Chapter 7

December 1971 - Yale University

Angela woke up feeling antsy. She had no idea what she wanted, but was absolutely convinced some Tiessenau Mel would help. Those cozy, honey muffins Carwen used to make her on Sunday mornings were all she could think about the night before. She paced her room for a minute, and realized she felt unkempt. She still wanted the honey cakes, but there really wasn't a time that wasn't true. Now she wanted… to take her hair out of pig tails, and get a shower.

She mostly felt… she didn't know, but there was an itch she just couldn't scratch. Angela got out of the shower, and looked around her room for something to put on. She had clothes, but nothing sparked her creativity. Eyes narrowing, she put on the cream jumper outfit again, and headed into the city.

Angela didn't like flailing like this - not knowing the question, but starving to try an answer. Part of her felt tight and angry, and ready to attack at every angle. She had tried SO hard. She thought she had really looked pretty. A kind, handsome man had liked being with her, and had at least said he thought she looked nice - and it didn't matter. He still didn't want her. That segued to another, well-worn part of her that felt loose and lethargic, where she believed no one would ever want her, so she might as well indulge however she chose. But a fury, a righteousness of some kind, boiled deep up from within her, and she wanted to fight. She liked how she felt when she cared about her body. She felt sharp and worthy, not at all like the girl in Greg's car.

Shopping it was.

Angela walked into Bloomingdale's and breathed deeply. She actually felt steadier; she now had a direction. She walked around the store, fingering fine fabrics and cool metals. She tried on several pieces, and bought most of them. Angela hit Saks, then walked around Herald Square. When her feet started to hurt, she got a taxi from where she was and returned to her car.

It was cold, and Angela shook as she waited for the car to warm up. She looked up and saw a hot dog vendor at the corner of the next intersection. Angela stared intently at the cart, imagining how amazing that would taste in her frozen, empty tummy. Then she looked over at her bags of clothes, and remembered how she felt in the dressing room. She smiled. Pulling out into traffic, Angela headed toward the University. She found a deli on her way home, and picked up a chef's salad.

Angela settled into her room with her dinner and her textbooks. She had let some work slip this last week, but she was determined to remediate that. She liked how she felt when she cared about her grades, too. She liked how she felt when she organized her day, and made time for her run (which was now an uninterrupted jog). She did not like how she felt when she didn't know what to do.

Angela halted herself – No. Feeling isn't my goal right now; not anymore. That was a mistake. She had thought about it, and had decided she had no idea how to read people. She was positive Greg liked her. She would've bet, well, her dignity, on it, and she had completely misread the situation. That was a risk she was not interested in repeating any time soon. Okay, so if I'm not to trust my gauges, so to speak, I will go off of what I know. And what I know is that focusing on my homework and fitness appears to be the best route toward productivity and success. When I listened to my feelings, I ended up feeling like garbage. No more.

Angela punctuated her thoughts with a swift head nod, and got right to work.

The last month of the semester went quickly for Angela. As she was packing her bags for Christmas break, she put the letter notifying her of her continued placement on the Dean's List into her purse. Angela had an extra bag, now that she had made hair and makeup a part of her daily routine. She was nervous about going home to see her mother. Angela had lost close to 15 pounds since she left for the fall semester, and she wasn't looking forward to her mother noticing.

If she noticed a difference with approval, she'd be validating the fear that there was something to improve upon before. Angela had felt like her mother was embarrassed about her for a long time, and she didn't want a confirmation.

If her mother noticed a difference with disapproval – or, worse, amusement - that was just one more strike of never being good enough, no matter how hard she tried. As a woman, she'd be a joke.

If she didn't notice any difference at all, Angela was just a lost cause, and it no longer mattered what she looked like.

There was just no way to win. Angela bit down hard on her back molars, all the way home to Cos Cob.