of a ride home. I felt like walking. Alone.

And somewhere between Divisadero and Scott, it hit me. Alone was exactly how I needed to solve this—not by conducting surveys of my friends, or trying to decide which was the objectively “right” decision. My insistence on continuing to discuss the matter was not due to the difficulty of reaching a decision, but the difficulty of letting myself off the hook for letting Rachel down. I had to face up to the fact that I can’t always be everything to everyone. I can’t even be everything to myself—and somehow that still has to be enough.

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