Most of Me Read Online Free

conflicting thoughts gripping my mind: compassion for my poor mother and anger at her for getting sick too—she’s supposed to look after my dad; he’s the sick one. I feel overwhelmed by despair—what’s going to happen now?
    Lost in thought, I hear the gentle voice of a colleague asking me, “Are you OK ?”
    â€œI don’t know,” I answer. I clutch my belly and bolt for the bathroom, where I disappear into a stall. All I know is that I need a break—from work, from family, from stress, from life. But how? Days later, I find out.
    THE BOSS IS INSTRUMENTAL —in more ways than one. He invites me back into his office, this time for a private concert. He greets me at the door and hands me the event program: Requiem for a Cry Lady’s Obsolete Job. As I take my seat across from his desk, a slow, mournful dirge fills the air and sets the tone for the show.
    â€œI want you to know that this has nothing to do with you—or your work. Radio 3 is moving in a new direction, shifting focus away from radio to the web. Unfortunately, your job is being eliminated. We’re giving you notice and severance pay. I’m really sorry.”
    Slowly, his words begin to sink in, and my eyes begin to sting. I think, if ever there was a perfect time to let a Cry Lady loose, this is it. I imagine the headline news: “Boss tragically drowns in disgruntled worker’s tears. Foul play suspected.”
    But that’s not what happens. Pride intervenes. And my Cry Lady remains composed until she’s out of his sight.
    My work ends in midsummer, on a warm, cloudy day. There is a farewell lunch and promises to keep in touch and bittersweet good-byes. Heading home, I feel absolute relief in leaving this obsolete job behind. I am exhausted, in dire need of rest. My body has been growing old right before my very eyes. I shuffle when I walk. I have trouble getting out of chairs. My fingers have lost strength and tire quickly. My mind is muddled, and I’m still depressed. Advil no longer relieves my aches and pains. Even sleep has lost its luster—I can’t seem to find a comfortable position anymore. I’m always tossing and turning, wondering where to place my arms. They feel remote and disconnected.
    Severance pay provides the precious gift of time—the entire month of August to relax and unwind. A real holiday with Bergen and Naomi. And the opportunity to embark on a friendship pilgrimage—something I’ve been thinking about for a while. I really want to deepen my relationships with close girlfriends and special acquaintances, as well as reconnect with friends I haven’t seen in years. If all goes according to plan, I will be better by September and then I’ll start looking for work.
    I begin my pilgrimage without even leaving home. My dear friend Mahima, who lives in Singapore, comes to visit. Ever observant, she looks me over and, with a puzzled expression on her face, asks, “Do you always hold your hands so delicately, like a dancer?”
    I have no idea what she is talking about. “Like a dancer? What do you mean?” Now I’m the one wearing the puzzled expression.
    â€œLike this,” Mahima says, wrapping her outstretched arms around a giant invisible ball, then bending down into a plié. She holds this ballet position for several seconds and I laugh self-consciously, thinking, what if she’s right?
    All day long, I hear Mahima’s voice, with its distinctive lilt, looping over and over in my mind asking, “Do you always hold your hands so delicately, like a dancer?” Later, while getting ready for bed, I stand in front of the mirror and stare at my naked body. She’s right. My arms are positioned in a dancer’s pose, my hands graceful extensions. They are frozen in place. It’s all so effortless, unintentional, alarming. And it’s in this state of hyperawareness that I discover the most