I'M GOING TO BUY THE BROOKLYN BRIDGE

Adrienne Popper

Not long ago I received an alumni bulletin from my college. It included a brief item about a former classmate: "Kate L. teaches part-time at the University of Oklahoma and is assistant principal at County High School. In her spare time she is finishing her doctoral dissertation and the final drafts of two books, and she still has time for tennis and horse riding with her daughters." Four words in that description undid me: in her spare time. A friend said that if I believed everything hi the report, she had a bridge in Brooklyn she'd like to sell me.

My friend's joke hit home. What an idiot I'd been! I resolved to stop thinking about Kate's incredible accomplishments and to be suitably skeptical of such stories in the future.

But like a dieter who devours a whole box of cookies in a moment of weakness, I found my resolve slipping occasionally. In weak moments I'd comb the pages of newspapers and magazines and consume success stories by the pound. My favorite superwomen included a politician's daughter who cared for her two-year-old and a newborn while finishing law school and managing a company; a practicing pediatrician with ten children of her own; and a television anchorwoman, mother of two preschoolers, who was studying for a master's degree.

One day, however, I actually met a superwoman face to face. Just before Christmas last year, my work took me to the office of a woman executive of a national corporation. Like her supersisters, she has a husband, two small children and, according to reports, a spotless apartment. Her life runs as precisely as a Swiss watch. Since my own schedule rarely succeeds, her accomplishments fill me with equal amounts of wonder and guilt

On a shelf behind her desk that day were at least a hundred jars of strawberry jam, gaily tied with red-checked ribbons. The executive and her children had made the jam and decorated the jars, which she planned to distribute to her staff and visiting clients.

When, I wondered aloud, had she found the time to complete such an impressive holiday project? I should have known better than to ask. The answer had a familiar ring: in her spare time.

On the train ride home I sat with ajar of strawberry jam in my lap. It reproached me the entire trip. Other women, it seemed to say, are movers and shakers—not only during office hours, but in their spare time as well. What, it asked, do you accomplish in your spare time?

I would like to report that I am using my extra moments to complete postdoctoral studies in physics, to develop new theories of tonal harmony for piano and horn, and to bake cakes and play baseball with my sons. The truth of the matter is, however, that I am by nature completely unable to get my act together. No matter how carefully I plan my time, the plan always goes wrong.

If I create schedules of military precision in which several afternoon hours are given over to the writing of the Great American Novel, the school nurse is sure to phone at exactly the moment I put pencil to paper. One of my children will have developed a strange illness that requires him to spend the remainder of the day in bed, calling me at frequent intervals to bring soup, juice, and tea.

Other days, every item on my schedule will take three times the number of minutes set aside. The cleaner will misplace my clothes. My order won't be ready at the butcher shop as promised. The woman ahead of me in the supermarket line will pay for her groceries with a check drawn on a Martian bank, and only the manager (who has just left for lunch) can OK the matter. "They also serve who only stand and wait," wrote the poet John Milton, but he forgot to add that they don't get to be superwomen that way.

Racing the clock every day is such an exhausting effort that when I actually have a few free moments, I tend to collapse. Mostly I sink into a chair and stare into space while I imagine how lovely life would be if only I possessed the organizational skills and the energy of my superheroines. In fact, I waste a good deal of my spare time just worrying about what other women are accomplishing in theirs. Sometimes I think that these modern fairy tales create as many problems for women as the old stories that had us biding our time for the day our prince would come.

Yet superwomen tales continue to charm me. Despite my friend's warning against being taken in, despite everything I've learned, I find that I'm not only willing, but positively eager to buy that bridge she mentioned. Why? I suppose it has something to do with the appeal of an optimistic approach to life—and the fact that extraordinary deeds have been accomplished by determined individuals who refused to believe that "you can't" was the final word on their dreams.

Men have generally been assured that achieving their heart's desires would be a piece of cake. Women, of course, have always believed that we can't have our cake and eat it too—the old low-dream diet. Perhaps becoming a superwoman is an impossible dream for me, but life without that kind of fantasy is as unappealing as a diet with no treats.

I know the idea of admiring a heroine is considered silly today; we working women are too sophisticated for that. Yet the superwomen I read about are my heroines. When my faith in myself falters, it is they who urge me on, whispering, "Go for it, lady!"

One of these days I plan to phone my former classmate Kate and shout "Well done!" into the receiver. I hope she won't be modest about her achievements. Perhaps she will have completed her dissertation and her two books and moved on to some new work that's exciting or dangerous or both. I'd like to hear all about it. After that I'm going to phone the friend who laughed at me for believing all the stories I hear. Then I'll tell her a story: the tale of a woman who bought her own version of that bridge in Brooklyn and found that it was a wise investment after all.