Life and Other Shortcomings: Excerpt

LIFE AND OTHER SHORTCOMINGS: EXCERPT

Life and Other Shortcomings is a collection of linked short stories that takes the reader from New Orleans to New York City to Madrid, and from 1970 to the present day. The women in these twelve stories make a number of different choices: some work, others don’t; some stay married, some get divorced; others never marry at all.

Through each character’s intimate journey, specific truths are revealed about what it means to be a woman―in relationship with another person, in a particular culture and era―and how these conditions ultimately affect her relationship with herself.

The stories as a whole depict patriarchy, showing what still might be, but certainly what was, for some women in this country before the #MeToo movement. Both a cautionary tale and a captivating window into women’s lives, Life and Other Shortcomings is required reading for anyone interested in an honest, incisive, and compelling portrayal of the female experience.

“A compelling collection that captures the mystery and menace beneath love and family life.”
―Kirkus Reviews

“Corie Adjmi has a flair for dramatizing scenes. She homes in on the killer moment, and her dialogue is so honest that I was cringing at times . . . It is just so vivid.”
―Susan Breen, author of The Fiction Class

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Excerpt: Drowning Girl 

I’m standing in front of the bathroom mirror, using a wet washcloth to scrub at a dark spot the size of a prune near my mouth, but it won’t come off. It’s my own fault. I wasn’t paying attention. I didn’t think I had to because the doctor I went to was some kind of hot shot whose office was on the Upper East Side, just off Fifth Avenue. Oblivious, I reclined on her dermatologist chair, under a glaring and, now that I think about it, daunting light, telling her that she couldn’t buy the dress I was wearing because it was old and, anyway, I’d bought it in L.A. That’s when she shot me with Botox in my jaw when it should’ve been in my forehead. 

“Hey, what was that?” I said.
“You’re going to love it. Trust me,” she said.
I paid her $1,200 and left.

That was three days ago, and I’m so clueless about what to do next it’s as if my bare feet are glued to the bathroom floor. From where I stand, I chuck the wash- cloth into the hamper and curse out loud because I have a party to go to and I need to look my best. Alex, my boyfriend, my so-called boyfriend, and boss, owns a gallery, and the party is at this guy’s house. A prominent art collector. Chase Bentley. 

Alex wants me to go with him because he wants Chase to invest in a Warhol and he needs to be seen in a certain light—as the kind of man who is relational, some- one Chase can trust. Alex didn’t say any of that to me. But I know him. I know how he works. We’ve been together for years, me and Alex. 

Looking in the mirror, I glare at the bruise—all black, no blue—as if I can intimidate it into going away. I curse again, but this time notice my mouth looks funny. So I bring my face closer to the mirror to test things out, and I’m certain my smile isn’t right. It’s terse and fake. It’s a sort of half smile, a fraction of my real smile, divided and reduced like a math problem. That matters when, your whole life, your smile has been your power. No, let’s be clear: my smile is my superpower. It’s how I got my fa- ther to take me for ice cream and how I got the boys at a party to ask me to dance. 

There’s nothing I can do. I mean, I can call my doctor and explain—or well, yell—that the result is shocking, and more importantly, not what I asked for, but I’ll still be left eyeing a stranger every time I look in the mirror— an eerie reflection of a woman whose aura is as dead as the muscles in her face. It’s all so blatantly clear. I’m approaching fifty. And no longer a sunny beauty. 

Don’t get me wrong. I was never a supermodel or anything. I was never like Michelle Pfeiffer or Farrah Fawcett, although, God knows, I wanted to be. But youth is youth, right? You can’t argue. Tight, blemish-free skin is more appealing than saggy, spotted skin. 

I know, I know—I’m supposed to embrace every stage of my life as if I were a magnificent caterpillar. I’m sup- posed to be grateful that I’m alive at all. But I have this urge to wear a sign, to scream from rooftops— 

I WAS ONCE YOUNG AND PRETTY. 

THIS, WHO YOU SEE NOW, IS NOT ME. 

You don’t get empathy for that. In fact, you get shamed for not being appreciative of every blessed stage of your glorious life. But something huge is gone. Lost forever. We should be allowed to grieve. 

Excerpted from LIFE AND OTHER SHORTCOMINGS

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Corie Adjmi is the author of Life and Other Shortcomings. She grew up in New Orleans and started writing in her thirties. Her award-winning fiction and personal essays have since appeared in over two dozen publications, including North American Review, Indiana Review, South Dakota Review, and, more recently, HuffPost and Man Repeller. In 2019, Life and Other Shortcomings was a finalist for the G. S. Sharat Chandra Prize for short fiction from BkMk Press. When she is not writing, Corie does volunteer work, cooks, draws, bikes, and hikes. She and her husband have five children and a number of grandchildren, with more on the way. She lives and works in New York City.

Follow her on Twitter https://twitter.com/CorieAdjmi

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Category: Contemporary Women Writers, On Writing