At cardiac rehab today, I was pedaling through imaginary Tuscany or rural Ireland on the recumbent bicycle when Michael Jackson’s Smooth Criminal started playing on the clinic’s iPod speakers.  I was immediately flashed back to my pre-law school job at Coventry Health Care and my awesome friend Susie.*

Hearing no more than the opening beat, I was swooshed back nearly 15 years, sitting with Susie at Mrs. O’Leary’s, the pub where we’d go pretty much every evening after work to listen to Irish music and to enjoy a happy hour-priced dinner and good company.  It’s surprising how detailed some memories are, isn’t it?  Susie and I had a regular table, just inside the door and to the right, where you could see the goings-on and the live music stage. She’d always sit to my left. I’d usually get the crab dip with toast points and she’d get the mussels steamed in Guinness.  Susie would also enjoy a pint (Bass Ale, back in the day) and the attention of the cute server who was always making excuses to come talk to her.  We affectionately named him Pool Boy because he was a lifeguard as well as a server at Mrs. O’s.

So how does Smooth Criminal bring to mind this particular mental scene, Michael Jackson being a very unlikely artist to be played at Mrs. O’Leary’s?  It’s because the song always makes me think of Susie; it is the reason that to this very day, Susie’s nickname for me is Annie.

You see, I – like so many other introverts – have what some would call a Resting Bitch Face.  In my case, I think it may be more accurately described as a Resting Sad Face, but I don’t think you get to decide that sort of thing for yourself.  I’m only aware of the fact of my Resting Bitch Face from a lifetime of incessantly being asked, “What’s wrong?,” “Why don’t you give me a smile?,” or “Are you okay?”  With extremely rare exception, nothing’s wrong.  If something were wrong, I certainly would not be out and about where people would observe me and pepper me with well-meaning, but intrusive questions.

Bill, from the late, lamented Freaks and Geeks

The resting face… it’s just what my face does when I am sans-expression.  Apparently my neutral countenance causes great concern and distress among compassionate acquaintances and strangers.  I do try to remember to actively put on a more neutral-looking affect – which to me feels like I am smiling like Bill from Freaks and Geeks, but which seems to read as simply content and interested – when I am having in-person conversations with people, particularly people who do not know me well. I am the politest person I know; I hate to be mistaken as bored, aloof, rude or mean because of my face. The nickname Annie comes from a conversation I had with Susie when we were getting to know each other and I had to explain “it’s just what my face does” after the nth time she checked in with me to see if I was okay. She started singing, “Annie, are you okay? Are you okay? Are you okay, Annie” from the chorus of Smooth Criminal and, to Susie alone, I’ve been Annie ever since.

Susie’s resting face, by the way, is blissful and idyllic, like a combination of the unconditionally loving excitement of a puppy mixed with the confident radiance of the sun; it warms you inside and reminds you that there is beauty in the world, regardless of how your day is going.  When she smiles or laughs, both of which she does often and with an unselfconscious abandon, it is infectious and makes you feel like she’s your cheerleader and you just won the Super Bowl or something.  She really is a delight to be around. I have never met anyone as positive or consistently happy as Susie; even during times of bona fide personal tragedy, she manages to be upbeat. It would be easy to hate her if she weren’t so damned genuine and sincere.

When I emerged after a few moments in 1999 on the stationary bike, I actually teared up a little. The juxtaposition of 29 year old me sharing laughs with one of my besties in our neighborhood pub and 44 year old me sweating my ass off from going zero miles an hour for 5 minutes on an exercise bike because of a literally broken heart… I dunno. I guess I get a bit maudlin sometimes.
 
But then the Power of Susie kicked in and I imagined her sitting sidesaddle on the recumbent bike next to me, cracking jokes and telling me I only had a few more minutes to go. That I could totally do it. It reminded me of the time Susie drove me to the emergency room because I’d injured myself doing one of those full-force self defense classes where fake assailants wearing lots and lots of padding attack you and you beat the living hell out of them. Unless you’re me.  If you’re me, you drop your prop bag of groceries, get tangled in your prop backpack, and land on the ground in such a way that some of your pectoral muscle separates from your ribcage. Turns out I was more of a risk to myself than the assailant was.

I called Susie to take me to the ER later that evening because it hurt for me to inhale and drama queen moi was afraid I’d broken a rib or punctured a lung or something. Susie ran me around in a wheelchair for a while; we spent a couple hours rummaging through all the cabinets in the exam room; and Susie used the bed controls to move me up and down like I was on a flying carpet. You’d be surprised how high up those hospital beds actually go.

Remembering the ER trip and imagining Susie on the bike next to me being Susie, I un-teared up and was chuckling to myself as I finished my workout. Maybe I should always bring imaginary friends with me to rehab.  My wonderfully supportive husband comes with me every time, but being corporeal, he can’t really occupy one of the machines.

♥ ♥ ♥

* Hmm, I guess I’ve given up with the pseudonyms for people already – except for my husband and kids, anyway.  If I use your name (or you fear I might someday) and you don’t want me to, just let me know.  I will respect your wishes.  If I were going to give Susie a nickname, though, it would be Groovy.  Because damn that girl is groovy!