Skinny Lattes; Skinny Europeans

There are a lot of single women in this world. I don’t mean that in a creepy way. But the rate of loneliness is going up in my opinion, and so is the anonymity of the world.

Young girls long to get married. Married women long to be single. And the middle-aged single women sit in cafes, as skinny as their lattes, with an expression of pondering. Pondering what you may ask? Maybe the man who left them on the alter? Maybe the poofy cat that she just buried in a lovely spot under that big oak in her backyard. Or, maybe she’s just trying to make up her mind on which sultry, young lady that buffoon of a bachelor will give a rose to. And another sip on your cappuccino.

And that’s life. People living in a reality where reality is not a word. Instead, what they know is a warm, dreary feeling that lifts us up above this dull room, this stuffy house, the translucent sky, till we lie with our backs on the clouds, our fronts warmed in the sun of tomorrow. And to tell you the truth, I like it. Alot.

You read a book about extraordinary people arguing about their love lives only for it to end unhappily, with that precious vase introduced in chapter three (you know the one, Grandma gave it to Ada on her seventh birthday), breaking to pieces. It represents the unhappiness in which poor Ada will live the rest of her life wallowing in.

And that little argument you had yesterday about why your response was a bit too harsh to that simple question seems so much more simple. In fact, it was only because you were feeling overwhelmed by the immense feeling of sadness at all the events that happened to you in the last 48 hours, and had in no way anything to do with the one you were snappy to.

But after the argument, you feel alone. So alone. And then you realize that someone is there. Someone who understands. Ada. Poor, sweet Ada went through the same feelings after that jerk of a man broke up with her over her over-cooked pasta. “I told you it wasn’t Al Dente!” he cried. That chapter will always bring a tear to my eye.

But it’s not pasta that wrecks our mundane lives. It’s the frightening thought that haunts your every step. It bites your heels when you check out at the grocery store. When you go on a walk past the neighbor’s. The thought that no one, no matter what you do, no matter how many escapist novels you drive your nose into, no one will understand. Gives you the chills, doesn’t it? The self-checkout is looking alot better, huh? A few hours on Second Life and I could go to the amusement park without worrying one bit about that.

Little looks, little motions, and your happy reality turns to black as you are sucked into a dismal drone of disappointment. Judgment. Rejection.

But in the long run, what does it matter? Rejection. As long as your content; or content to be discontent, that works too. Or just use a time-worn tradition and jump in front of that oncoming subway. What does it matter.

Or does it matter a lot. Acceptance. Being understood. Do all your hopes and fears, expectations and accomplishments hang on that very knob. Being understood. Like a dirty, old coat, that has been tossed around, used for years, do you throw your hopes on the back of your neighbor’s chair, maybe hang it up on their coat-rack? Does your neighbor know? Or will he forget and use that coat-rack as kindling to battle the bitter cold raging at his door?

Is it better to be understood and rejected? or misunderstood and content?

Let me know. Leave a comment.

Uncontrollable Goodbyes

The lights inconsistently flashed, paining my eyes as they stared out the foggy glass. Two hours in the car with an emotional barrier between us all, the pressure started getting to me. My forehead bled for the coolness of the window to sooth the burning I felt in my stomach overflowing into my throat. It started tightening when
I thought of her form unmoving on the hospital bed: limbs stilled, heart rate slowing, breathing faint. If only the car could go faster.

At the same time, I (with all my will) wanted to escape, run to a warm bed to be comforted, knowing though that the stiff, chill wind would hunt me down. My mother was quietly weeping in front of me. I wanted to turn from the heartbreak.

Hope hurt even more. I wanted desperately to think that she would make it through and live for another twenty years. That she would see another Christmas, another grandchild, another summer. But my logicality knew better. Eighty. Lung cancer. Pneumonia. These words kept revolving like a merry-go-round in my head. Like my Dad when it was time to go, death was ready to end the ride.

Through all the sadness, despair, and premonitions, I felt a strange exhilaration. Thinking of the strangeness of hospital rooms, and the clean smelling hallways. The thought of that time when grandma helped me and my sister rake the leaves in the chilly, face-burning fall. These hand-in-hand inspired a strange calmness, a bubble of solitude. Near excitement.

That bubble ripped and turned into falling dust as soon as my Mom’s cell phone rang.

Five minutes away: “Sis, I’m sorry, you’re too late. She’s already passed.”

The hallways didn’t smell clean, but rather like putrid bleach. The rooms weren’t exciting, but dull and dead. Just like that body that lay where my Grandma took her final breath. Where Grandma’s soul left her body to meet her Saviour.

I couldn’t cry. It felt like I was dreaming. I was dreaming. This was a nightmare from which my Mom would wake me up; we would travel to Grandma’s warm home. She would sit us down with the feast she would always make (according to the unspoken rules of Southern comfort); no matter how much my Mom would argue. She would think of us as we were, kids running around the yard ten years ago. She would love us when we were unlovable; encourage us when we were discouraged.

It wasn’t till I sat in a room full of strangers and people I recognized but didn’t know; when my Dad started crying when he explained the first time he met Her; my Mom when she talked of her childhood; when I realized that not again in this world could I sit with her and dwell on her every word; when I thought of all the times I was a disappointment and she cherished me still; when I thought of all the times that I was too busy to talk to her, talk about her life, her feelings; then, I started to weep.

When they lowered her casket into the dirtiness of her grave; the clean perfect casket into the mud, I could almost scream for them to stop. So that I could breath magical breath into her nostrils and she would rise like a Lazarus. But I would have to be God. And He wasn’t going to raise her, at least for now.
I sat in my room again, hugging a pillow that wasn’t a replacement for Her fragile self, and hid from all the “Don’t worry, everything will be ok”s, and the “She’s in a better place”s.

I knew that, I believed it too, but right now I could only dream of the past. Tomorrow I would deal with this passing life. For tomorrow, or the next day, I would die too. And my grandchildren would mourn me.

Life is so short…but so precious.

All we can do is have a trusting HOPE.