On The Floor Stretching

Homage to Tillie Olsen’s “I Stand Here Ironing” -I handed this in for a university english class.

I’m on the floor stretching, and your plea pulls me back a couple of years.  “I wish you would have paid attention,” you begin, continuing with, “We used to be best friends.  Now, we hardly talk anymore.  I really need your help.”

 

“What’s happened?”  I reply, ready for a loaded answer.  We were friends at one time, but we aren’t anymore.  You expect me to be able to leap back into your life and catch you before you fall to the ground.  Things have changed for a reason.  It was uncontrollable.

 

Even when I debated talking to you, something always came up.  You know I have a hectic life right now.  I tried to be a good friend, but I know I could have tried harder.  There are so many things that I could have done differently and just as many that I wish I could do now. 

 

You were always the greatest friend.  You were the only one who could read the emotions that I worked so hard to hide.  The group that I am a part of now has never known me like you did then.  They look at my photos, exclaiming how beautiful I am or what great potential I have.  You, on the other hand, listened to my voice for a clue on how my heart was feeling.  You knew that one or two compliments would only hold me over until tomorrow. 

 

You and I spoke face to face.  This doesn’t mean anything to them.  Instead, we send text, email, and Facebook messages to each other.  My friendship with them is based on words, not on feelings and expressions.  I miss talking to you. 

 

I apologize.  Talking about our conversations isn’t going to help, but I think it matters.  Face-to-face conversations were important to me.

 

You were always the greatest friend.  You had the funniest laugh around.  You enjoyed reading, enjoyed writing, and enjoyed singing.  You would contently sit in my living room with me the entire day, while all I could do was wonder how you never got bored.  You were heaven-sent, but then my family and I moved across town.  Dad got placed at a new job, and he didn’t want to commute.  I was young; I couldn’t do anything about it.  The next time I came over to play, your mother told me that you were out.  Yet, as I was leaving, I saw your red bike propped up against the wall.  You used to bike everywhere. 

 

I tried to run away from home once.  I packed up a bag full of clothes, granola bars, and juice boxes for the trip.  Before I could leave though, my parents found the stash. 

 

We moved back again, but you didn’t care.  You were so quiet then.  Things had undoubtedly changed between us.  Your face didn’t even glow with joy anymore.  You were not a happy person, and I was the head-cheerleader.  I could pick up everyone’s spirits except yours. 

 

Throughout senior year, we both prepared for the future.  At the ceremony, they talked about us together.  We were once “attached at the hip” they explained.  What they didn’t say is that I was the girl who could rarely be seen with out a smile, while yours had slowly disappeared over time.  Everyone on stage knew it, but it wasn’t something that was said at a graduation ceremony.  We were supposed to be happy that night.

 

I knew what was going on.  I saw how hurt you were, but you wouldn’t even make eye contact with me in the halls.  I saw you leave class occasionally.  I knew you needed help, but I thought she could give it to you.  You had such a worn-out look on your face when you would return to your desk a half hour later.

 

“Please,” you repeat as you stand above me.  I stretch forward again.  Obviously our friendship has been a game of push and pull lately; I understand that.

 

My mom always hints how she wishes you and I would be closer.  “So, what’s Melissa doing this year?  Have you talked to her lately?”  It’s astounding to believe that, before today, I hadn’t heard your voice since the last day of high school.

 

Only when I’m with these girls, I notice how much I have changed.  I’m happy here.  I attend practices religiously, and I always carry myself with pride and respect.  When I remember the depression that I went through in the past, I think about you.  You read my emotions and listened to my deepest fears back then.

 

A while back, you passed me in the hall.  The boy I used to like had his arm around you.  Why didn’t you tell me that you liked him?  You smirked as you noticed the look of shock on my face.  You’re beautiful beside him.  I suddenly realized that I constantly tried to steal your spotlight. 

 

You were shy because I forced you to be.  When you had a poem published, I was cheering for the football team’s victory.  When you got a standing ovation at the senior musical, I was at practice.  The bow and arrows, the arabesques, the scorpions and scales all helped wear our friendship thin.  You had never told this to my face though.  You wanted the best for me, and I wanted the best for me too.  You gave up and decided that my new friends would have to do well enough.

 

You looked good those days.  Your eyes were livelier.  You weren’t quite as fragile-looking.  It’s probably too late to change things.  You’ve moved on now.  You are getting good grades in university while maintaining a steady relationship.  On the other hand, I struggle to make the grade.  My practice runners, spandex shorts, and hair-ties still control me.  I couldn’t imagine having a boyfriend added to the stress. 

 

My coach pushes me hard.  My parents are pushing me harder.  Mom and dad want me to quit the squad, but it’s all I have left.  Without the squad, I have no friends.  I doubt that you would ever take me back.  It’s expected of me to not give up.  Plus, I still enjoy it. 

 

I started seeing you around more often.  Why were you everywhere that I was?  I wished that I could walk up to you and make conversation, but I had unfortunately lost that skill.  The girls would have been confused; they feel that it is important to not associate with “others”.  Your increasingly random appearances made it hard to stick to that rule. 

 

One day you were sitting alone across the restaurant from me.  Also being alone, I had new-found confidence.  I sent the waiter to your booth with a tall glass of chocolate milk and two red straws.  It reminded me of the many after-school snacks that we enjoyed together.  We always mixed strong Nesquik chocolate milk and drank from red straws.  The waiter also handed you a note that I had written for you.  When you received it, you looked around the restaurant, stunned.  “I hope things are going well,” was all I could muster up.  How lame was I?   

 

Well, apparently I did something right, since you are standing here today.  Although I promised myself that I would try to help you if you needed it, I’m worried.  We live different lives now.  That boy cheated on you then left you, and now you need my help.  I can’t even get a boyfriend to begin with.  How do you expect me to help you through a break-up or better yet make him want you back?

 

I flash back to the past.  No matter what I was feeling, you were there.  I left you and stayed away from you.  Although it wasn’t all my decision, I did nothing to change it.

 

We were great friends.  I still have a photo of us taped to my mirror.  After all these years, you are still the first friend that I think about when I wake up in the morning.  As I prepare for a busy day ahead of me, I daydream about our friendship.  Where did we go wrong?  What could we have done differently?

 

“I know you don’t want to be friends with the girls on the squad, but how would you like to come to one of our parties?  A bunch of the jocks are there and some of the girls are a bit fake, but I’d like to spend time with you again.  Or maybe we could just have a girls’ night sometime?  We could watch a movie and catch up one Friday night.”  Who am I kidding; it would take more than one night to catch up. 

 

My cell phone vibrates beside me.  You look at it and shake your head; you hate text messages.  Apparently that’s how he broke up with you.  I grab the phone quickly, press, and hold the red power button.  As soon as the screen goes black, I set it down.  You look at me with shock.  I gave the same face to you when I saw you with him for the first time. 

 

“Anything that I can do, I will do.  You were my best friend once, and I am determined to make you my friend again.  I know that I haven’t always been there and that I will never be able to take away all the pain that I caused you, but I could use an old friend again.”  Wow, I don’t remember the last time that I had an honest face-to-face conversation with someone.  See, I told you those conversations were important to me.

 

The coach is calling for me to come back to the group now.  You and I quickly exchange phone numbers and agree to hang out after practice.  Thankfully, the countless hours that I have spent stretching over the years has caused flexibility in our friendship.   

Author's Note

Tillie Olsen’s “I Stand Here Ironing” is a carefully crafted, chillingly depressing short story in which the narrator, a young mother, is reflective on her past while speaking on the telephone. Throughout the story, the mother reveals that she feels she has let down her eldest daughter in the process of caring for the rest of her children. She believes that her failure as a mother was caused by the fact that she had her daughter at a young age and had no source of financial security at the time. Although Olsen portrays a deeply depressing mood through the mother, there is also a sense of hope that things will straighten out for the daughter. The mother feels guilt and regret, but she also feels that she had no other choice but to have her eldest daughter cared for by others. Although the narrator occasionally brings up random memories, “I Stand Here Ironing” tells the narrator’s story in a mostly linear pattern. Her constant ironing as she speaks to the person on the other line seems to show the mothers strive to fit into society. Having a crisp ironed shirt signified order in her and her daughter’s life. Many aspects of Tillie Olsen’s short story contribute to its interesting beauty. For example, the fact that the narrator does not even mention her daughter’s name until well into the story shows that she feels uncomfortable with the word. Also, the narrator in “I Stand Here Ironing” is very hesitant to take advice from others about her situation. She feels that the way that things have worked out is the way that they were meant to be and that she did what could to prevent the worst.