Turning 29

Things Good about Turning 29:

T VO

I don’t have a clue where the party is but fortunately for me, I don’t care.

I finally have an excuse to wear a one piece bathing suit.

I can confidently sit in the singles section at lunch and not be bothered by the fact that I have no office lunch buddies.

Rejection no longer hurts as I have become numb to its sting by now.

My single friends are dwindling down to nothing but fortunately for me, I don’t care because I have T VO.

I am referred to as “madam” not “miss”. I know this is due to the fact that I look mature, not old.

My best friend is married but lets me tag along on her houseboat on the weekends

Things Bad about Turning 29:

I have to wear make-up when I leave the house or else children scream and women faint

I think I ruined my life by entering a 4th tier graduate program

Realizing that cellulite scrub does nothing

My pants are tight, I can not hear, and I need contacts

My best friend is married but lets me tag along on her houseboat on the weekends

Weddage

So, the first of my close college friends got married a year ago, and held a ceremony today. This meant several things:

Free drinks?
Yes, free drinks.

Formal wear?
Yes, for me, though there were some doing the dress shirt and jeans look.

Soul-destroying juxtaposition?
Not so fast, overtly negative being of my own creation! Allow me to present several different facets keeping this ceremony from completely crushing the single guests, and the all-too-easy solutions to these errors. While I may not be a wedding planner, I know how to make people like me depressed.

-Nobody cried at this wedding.
Ouch. Couldn't you at least make sure that you enlisted one emotional wreck for ambience?

-The whole group seemed over it.
Again, this could have been so easily avoided. Remember that one "friend" who basically pees him or herself when you so much as personally sign a restraining order? That person, while blocked on your phone and dead to you in spirit, will doggedly pursue a group consensus that you and your wedding are the pinnacle of love and humankind. It will be necessary to change phone numbers later, but creepy cheerleaders at least make everyone know you've got some clout.

-No one danced.
Um...there's...I don't know...a little song called "Funkytown," as in "won't you take me to." As far as I know this song is available in multiple playable formats. You know who doesn't dance to Funkytown? Communists. And if you're in deep with the Reds, wedding dancing is of little concern.

And, Finally:
-No single women.
Despite the fact that this is self-explanatory in nature, allow me to explain, in dual-equation format:

mixed crowd (including single girls) + free booze = delectable chaos

committed crowd (few to no singles) + free booze = questions regarding availability of transportation home

Ask any physicist, these are inarguable laws of the universe.

Anyway, I was curious as to whether or not the enmity toward the groom by the groom's friends would result in any trouble. It didn't, but only because we, the groom's theoretical friends, are not about to kick a man whose "day" lands with early exits and apathy. I can't help but root for the married couple now, because they are an underdog rather than a favorite. I hope that the inauspicious nature of this event is not duplicated in the forthcoming chronology of life for the couple of the day.

From Gloria to Henry

Perhaps the greatest discovery in the literary community in the last decade is the uncovering of the private communications between Gloria Steinem and Henry Miller. Two literary titans, what could surface? Enmity? Syllogism? Love???
Allow us to peer at the early contact.

To Miss S,
Perhaps I am more body than mind, but does not the mind control the body? The bitter, worldly compensations for your touch delight me no longer. Please let us walk and drink in one another’s irrepressible essence, in auditory respect first, then, by grace of humanity, may this lead to olfactory and tactile understanding. I can only hope to be yours.

Henry.

Dear Sirs,
I can be little other than bemused at your vulgar request. If the apex of manhood is defined by the animalistic, then one must be foolish to so much as contemplate egalitarian existence. I will reflect no longer at what both sanity and mercy would deem a forgettable, satirical musing.

Sincerely,
G. S.

To my withholding would-be muse,
Please allow me to clarify; my belief is not to dominate you with my maleness, but to explore the universality of humanity. What could be more unifying than mutual experience of the vestigial shiver accompanying fresh nudeness? I can do little else but offer my person in every capacity. I consider this to be an eminently respectful gesture, and while these things can only be appropriately judged by the recipient and beholder of the offer, I would be grateful for any consideration within your sensibility, as we are both human.

Henry.

Dear Sirs,
Your response is both unnecessary and elucidatory. To refer to me as a potential muse is erroneous, for you have done little else but provide further grounding for the proverbial good fight. For this I can only offer ironic gratitude. Beyond this, however, your efforts would best be directed toward a person whose hedonism clouds purpose. To use humanity as a justification for its own baser facets does a disservice to all involved. Despite my better judgment, I am curious as to how a person such as you would pursue, given a complete inability to succeed.

Sincerely,
G. S.

From One Human to Another,
I think it’s very important that we meet in person. Your excoriation of my apparently lewd homeostasis does more to intrigue my completely intellectual curiosities than could any seminar on any topic. I cannot be more than who I am, but can make myself more than what I am. I can only be in your debt for any future contact.

Henry.

Dear Sirs,
I am not impressed. However, you speak well. I wish to see your worst, though I can’t imagine you could muster better. I can only be certain I will excoriate myself for any action beyond outward dismissal. For the record, the only emotion currently aroused in me is disgust.

Sincerely,
G. S.

Please check back for future entries of this sordid serial.

Broken Hearts before Azheimers

Last January my great aunt died peacefully in her sleep at the age of 92. For years she had suffered from Azheimers and when she passed everyone assumed that it was for the best because “her mind had turned to Swiss cheese”. I am not so sure of this fact because she still managed to whisper the words, “I want to go home”.

My grandparents had moved her to a private assisted living facility where she lived out the remainder of her days running errands with the staff and eating my grandmother’s lipstick when she came to visit. My grandparents tried to make her room as familiar to her as possible. Her florid walls had been cluttered with family portraits and faded vintage pictures from her childhood. A pretty 1930’s figure smiled back at my confused great aunt. This figure was bright and alert and even possessed a suntan from working outside on a farm in Wisconsin. In the pictures my great aunt was often surrounded by her twelve siblings, all possessing youthful optimistic smiles glowing at the camera. My aunt would clutch these photographs in her hands and point to her long forgotten brothers and proclaim, “We were so close, but I don’t remember his name.” Uncle Burt would smile back at her, unable to offer any assistance to his identity.

My great aunt was a fighter and it seemed that nothing could take her down. Not life-threatening brain aneurisms that required major brain surgery at 82, an exploding stomach ulcer which forced her into a rest home only to later return home at 85, or even cancer that the doctor said was metabolizing so slowly that something else would take her life. He was right. One night my aunt quietly went to sleep and her heart stopped. Perhaps she finally recognized Uncle Burt and joined her siblings on the farm.

What saddens me the most is although I was close to my aunt, I never really knew her in an adult capacity. For example, I knew she never married but I never thought this affected her. I was wrong. As a woman I now have a better understanding of her life. I understand that she was young like me, apprehensive towards her place in this world, and was no stranger to heartache and the universal pains of womanhood.

Shortly after the funeral my grandfather handed me a ring while we were going through her jewelry. I was informed that it was from my aunt’s fiancé, who was an officer in the Korean War. This was the first time I had ever heard of this man. “What happen?” I asked. It was then that my grandfather recalled the story of my aunt’s brief dance with love. He told me how her fiancé had been stationed on a local army base and how my aunt had met him at a dance. They had fallen in love and were inseparably for three mouths until his orders came to be sent to Korea. Before his departure he had asked her to be his wife upon his return. My grandfather said he had never seen my great aunt so happy, as she was in her 40’s at the time and thought she would never marry.

My great aunt received weekly letters for about a year and then nothing. He seemed to have fallen off the face of the earth. Although she did not show it, my grandparent’s knew she was devastated by his disappearance. When the war ended she got word from a friend that he had moved back to California and was living in the then quiet farming community of Antioch. My grandfather recalled how she had come to him and asked him to drive her to his place of residence.

Like I said my great aunt was a fighter, so it was not in her place to cry or show weakness. She had just silently sat in the passenger seat of my grandfather’s old Ford quietly smoking and gazing out at the golden farmland as the pick-up bounced along the dirt road. When they reached his house my grandfather recalls that she ran her fingers through her golden hair and reapplied her soft pink lipstick. With all the courage she had left she stepped out of the vehicle and turned towards the house clutching her purse over her breast as if for support. My grandfather watched as she walked up the front porch and knocked on the door.

She was only gone for fifteen minutes. Returning to the car she politely asked my grandfather to take her home. She offered him only limited information. That he was married to a German nurse he has met overseas and was planning to write as soon as he got settled in. Like I said, my great aunt was a fighter, but tears fell that day and they fell hard. My grandfather recalls that my great aunt cried all the way back to Concord still clutching her purse against her chest. That was the first and last time anyone would ever witness her crying. My great aunt suffered this heartache in silence and never spoke of him again.

Although she never married, I believe my aunt has a good life. She went on to help raise her niece, my mother, and then her grand nieces, my sister and I. She always laughed with the neighbors, a gesture my father entitled, “smoking and joking”. She spent long lazy summers up at Lake Tahoe, and was surrounded by many people who loved her. She lived and lived well. There are things we just assume about people and fail to realize that their own realties are not universal to our own. My life got busy during her last years and I never seemed to make it out to visit her. I regret this now.

Last Christmas she had become the center of our family holiday jesters. My mother would tease, “She thought there were cows in the garage” or “she ate grandmother’s lipstick again.” While we feasted over my mother’s consistently dry holiday turkey, my great aunt was forced to wear reindeer antlers and parade down the block Christmas caroling with the rest of the patients. I know that this strong woman would not have liked this at all. Then, as quietly as she had come into this world she left it, taking with her so many complicated secrets of a life that seemed so uncomplicated.

There is so little that we truly know about our loved ones. I try to remember my aunt as she was in the picture of her at the farm, strong and determined with her whole life ahead of her. It pains me to think of the 1950’s image of her clutching her purse against her breasts and uncontrollably sobbing in my grandfather’s Ford pick-up. Ironically, Azheimers robbed her of her memory but this new piece to the puzzle of her life has restored my memory of her and in a way brought me closer to her. Just like all women, my great aunt knew heartache and was able to bravely tread on alone. She lived an entire life full and was not so unlike myself. I did not realize this before. I only hope that she was content in the life she led and that although she was robbed of romantic love, the love from her friends and family was enough.

Interior by Dorothy Parker

Her mind lives in a quiet room, A narrow room, and tall,

With pretty lamps to quench the gloom And mottoes on the wall.

There all the things are waxen neat And set in decorous lines;

And there are posies, round and sweet, And little, straightened vines.

Her mind lives tidily, apart From cold and noise and pain,

And bolts the door against her heart, Out wailing in the rain.