Chapter 1
Isadora Bentley is shopping for her final meal.
If I were a character in a novel, this is what the author would write.
Because it’s true. I am. Not a character in a novel, of course, but a soon-to-be stiff. A dead ringer for a dead ringer.
Plus, if I were a character in a novel, my name would be Estella. Or Hazel. And I’d be thinner.
Okay, I’m being dramatic. Turning thirty isn’t The End. At least not of my actual life. Just of my hopes and dreams. I’m pretty sure I saw them swirling down the drain last week along with my dignity.
I’m three decades old. I’ve spent 10,950 days on this planet, and I really thought my life would look a lot different by now.
When I graduated college, I was bound and determined to live a big life. To make a big splash with my significant contribution to the world of academia. I had a whole list of ways I was going to make a difference, a dent in the universe, something, and yet here I am, hours from the cliff of thirty with nothing to show for it but a job that’s going nowhere and a life that’s doing the same.
Actually, I stand corrected. My life has gotten somewhere. It’s gotten to the parking lot of the Stop ’n Shop.
And now I’m staring at a neon-outlined sign on a brown brick building, knowing there’s nothing terrifying about a grocery store.
I can practically hear the Funeral March as I blow out the thirty-candle inferno raging atop a store-bought cake.
Maybe to most people, turning thirty isn’t that big of a deal. It’s just another trip around the sun. Easy. All I have to do is stand here.
But it feels like I’m standing with my toes peeking out over a precipice. An Enter at Your Own Risk sign. A line in the sand. Life before and life after. A moment and a checkpoint. So I, of course, did what I always do. Last night, I carefully and objectively calculated my options.
Clinical. Scientific. Detached.
Isadora’s work as an academic researcher gives her the tools to make decisions without emotion, fully based on facts and figures. And as she inputs the data into the chart, she sees the writing on the wall. Something in her life needs to change. There’s just one problem—she has no idea what. And worse, no idea how to make that happen.
Man, my inner monologue sounds like Sir David Attenborough. It speaks with an elegant, calming, steady British accent. If I’m not careful, my inner monologue will lull me to sleep.
If only I were as well-versed in plotting a course of action or taking big leaps into the unknown as I am in studying other people’s actions and leaps.
If you’re around me for five minutes, you’ll know I’m a rule follower. It’s who I am. Envelopes stay un-pushed. Lines remain toed. I collect data, calculate outcomes, and act accordingly. The line from A to B is literally stick straight. Which is why I would never walk directly to Aisle 8 at the Stop ’n Shop.
Aisle 8 is, of course, where the candy is.
I love candy. But I don’t eat candy. I know what’s in it, and half of the things you can’t pronounce on the label I can find in the lab. It’s bad, and I won’t allow it.
Correction, I wouldn’t allow it.
Surely the narrator in my head would agree to skirt the Skittles rule just this once.
Today is a day like no other. Furtive, sugar-laden delicacies dot the landscape, and it is here we find Isadora Bentley foraging for the most delectable sweet treats. Today, Isadora would gather candy and chips and ice cream because turning thirty warrants an all-out junk food binge.
Skittles, Doritos, and Cherry Garcia. Not the fanciest birthday meal, but then, I’m not a fancy person. I don’t want filet mignon or duck and mushroom foie gras. I don’t even want vegetables. Let’s be honest—no one wants vegetables. However, if we’re talking about what to indulge in to make this birthday borderline healthy, ripe pineapple would certainly make the list.
It wouldn’t be as high up as chocolate, or a whole box of Mike and Ike’s, and it only makes it into my cart if it’s fresh and already cut. I’m not wasting my time chopping up a pineapple, for Pete’s sake. I’ve got life to avoid.
A man walks by me, and I realize I’m still in the parking lot. Good lord, how long have I been standing here? I see the look on his face. Yeah, buddy, I know this looks weird, but listen, you’ve got no idea the confectionary decisions I’ve got weighing on me.
Glass doors slide open. One foot in front of the other. Aisle 8. Candy.
Nope. First, pineapple.
If I were a different kind of person, I’d take my savings and go on a trip to celebrate my big day.
But then, a different kind of person would have an active social life. Or meaningful connections. Data to offset the negative side of the equation.
As it is, that’s not my data. No matter how much I want it to be. And unlike people, data never lies.
What’s worse is that I don’t see a way off this path. I don’t have what it takes to do anything about it. I keep waiting for something to change—or more accurately, someone else to just come and tell me what I need to change—but I’m stuck.
And look. All of the precut pineapple is gone. The empty spot on the shelf where the clear plastic cups stuffed with bright yellow chunks should be stares back at me, and I wonder if it’s a metaphor.
Should Isadora wait for a better weekend, a weekend with pineapple, to note this landmark passage of time?
I sigh. No can do, Attenborough. Watermelon it is.
To the chip aisle next. And there I stand, repeating my parking lot posturing, surrounded by crinkly bags of goodness. I’m pretty sure that’s the same guy who just walked past me again.
Like a drunken sailor looking for a good time, these chips make promises I know they will not keep.
In the end, I choose the Doritos, a bag of salt and vinegar kettle chips, and a canister of original Pringles to keep it classic.
And then it’s like the Red Sea parts. I think I hear angels singing. Aisle 8.
Putting it like that suggests I’ve happened there by chance, which I can assure you I absolutely have not. I’ve been flirting with Aisle 8 for years. It’s why I capitalize it in my head. Aisle 8. And now here I am, about to make out with it. A one-night stand with Reese’s.
I hope he’ll call.
I know I look like I’m prepping for the birthday party of a ten-year-old boy and fifteen of his closest friends.
But I’m elated. Who knew breaking my own rules could feel so decadent?
As I maneuver my cart into the checkout line behind an old woman who’s searching her bag for what I can only assume is her alphabetized coupon file, I notice the cashier eyeballing my Cherry Garcia.
Today, I’m a rule breaker, Janice. Feast your eyes.
As a defense mechanism, Isadora Bentley often held full-on conversations with people in her unique and spectacular head. It made up for all the conversations she didn’t have in real life. Let’s zoom in and observe.
“Yep. Cherry Garcia. I’ve simply stopped caring, Janice. I’ve lost the will to follow any rules.”
Janice’s eyes will widen. “Oh my word! Are you sick?”
“Nope. In fact, I’m in perfect health. I’m just doing what I can to not have a horrible birthday.”
Janice will pause. “Well, only you control your destiny,” she’ll say, or some other simplified cliché that sounds like something on a poster under a picture of a dolphin or a light bulb or a herd of wild horses running on the beach.