How to be Sheryl Crow

“This ain’t no disco,” Sheryl Crow informs me.

I flick the windshield wipers to clear the frost on the windows of my '99 Honda CR-V. As I wait for it to dissipate, I crank up the heat and imagine the L.A. sun. 

My last class of the day is Sociology with Mr. C—a notoriously easy elective that every senior wanted to take. You basically just play games for an hour and everyone gets an A.

Mr. C was undeniably cool. He had devised his own system for a personality test by taking common archetypes and rebranding them in his own words. It was quite brilliant. On the first day of class, we all took the test and got sorted into groups like “Vigilant,” “Self-Sacrificing,” “Dramatic,” “Confident,” and so on.

But today, I’m skipping Sociology to see M. He’d gotten back late last night from the hospital after getting injured at an away soccer game. Seven stitches near his ribs. It sounded bad—bad enough to make me forgive him for not asking me to prom yet.

The frost clears enough for me to drive. I hit “repeat” on the stereo and listen to Sheryl again. I turn out of the high school parking lot and shift gears as I head into the Valley, a dense and twisting neighborhood known for its big rocks and bigger money.

“It ain’t no country club, either!” Sheryl continues.

I’ve only been to a country club once before, and it wasn’t very fun. Then again, maybe I’m not fun. In Mr. C’s class, my personality type was the least common one: “Serious.” My “group” was two people: me and one other guy. He never raised his hand and kept to himself, but he was funny once you got to know him. I didn’t think either of us were all that serious. In fact, I resented the label. It made me feel exposed.

“A ‘Serious’ personality thinks about everything,” Mr. C had said, when introducing the personality type. “When they watch Bambi, they don’t cry when the mom dies like a ‘Self-sac’ or scream nooo like a ‘Dramatic.’ They just sit there for a long time and ask, ‘What’s the meaning behind all this?’”

He made a good point here—what is the meaning of Bambi? Cycle of nature? Life and death? Loss?

A fresh wave of snowfall has begun. I reduce my speed and press “repeat” again. “All I wanna do is have some fun,” Sheryl sings. I feel her deeply. (But that's not new. I feel everything deeply at 16.)

I wonder if Sheryl Crow ever thinks about Bambi or if she’s too busy being a rockstar. I wish I could be her. She seems effortlessly radical—teacher turned icon. Optimistic. Unbothered. Highly skilled. The type of power I deeply respect. Real and well-earned.

I don’t know many women like her. I don’t know anyone like her, in general. She modeled individuality, freedom, possibility—things I desperately longed for.

“Until the sun comes up over Santa Monica Boulevard. Doo-doo.” I avoid the boulder where I accidentally dented my car a few weeks ago and maneuver into M’s long driveway. I’ve always liked M’s house. I can hear myself think up here, with the foxes and trees. In the summer, families of deer wander through his backyard, in search of something.

I start thinking about Bambi again. I cut the music and watch the snow land on the needles of the towering pine trees around me. They were here before I arrived, and will remain long after. That is real power, too.

Finally, I head inside to see the patient, who is in surprisingly good spirits for someone who cracked a rib just 24 hours ago.

I ask him to tell me the story of how he got 7 stitches and he gives me a play-by-play: icy field, full speed, hard landing, cracked bones, blood everywhere.

He leans back against the pillow with a slight wince: “It’s pretty gruesome.”

“Can I see it?”

“No, Kate.”

“Why?”

“It’s gross.”

“Please?”

“No.”

“I’ll be careful. I just want to see.”

“Okay, fine. Just lift the bandage slowly.”

I follow his instructions, tentatively peeling back the gauze, bracing myself for gore.

I’m surprised.

There are no stitches.

No swelling, no blood.

Instead, a small word was written on his ribs in black Sharpie: Prom?

I stare for a moment, then start laughing.

It was the perfect prom ask. Unpredictable, funny, weirdly intimate. M knew how my brain worked. He knew I’d ask for a detailed backstory. He knew I’d want to see the stitches up close. He knew the romantic in me still wanted to be asked to prom, even though we’d been dating for over a year. In other words, he got me.

“Is that a yes?” M asks.

“Yes,” I reply, still laughing.

In this moment, I am glad I'm Kate Lewis and not Sheryl Crow.

To be loved is to be seen.

I have changed a lot since high school, but I've always been who I am. Growth is a paradox. We're individual and interconnected; the seed and the forest; Kate Lewis and no one.

The more I see myself, the less I want to be anyone else. I want to embrace every part of me, and I want to be around others who fully embrace themselves, too.

Besides, life's far too short. This world is a strange, extraordinary place, and we're not here for long. All I wanna do is have some fun. 🪩

Sheryl Crow forever / January 1990