SIZE

Three weeks ago I was spilling my guts over in the hospital after an operation. The doctor asked me: “you want to do what? - go to the US so soon after? - well, if you want to be superwoman do it on your own account.” Of course I had to do it. You never ever pass the opportunity to show up for invited presentations. One in Louisville, for which I wrote a paper that my best friend said was very very beautiful, and that in spite of the loads of Hintikka and other formalisms along Lacan and Frank O'Hara. Another presentation is in Atlanta in a few days. As Barnes & Noble wants to sell my Between Gazes book, you don't say 'no' to showing up for the publicity de rigoeur. Thus, as befitting a superwoman, you say 'yes' to everything, and make sure that you look smashing. This is not a problem in the US of A, even though you're past the age of forever young and forever smart. They have professionals here that can do miracles. I go for power shopping at the Opry Mills in Nashville. After having stacked on white shirts, some 20 of them, at the various places that carry the softest Pima cottons, I enter the Max Azria store. The women there were flocking around me, ready to prepare my fitting room. I grabbed a dress, and the shop assistant almost yelled at me: “not that one! You need a size XS!” I said, “pardon me, did you just say extra small?” “yes,” she said, and then made sure that I didn't make another mistake: “and you're a size 2 in pants as well.” As she was proven right, after coming out of the fitting room I said to myself: “Halleluiah!” You are already a bit high. At the “under water dining experience” restaurant, I sit literally among real fish in the aquarium. As I was watching hypnotically the most beautiful swimmers, and between sips of vodka dry martini and pinot grigio, I caught another soft Halleluiah on my lips. Then back on the road, listening to Alison Krauss spilling her own guts over the smash song “You say it best when you say nothing at all,” all sung in full sunset glory, I felt ready for the Baptist church. “Halleluiah and Amen.” Being super is no small size.

ENTITLEMENT

My sister will be 40 on March 1. I gave her a trip to Oslo. We'll be cruising together in a commodore captain's cabin, which means that you get both the view and the champagne for the entire duration. I gave her the present in advance as she needs to arrange some vacation, so I couldn't keep it a secret. She was ever so enthusiastic. But the more excited she got, the more suspicious I got. “What do you mean, you love Norway?” I asked her. “I introduced you to Norway. Norway is mine.” “No, it's not,” she retorted. “Yes it is,” I said. “No, it's not,” she said. “Yes. It is. Period,” I insisted. And I was ready to hit on her head. We did this for 10 minutes. We were back in kindergarten. It occurred to me that what gave me this strong sense of entitlement over Norway is my strong desire for Norway. So I made the inference: desire equals entitlement. Hmm, is this always the case, I asked myself, while adopting a philosophical air. I wasn't so sure I liked this equation. Then I thought: Bloody hell. We live in a culture of entitlement. My students are entitled to good education, and never mind that they hardly ever come prepared to classes. The government is entitled to ask us to publish our shit in the toilet they assign for this very comfort. My friend, the genius Herr Lektor, has just informed the world that he had just submitted a paper, which he wrote every single word for, devised every single strategy for, and thought every single idea for, to be accepted in a 4,2 rated for importance, impact, relevance and the other blah's Journal of Mathematics. The only problem is that another schmuck felt entitled to have his illustrious empty head feature as the main author of this very paper, as my friend made the mistake of “prostituting” himself for the greater good of academic life. (Herr Lektor, your lektorship, don't kiss ass in the future; it's hardly worth the trouble). Given this scenario, I made a second inference: lack of entitlement equals misery. Or what? Today I got up with this thought in my head. I must say, “I love you” to someone. Say it directly. On second thought, though, I wasn't so sure I was entitled to it. And even if I were, hasn't this been a fact of life, since the dawn of days, that love needs no words? If I'm entitled to anything, I'm entitled to believing that. Thank god for second thoughts. They entitle us to always think twice.

MIRROR

For The Three Musketeers

I'm looking into a mirror that's not mine. But what I see is not a reflection. I touch the hair and it is mine. The red lips are mine, and so is the small body. I throw myself onto the polar bear skin to feel the geometrical surface of multiplied illusions. Face down. My chest is not flat. Nor is it that of a madonna. I'm 16 again, dreaming of riding white horses and rescuing male damsels in distress. I'm plugged into something that my spinal cord identifies as “it.” “You're perfect,” the mirror says, from an angle that bypasses the law of the excluded middle. I believe it. The middle itself tells me that I should.