Plain Jane

By Barrie Levitt Knee

Plain Jane is the story of a forty something wife and mother who has kept a secret from her family for almost seven years. Jane has forever considered herself to be plain. Her BFF Gaby is the exact opposite. Following a night of countless margaritas, Jane and Gaby make a secret pact because thats what friends are for. Now Jane has less than a week to tell her family what she has done.

The secret is revealed over a four and a half hour time period while Jane is running a marathon. The story is told in Janes head. Each chapter begins with a song that Jane is listening to while running. The lyrics tie into the secret and many other stories that Jane tells about Gaby, her family, and mostly herself.

Keep moving Jane! You can do this! This is Janes running mantra throughout the book. The physical and emotional journey of running a marathon is continuously felt. Janes sixty-four songs are listed at the end of the book. It is a great playlist for those that run a ten minute mile like Jane.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Mar 13, 2015
• ISBN: 9781503548909

Barrie Levitt Knee

Barrie Levitt Knee grew up in the suburbs of Philadelphia. She is married with twin daughters and lives in New Jersey. Her interests include reading, running, yoga and long walks with her two dogs.

Book preview

Copyright © 2015 by Barrie Levitt Knee.

Library of Congress Control Number:   2015903414

            ISBN:               Hardcover            978-1-5035-4889-3

                                    Softcover               978-1-5035-4891-6

                                    eBook                     978-1-5035-4890-9

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Rev. date: 03/10/2015

Xlibris

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CONTENTS

Prologue

Song One Born To Run, Bruce Springsteen

Song Two I’m Goin’ Down, Bruce Springsteen

Song Three Brown Eyed Girl, Van Morrison

Song Four American Pie, Don Mclean

Song Five Dream On, Aerosmith

Song Six Material Girl, Madonna

Song Seven Human Wheels, John Mellencamp

Song Eight Our Lips Are Sealed, The Go-Go’s

Song Nine Lose Yourself, Eminem

Song Ten Who Are You, The Who

Song Eleven Hang Fire, Rolling Stones

Song Twelve You’re So Vain, Carly Simon

Song Thirteen Peace Of Mind, Boston

Song Fourteen Creatures Of Love, Talking Heads

Song Fifteen I Was Made For Lovin’ You, Kiss

Song Sixteen Crazy Train, Ozzy Osbourne

Song Seventeen Only The Good Die Young, Billy Joel

Song Eighteen Viva La Vida, Coldplay

Song Nineteen I Won’t Back Down, Tom Petty And The Heartbreakers

Song Twenty Life Of Illusion, Joe Walsh

Song Twenty-One Girls Just Want To Have Fun, Cyndi Lauper

Song Twenty-Two What’s Your Name, Lynyrd Skynyrd

Song Twenty-Three This Is The Day, The The

Song Twenty-Four Telephone Line, Elo (Electric Light Orchestra)

Song Twenty-Five Ain’t No Mountain High Enough, Marvin Gaye And Tammi Terrell

Song Twenty-Six How To Save A Life, The Fray

Song Twenty-Seven With Arms Wide Open, Creed

Song Twenty-Eight Rumour Has It, Adele

Song Twenty-Nine Dancing Queen, Abba

Song Thirty Get The Party Started, Pink

Song Thirty-One Fireworks, Katy Perry

Song Thirty-Two Landslide, Fleetwood Mac

Song Thirty-Three What I’ve Done, Linkin Park

Song Thirty-Four Sweet Child O’ Mine, Guns N’ Roses

Song Thirty-Five Shiny Happy People, R.e.m.

Song Thirty-Six Walking In Memphis, Marc Cohn

Song Thirty-Seven I Wanna Go Back, Eddie Money

Song Thirty-Eight I’m No Angel, Gregg Allman

Song Thirty-Nine Too Much Time On My Hands, Styx

Song Forty Hand In My Pocket, Alanis Morissette

Song Forty-One Closer To Fine, Indigo Girls

Song Forty-Two Object Of My Affection, Shawn Colvin

Song Forty-Three The Bitch Is Back, Elton John

Song Forty-Four Odds Are, Barenaked Ladies

Song Forty-Five Mercy, Duffy

Song Forty-Six Lovesong, The Cure

Song Forty-Seven These Are Days, 10,000 Maniacs

Song Forty-Eight Hey, Hey, My, My (Out Of The Blue), Neil Young

Song Forty-Nine Let It Be, The Beatles

Song Fifty Comfortably Numb, Pink Floyd

Song Fifty-One Count On Me, Bruno Mars

Song Fifty-Two If Today Was Your Last Day, Nickelback

Song Fifty-Three Cry, Kelly Clarkson

Song Fifty-Four Secrets, Onerepublic

Song Fifty-Five Mr. Jones, Counting Crows

Song Fifty-Six Hold My Hand, Hootie And The Blowfish

Song Fifty-Seven Someday, Rob Thomas

Song Fifty-Eight Maybe It’s Just Me, Butch Walker

Song Fifty-Nine Hall Of Fame, The Script (Feat. Will.i.am)

Song Sixty Just Breathe, Pearl Jam

Song Sixty-One Ants Marching, Dave Matthew Band

Song Sixty-Two Going On, Gnarls Barkley

Song Sixty-Three Peace, Love, And Understanding, Elvis Costello

Song Sixty-Four Safe And Sound, Capital Cities

Epilogue

Acknowledgments

Prologue

It is May 6, 2012, and I’m heading to Oceanport, New Jersey, to run my first marathon. Today there will be twelve thousand runners, including me, running 26.2 miles. Yes, me! Jane Ellen Weiss Cooper. I like saying my full name. I like the way it flows. I like how the syllables alternate. Jane (one), Ellen (two), Weiss (one), Cooper (two). It has good rhythm and is much better than plain Jane. There is most definitely no rhythm with that name.

I’ve often wondered, what if my parents had decided to end my name with an a and not an e? Who would Jana have been? Would she have thought herself to be plain? Would Jana have allowed herself to be plain? I’m laughing out loud over why I still ask myself these same questions over and over again. After all, I’m a forty-one-year-old grown woman who is married, with two almost teenagers. Again, LOL! And let’s not forget, I’m about to run a marathon. Yet I continue to ask and I continue to recall the precise moment of my self-proclaimed self-acceptance to be plain. It was thirty-one years ago. I was ten years old and my mom had taken me downtown, as we Philly people refer to the city, to the John Wanamaker Department Store. We would go there every year before school started so I could get my back-to-school clothes. Reminds me of one of my favorite songs from camp, Circle Game, sung by Joni Mitchell.

And the seasons they go round and round,

And the painted ponies go up and down

Not sure of the next couple of lines. Something about a carousel. Then finally, the lyrics we all know and can sing:

And go round and round and round

In the circle game

Truly one of the best songs ever!

Shopping for back-to-school clothes was such a special day. My mom would individually take me, Emily, and Aimee (sisters). She would rotate the order of taking us based on our age to be fair. How many times have I heard those two words growing up? How many times as a mom have I said those words? A mother must always be fair, she would say. So to be fair, one year she would take Emily (oldest), then me, then Aimee (youngest). The following year it would be just the opposite. Aimee, then me, then Emily. I don’t think it ever dawned on my mom that I was always in the middle. Yup, plain Jane. Plain Jane in the middle. Plain middle-of-the-road Jane. Monkey-in-the-middle Jane. Jane Brady, as I nicknamed myself after good old Jan. I have made up so many names for myself over the years. Far too many to count. But back to the shopping. It did not matter whose turn it was to go with Mom because the day was always the same. Train. Shopping. Lunch. Train.

The train station in our town was Rydal Train Station. We lived just three and a half blocks away. But my mom would never think to walk there. We always drove. My mom was one of those supercool seventies gals. She had bell-bottom jeans, flowy tops, and platform shoes. From the time I was four and to this day, I always thought she was beautiful. Like a Barbie doll with brown hair. I wanted to be just like her when I grew up. My friends always said she was the prettiest mom. Whenever she walked into my school, the girls, the boys, and often the teachers would follow her with their eyes. My sisters and I loved wearing her platform shoes and practicing her confident walk. Though more often than not, I wound up stumbling and falling.

Anyway, we’d always take the train closest to nine in the morning so that we’d be waiting outside the Market Street doors as the store was opened. The train ride was slightly less than an hour. My mom and I would sit in the first car to be closest to the engineer. I think it made her feel safer. I always got the window seat in the two-seater row. My mom knew that I loved looking outside as we whizz by residential neighborhoods, highways, and factories with vacant lots. I never told her, but I had a secret hope that if I looked hard enough, I would discover something newsworthy, like a dead body, a small fire that had just started, or a crime being committed. I’d daydream about how I’d be interviewed on the local news; there would be a picture of me in all the newspapers, the mayor would present me with a trophy, and all the kids at school would want to be my friend. I’d fantasize about witnessing something horrible, something that could give me lifelong nightmares, just so I could get attention. Just so I could get noticed. Just so I wouldn’t feel plain.

My mom would buy our tickets in advance. She’d hand them to me once we were seated so that I could put them in the metal slot that was on the back of the seats in front of us. I’d then anxiously wait for the conductor to take the tickets, punch a few holes in them, and return them to the slot. Usually the conductor was a male who would then smile at my mom and tell her to have a good day. She would smile back and say something to return the sentiment. Then out would come the list. The big shopping list. Together we would review all the items that we would need to buy. Besides all the typical school clothes, sometimes we would be looking for something special, like a dress for the Jewish holidays or a winter coat. My mom would always remind me that we needed to stay focused on our shopping list and that when we were done we would go have lunch. She’d then hand me a red box of Sun-Maid raisins so that I’d have the energy to begin my exhausting day of trying on clothes.

Once we got into town, the race to Wanamaker’s would begin. My mom would take me by the hand and quickly weave us in and out of dozens of people who were all trying to do the same thing. We would eventually get through the crowded train station and head straight to Thirteenth and Market Streets. Inside the store, we would pass the twenty-five-hundred-pound bronze eagle statue in the Grand Court and take the elevator straight up four floors to the children’s department. If I close my eyes, I can still picture the precise layout. The girls-wear was to the right, and the boys-wear was to the left. In the middle were the shoes, and in between the shoes and the clothes were the racks that had accessories, like socks, stockings, barrettes, bows, and so on.

I remember Brenda, our salesperson, who had been helping us Weiss girls since my oldest sister, Emily, started kindergarten. Brenda was petite. She had jet-black hair that she wore in a bob with short bangs. She had glasses that were attached to a gold chain and hung down like a necklace. I can’t recall her ever putting them on, so I think she maybe had them to make her look smart or to make her look like she was in charge. I can also remember her having a shiny name tag that probably read something like Senior Sales Associate. My mom and Brenda would review the shopping list, and together they would start to gather up the items and secure them in the largest fitting room that had a three-way mirror. While they were busy, I would search through my size racks of clothes and look at the things I liked. Most of which were not on the shopping list. Once all the items were collected by my mom and Brenda, my mom would let out a whoa type of sigh. Brenda took that as her cue that my mom was ready for me to start trying everything and time for Brenda to leave the fitting room and return to the floor. Brenda always walked backward as she exited and told my mom to just holler if she needed anything.

After trying on countless outfits and negotiating with each other, we would make the purchases my mom wanted and head straight to lunch. Lunch! I would always look forward to lunch! We would eat at John Wanamaker’s restaurant called the Crystal Tea Room, which was located a five floors up, on the ninth floor. I’d have the macaroni and cheese and a freshly squeezed lemonade. The mac and cheese came in a small brown crock resting on a white plate with a soupspoon on the side. My mom never had to ask me to finish it. It was so yummy. The dish should have been called cheese and macaroni because it was so cheesy. I swear I would be finished in less than two minutes. Then I would wait patiently for my mom to finish her salad so that we—or rather, I—could have dessert. My mom would order coffee with cream for herself and the kids’ ice cream special for me. The ice cream special was a scoop of ice cream with an upside-down cone. It was meant to look like a clown, with gumdrops for the eyes and nose. I’d order chocolate ice cream and cross my fingers that none of the gumdrops would be green. I did not want a green gumdrop to spoil my perfect shopping day with my perfect mom.

My mom is the perfect mom, and the perfect mom is my mom. Try saying that three times fast! And if I were to ask my mom if she thought of herself as the perfect mom, she would definitely say yes. She would also volunteer that she’s also the perfect wife. As for me, my answer would be that I have always tried to be the perfect mom, but at the end of the day, no one is.

I remember thinking that shopping that particular year was going to be different. After all, I had turned double digits over the summer. I was entering the fifth grade. It would be my last year at Rydal Elementary School. I was still the third smallest girl in the class, and except for Billy Bass, I was the youngest in my grade. My feet had grown over the summer, and I couldn’t wait to get my new shoes. I was now just a half size smaller than my sister, Emily, so hand-me-downs from her were not an option. New school shoes were on my shopping list! I ran straight to the shoe department and saw red shoes with sparkles, black shoes with bows, and even brown shoes with burgundy laces. I couldn’t decide which to try on first. As I turned around to show my mom the armful of shoes that I liked, she was already handing Brenda a single pair of closed black leather shoes with a thin strap fastener. They were Mary Janes. Plain Mary Janes! No sparkles, no bows, no laces. I started to protest, but my stylish mother didn’t want to hear it. She wasn’t going to negotiate. She told me that these shoes would be best because I could wear them with anything. They would blend in. They may not be the prettiest, but sometimes plain is best. So within five minutes the purchase was made, and to me, my fate was officially sealed. I became my shoes. I became plain. I became plain Jane.

I smile and shake my head. Why am I thinking about this now? It is too early on a Sunday morning for me to be thinking about anything. It is almost seven thirty. I have been up since five o’clock, though with all the tossing and turning that I did during the night, I’m not sure if I ever truly slept. Blame it on nervous energy. I am definitely a bit nervous about today. It is hard for me to believe that I have spent eighteen weeks preparing for this day. Jordan (husband) and Jake (son) and Emerson (daughter) will be waiting at Pier Village in Long Branch as I cross the finish line located on the Promenade. I told them that it should take me four and a half hours. I am not a fast runner. I run a clean ten-minute mile. My father would consider me a jogger. I laugh to myself thinking how it would sound if I told everyone I just jogged my first marathon.

My dad has that little streak in him. Some, including Jordan, would call it a mean streak. It’s the kind of streak that can just hit a nerve every now and again. It is a streak that