“I'm getting divorced tomorrow,” I said to a friend.
“What are you wearing?” she replied.
I had to laugh. I hadn't given it any thought, but I supposed the time would come when I would be standing in the doorway to my closet, scanning the possibilities, wondering what image to put forth. A slinky red dress and ankle strap heels? No. Ours wasn't about vengeance, but a fundamental discord in basic values, character and opinion as to what constitutes a marriage. And besides, at 8:30am on a Tuesday in Newark, who really wants to be teetering in heels at the metal detector? De trop. By the time one gets to the courthouse to sign a property settlement agreement and be formally declared divorced, trust me, there’s nothing left to prove. To anyone. I could wear a dark suit and Barbara Stanwick hat with a veil but it wasn't a sad day, entirely, either, so I decided I would dress confidently and with resolve for the courthouse. Whatever that looked like.
After three sessions of mediation following months and months of emails with my soon-to-be-ex, I'd finally come to the end of a two-year odyssey and arrived at the courthouse with only the dregs left to decide. I'd packed lightly, grabbing only a single Lego guy for comfort and strength, and ended up wearing warm, bright colors; a below-the-knee skirt and blouse of modest design. My future-former husband arrived focused and unshaven.
Our relations were strained-- it was an uncomfortable day for both of us-- but we handled the administrative loose ends with civility and purpose. Then, just like on TV, we stood up from opposite sides of the courtroom aisle and moved through a thigh-high, darkly varnished swinging gate, taking our seats at separate long tables in front of Judge Sarbito. A uniformed bailiff stood waiting down below him, as well a court secretary and a box of Kleenex. All the other cases had cleared out long ago; the judge had mercifully saved ours for last. Aside from my attorney-- my ex had fired his a few days before-- it was just our cozy little group. No friends, no family, just us. You could say it was the opposite of our big, festive wedding. You could say it was a lot of things.
Judge Sarbito was a calm, reasoned man with an excellent command of the room and a well-honed, dry sense of humor. I was glad he was assigned to us. He'd been a matrimonial judge for 21 years and had presided over 40,000 divorces. To say he'd seen it all was a vast understatement and I wished I could be seated next to him at a dinner party. He sat way above us, commanding us down below as would the captain of a whaling ship or a priest in a high pulpit. We sat-- unwise to speak unless spoken to-- and listened to his schpiel with the same rapt attention as we had our minister all those years ago. He asked us questions-- first my ex then me-- which we answered simply and with gravitas.
"Do you understand everything put forth in the undersigned agreement you've reached today?" the judge questioned.
"Yes," I said.
"And have you signed the agreement in question without duress or undue pressure from any third parties?"
Ha, I wanted to say. Undue pressure? You're joking, right? My life had been a daily pressure cooker for the better part of a year. Getting divorced had been like a part time freelance job with a nightmare boss-- some would counter that it's a full time job-- which was finally coming to an end. The emotional hailstorm had taken place two years before. This last year was just an extreme administrative time-suck and bureaucratic buzz-kill; one that marred nearly every day in some unforeseen way.
"Did you get married in a church wedding in October of 2000?" Judge Sarbito asked me first.
"Yes," I answered. My throat tightened. He turned to my ex and asked him the same.
"And your marriage produce one child?"
"Yes," I squeaked and reached for a tissue.
No one told me that he would bring up my wedding day or that this exchange would look, feel and sound so much like my marriage vows. I loved my wedding day; it was wonderful and fun. Why hadn’t I arranged to go dancing tonight? Because I didn’t know how I’d feel; still don’t. The judge continued, "Do you understand that this signed agreement is a legal contract recognized by the state and that it's binding forever?"
“Yes I do, your honor,” I said, mindful that I once believed my marriage vows to be binding forever. Tears swelled and I could feel my lips pursing. As long as I could keep my lips from parting, I still maintained some control. Why didn't I ask my mom to come with me today? Where is my Sex and the City gaggle of girlfriends, sitting two rows behind me; giving me the thumbs up whenever I turn around? There would be no champagne brunch, no towels with new monograms. This was a grave day; a lone warrior day. I had gone into this marriage surrounded by friends and family and I was going out very much alone.
But the symmetry was just. Marrying him was a decision I made on my own on the morning that he presented me with a ring, just he and I. He’d asked a simple question and I answered it without counsel. Then, seven years later, I began to ask myself a whole new set of questions. Then asked him the same questions, then answered them for myself. Our marriage was dissolved just shy of ten years and I wondered if the internal Q & A would end today. It felt like it already had. I knew deep down I’d done the right thing, and that that was all that mattered. The marriage was mourned before the divorce process began. Today was a bookend, a seal.
Judge Sarbito thanked us for reaching an agreement before our trial date. Then he pronounced us—by the power vested in him in the state of New Jersey—divorced. It was a truly surreal and singular moment, much like the moment I was pronounced married. But today I felt deeply saddened by the triumph, like the moment a loved one in pain finally dies.
My ex held the varnished gates open for my attorney and me to walk through and I felt proud of us for getting to this point without major operatic incident. We'd both come so far; had accomplished so much together, even in divorcing. (The minor incidents were too many to count.) Out in the lobby I looked at his face for a signal that might cue me to move toward him for a handshake or a hug, but there was no trace, so I stayed still. I knew I would see him tomorrow night for his Wednesday dinner with our son, and every Wednesday for eleven years after that. There was a somber finality to our fresh start and tomorrow would be the first day of the rest of our separate lives together.
I felt crushed by the prospect of starting over and exhausted just thinking about square one as I left the large, beige, government-issue courthouse. But outside the sun was shining and I became lighter as I walked to the parking garage. I smiled brightly as I greeted the nice, older African gentleman in the crisp white shirt at the podium. I wished I had something to show off the way a newly engaged woman shows off her ring to strangers. He was the first person I was meeting as a newly unmarried woman and I felt different; sort of new and set free. I wanted to tell him my story like someone who’d just seen a UFO. I’d just come from this strange, unique experience and was willing to buy him lunch in exchange for listening but I knew he was only after my ticket, and that my story would have to keep for now. I handed it over and wondered if he noticed my plain, empty ring finger; unadorned with diamonds and bands. My hands were still just as important and it hadn’t mattered what I was wearing that day. My fingers weren’t empty or naked. In fact they felt alive and very awake.
Thursday, July 8, 2010
Thursday, June 10, 2010
Handed Down
In grade school, a friend of mine-- the son of an investment banker-- once asked me, “So, do you guys sit around at dinner time and talk about colors?” My father was an artist and painter and after I thought about it a moment I answered, “Actually, yes.” My friend was incredulous. In his family's dinner table they spoke of fiscal earnings and blue chip stocks. In my home we discussed composition and color, sunsets, shadow and light. And for as long as I can remember, I watched my father clean his paintbrushes-- sometimes two at a time-- by putting a dab of mild soap or turpentine in the palm of his hand, and gently swirling the soft horsehair tips in tiny circles against his life lines as the paint ran through his fingers and washed tranquilly down the drain; like a monk gently cleansing his stigmata.
Growing up, Dad took us to museums; the Frick, Met and Gardner were among is faves. He introduced us to Impressionism-- U.S. and abroad-- the Hudson River School and the Post Impressionists in their wake. He confided how Homer treated his women and how most of the rest of those guys were sort of nuts. He explained the difference between Monet and Manet and told us how Mary Cassatt had been under appreciated. He pointed out Degas’ renegade composition, Whistler’s quiet grace and marveled at the exquisite luminescence of Renoir’s skin and the masterful folds in Sargent’s silks. “Look at that!” Dad would exclaim under his breath, his hand mirroring the movement of the long shadows thrown off by a certain Spanish dancer, “How did he do that?!” Then Dad would shake his head in reverence and awe and look a little bit longer; even though he’d seen the painting a thousand times. Even though he could paint that beautifully himself. His own talent was something he always questioned; it was a fact he would die not knowing. But I knew.
When he died last year, not only did his life end quickly, but the paintings he painted stopped as abruptly. There would be no more forthcoming just as I would learn no more tricks from the man who’d taught me about spackle and varnish, spray paint and grout. And so what was once a flow of information is now a body of information, passed down for me to do with as I wish.
Almost immediately the reorganizing of memories took place, filing the unpleasant away behind the generous; deep in storage, hard to reach. And for some reason, now that he’s gone, I find I’m more aware of the legacy he’s left me, and in turn more cognizant of him. On Saturday mornings I fill the house with Brandenburg and Miles Davis, and take my Mom to hear anyone named Pizzarelli. I re-grouted my own tub and mow my own lawn, and stop to watch the rest of any movie starring Peter Sellers, or Cyd Charisse. I honor my father through Ernie Kovacs. But I don’t think I’d ever thought about how much I’d actually learned from him. This was just all part of life.
Last June, I ended up at the National Portrait Gallery in D.C. with a man I’d just met. We were fellow guests who’d convened for a weekend baby shower and were both looking for something to do to kill time before our flights left. Meandering quietly through the gallery together I piped up occasionally to point out this or that about a painting or artist I recognized. “You know a lot about art,” he said, “were you an art major?” I paused, embarrassed, knowing how little I actually know. “No,” I replied, “My dad was an artist. He taught me.” And as if on queue, I walked around a corner, found myself face to face with a Mary Cassatt, and cried.
This is just the sort of thing that happens in the first year after someone we love dies, this unexpected surge of remembrance, and I was able to duck into another room and recover, quickly and quietly, before this stranger could think that I was sort of nuts. Now I can pass on what I’ve learned calmly, still amassing Dad’s legacy as it unfolds.
Recently I found myself on my knees at a low sink with a kindergartner who volunteered to help me wash the paintbrushes. “I want to be an artist,” she said, “I really love to paint.”
“You do?” I replied, delighted. “We’ll then you’re going to need to know how to wash your brushes,” I said brightly and turned on the water. “Open your hand, and let me show you how.”
Growing up, Dad took us to museums; the Frick, Met and Gardner were among is faves. He introduced us to Impressionism-- U.S. and abroad-- the Hudson River School and the Post Impressionists in their wake. He confided how Homer treated his women and how most of the rest of those guys were sort of nuts. He explained the difference between Monet and Manet and told us how Mary Cassatt had been under appreciated. He pointed out Degas’ renegade composition, Whistler’s quiet grace and marveled at the exquisite luminescence of Renoir’s skin and the masterful folds in Sargent’s silks. “Look at that!” Dad would exclaim under his breath, his hand mirroring the movement of the long shadows thrown off by a certain Spanish dancer, “How did he do that?!” Then Dad would shake his head in reverence and awe and look a little bit longer; even though he’d seen the painting a thousand times. Even though he could paint that beautifully himself. His own talent was something he always questioned; it was a fact he would die not knowing. But I knew.
When he died last year, not only did his life end quickly, but the paintings he painted stopped as abruptly. There would be no more forthcoming just as I would learn no more tricks from the man who’d taught me about spackle and varnish, spray paint and grout. And so what was once a flow of information is now a body of information, passed down for me to do with as I wish.
Almost immediately the reorganizing of memories took place, filing the unpleasant away behind the generous; deep in storage, hard to reach. And for some reason, now that he’s gone, I find I’m more aware of the legacy he’s left me, and in turn more cognizant of him. On Saturday mornings I fill the house with Brandenburg and Miles Davis, and take my Mom to hear anyone named Pizzarelli. I re-grouted my own tub and mow my own lawn, and stop to watch the rest of any movie starring Peter Sellers, or Cyd Charisse. I honor my father through Ernie Kovacs. But I don’t think I’d ever thought about how much I’d actually learned from him. This was just all part of life.
Last June, I ended up at the National Portrait Gallery in D.C. with a man I’d just met. We were fellow guests who’d convened for a weekend baby shower and were both looking for something to do to kill time before our flights left. Meandering quietly through the gallery together I piped up occasionally to point out this or that about a painting or artist I recognized. “You know a lot about art,” he said, “were you an art major?” I paused, embarrassed, knowing how little I actually know. “No,” I replied, “My dad was an artist. He taught me.” And as if on queue, I walked around a corner, found myself face to face with a Mary Cassatt, and cried.
This is just the sort of thing that happens in the first year after someone we love dies, this unexpected surge of remembrance, and I was able to duck into another room and recover, quickly and quietly, before this stranger could think that I was sort of nuts. Now I can pass on what I’ve learned calmly, still amassing Dad’s legacy as it unfolds.
Recently I found myself on my knees at a low sink with a kindergartner who volunteered to help me wash the paintbrushes. “I want to be an artist,” she said, “I really love to paint.”
“You do?” I replied, delighted. “We’ll then you’re going to need to know how to wash your brushes,” I said brightly and turned on the water. “Open your hand, and let me show you how.”
Friday, June 4, 2010
Root Problem
Just yesterday I had a root canal. Cozied into the naugahyde chair, ipod set to shuffle; I thought to myself, this is heaven compared to working on my divorce. Reclined back, eyes closed, I tried to relax; losing myself in the dulcet tones of my endodontist leaning into my upper right molar (number three) with her full body weight, grinding away at my tooth, it sounded as if a small, mechanical ferret was being throttled next to my head. And as the squealing and screeching echoed in the space under my right frontal lobe-- weeeeeeeeerrrrreeeeeeeee-- I did my best to focus on Bix Biderbeck's lilting melody, relieved not to be reading over the latest draft of my property settlement agreement for questions or comments to my attorney. It felt like a vacation.
The encumbrance brought on by the festering discomfort and ensuing removal of a person from one's life who leans on ones last nerve is an emotional discomfort to be sure. The constant throbbing brought on by the lists and sub-lists of what must be located, recorded, reviewed, transferred, re-assigned and remembered; split, packed, stored and negotiated results in a throbbing that can take months to die down. Whereas the actual discomfort I was in from my tooth being gnawed at by the electrified prosthetic of the chipper sadist hovering above me-- the festering sort of pain, which is caused by the removal of an actual nerve-- had a finite resolution. I knew that the throbbing would end. My divorce proceedings, however, linger on.
The endodontist finally wheeled her chair back, finishing with a flourish and what I thought to be a smattering of applause from my lower molars. The office lady handed me a xeroxed hand-out which gave me directions for home pain management-- the option of vicadin crisply crossed out. I considered the vast oeuvre of pain management I’d used in the last two years as an average divorcing spouse. The obvious balm—therapy—was a given. But I’ve also sampled Benadryl (only a half) for sleeping, and The Onion and YouTube for quick laughs; church for forgiveness, yoga and CoDA for letting go, and babysitting for the explicit use of movie house escape. My mother has taken me shopping, my father gave me hugs, and for a while-- over the winter-- I ate a sleeve of Mallomars every night before bed. Yummy. And if I thought that taking 3 ibuprohin and 1 Tylenol every 5-6 hours for the last two years would have eased my pain, I would have mainlined the stuff. But that was all that was prescribed for my root canal; so simple, unfussy and clean. I cursed the office lady for not taking out the vicadin line from the hand-out altogether. Must we be reminded of what we could have had?
Stepping into the sun’s hot glare wif a smollen mowf, I was thankful that my divorce, at least, didn’t smell like my root canal. The inescapable odor of vibrating metal on burning enamel had nestled into my nasal passages as I lay helpless in the chair, it’s tinge teasing my nostrils with the suggestion of decay; pervasive like the smell of sawdust, but without the comfort. Breathing fresh air again as I walked to my car, I cleared out my nose, ears and lungs as I wondered about my eventual divorce decree’s odor. Would it smell like passing lilacs? Like morning’s buttered toast? Probably not. But it will smell like victory.
The encumbrance brought on by the festering discomfort and ensuing removal of a person from one's life who leans on ones last nerve is an emotional discomfort to be sure. The constant throbbing brought on by the lists and sub-lists of what must be located, recorded, reviewed, transferred, re-assigned and remembered; split, packed, stored and negotiated results in a throbbing that can take months to die down. Whereas the actual discomfort I was in from my tooth being gnawed at by the electrified prosthetic of the chipper sadist hovering above me-- the festering sort of pain, which is caused by the removal of an actual nerve-- had a finite resolution. I knew that the throbbing would end. My divorce proceedings, however, linger on.
The endodontist finally wheeled her chair back, finishing with a flourish and what I thought to be a smattering of applause from my lower molars. The office lady handed me a xeroxed hand-out which gave me directions for home pain management-- the option of vicadin crisply crossed out. I considered the vast oeuvre of pain management I’d used in the last two years as an average divorcing spouse. The obvious balm—therapy—was a given. But I’ve also sampled Benadryl (only a half) for sleeping, and The Onion and YouTube for quick laughs; church for forgiveness, yoga and CoDA for letting go, and babysitting for the explicit use of movie house escape. My mother has taken me shopping, my father gave me hugs, and for a while-- over the winter-- I ate a sleeve of Mallomars every night before bed. Yummy. And if I thought that taking 3 ibuprohin and 1 Tylenol every 5-6 hours for the last two years would have eased my pain, I would have mainlined the stuff. But that was all that was prescribed for my root canal; so simple, unfussy and clean. I cursed the office lady for not taking out the vicadin line from the hand-out altogether. Must we be reminded of what we could have had?
Stepping into the sun’s hot glare wif a smollen mowf, I was thankful that my divorce, at least, didn’t smell like my root canal. The inescapable odor of vibrating metal on burning enamel had nestled into my nasal passages as I lay helpless in the chair, it’s tinge teasing my nostrils with the suggestion of decay; pervasive like the smell of sawdust, but without the comfort. Breathing fresh air again as I walked to my car, I cleared out my nose, ears and lungs as I wondered about my eventual divorce decree’s odor. Would it smell like passing lilacs? Like morning’s buttered toast? Probably not. But it will smell like victory.
Monday, May 10, 2010
Teen Gandhi
I inadvertently started Gandhi's autobiography recently and now I’m sucked in. I can’t put it down. It reads like a S.E. Hinton novel. Things begin innocently enough; at age seven he's a self-proclaimed mediocre student. I can picture it now:
Teacher: "Mohandas, you've been turning in some very mediocre work lately.
Gandhi: "Sorry about that, Mrs. B. It's just that I have a lot on my mind what with our nation’s suffering and-"
Teacher: "Siddown, Mohandas."
Gandhi: "Okay."
What Gandhi lacks in book learnin', he makes up for in moral fiber. "I do not remember having ever told a lie..." he says, "either to my teachers or to my schoolmates." Very impressive but no surprise there, he is Gandhi after all. Then he says, "I used to be very shy and avoided all company. My books... were my sole companions. I literally ran back (and forth to school) because I could not bear to talk to anybody." Gandhi the Nerd. Gandhi the Socially Inept. Not what I would have expected from one of our more charismatic iconic figures, but okay, I'll bite. He adds, "I was even afraid lest anyone poke fun at me." Gandhi the Insecure? Sounds like nearly everyone I knew growing up. Except for the saying of "lest" part, but other than that.
A few pages later, our story takes a turn; at the tender age of thirteen, Gandhi’s parents marry him off. Let’s go there, shall we:
Gandhi: "Are you kidding me? No way do I want to get married. Nuh, uh."
Mom: "You're getting married and that's the end of the discussion."
Gandhi: "Well, you can't make me."
Dad: "Actually, we can and we did. You're getting married to Kasturbai by the end of seventh grade."
Gandhi: "To who?"
Mom: "'To whom' and it's none of your business. You'll meet her at the wedding."
Gandhi: "But Mah-ahommm!!!"
Dad: "No buts, son. Now go finish your homework."
At this point most thirteen-year-olds would have said, "I hate your guys’ guts!" but, again, we're talking about Gandhi. So he and his brother were married and took to its obvious benefits immediately, even though he never forgave his parents for, “such a preposterously early marriage.”
Though any other hormonal teenage boy might have been distracted from his schoolwork by his wife's, um, cooking, Gandhi pressed on, working hard at his studies. He's even quoted as saying that one of his greatest regrets was not having worked harder on his handwriting. “I tried later to improve mine, but it was too late. I could never repair the neglect of my youth. Let every young man and woman be warned by my example, and understand that good handwriting is a necessary part of education.” You know you've lived a fulfilling life if your greatest regret is bad handwriting.
Then, while still a teen, Gandhi fell under the depraved influence of a bad egg who coerced him to eat meat—which was against his religion—; be unfaithful to his wife—also a no-no--; and steal from the servants to buy cigarettes. The chapter even ends in a suicide pact. He writes, “It was unbearable that we should be unable to do anything without the elder’s permission. At last, in sheer disgust, we decided to commit suicide!” What pathos, what angst. Vampires got nuthin’ on Gandhi.
So, the next time you wish your son would make more of an effort or stop hanging out with the wrong crowd; remember, he could have the makings of a spectacularly charismatic and learned leader. That head of hair, the one that so desperately needs washing, could be housing a truly enlightened mind. And that smelly room with the overflowing hamper and DVDs on the floor could be the sanctuary of a future pioneer of global action and compassion. Be patient. Your home could be nurturing an inspiration. This town could be lousy with Gandhis.
Teacher: "Mohandas, you've been turning in some very mediocre work lately.
Gandhi: "Sorry about that, Mrs. B. It's just that I have a lot on my mind what with our nation’s suffering and-"
Teacher: "Siddown, Mohandas."
Gandhi: "Okay."
What Gandhi lacks in book learnin', he makes up for in moral fiber. "I do not remember having ever told a lie..." he says, "either to my teachers or to my schoolmates." Very impressive but no surprise there, he is Gandhi after all. Then he says, "I used to be very shy and avoided all company. My books... were my sole companions. I literally ran back (and forth to school) because I could not bear to talk to anybody." Gandhi the Nerd. Gandhi the Socially Inept. Not what I would have expected from one of our more charismatic iconic figures, but okay, I'll bite. He adds, "I was even afraid lest anyone poke fun at me." Gandhi the Insecure? Sounds like nearly everyone I knew growing up. Except for the saying of "lest" part, but other than that.
A few pages later, our story takes a turn; at the tender age of thirteen, Gandhi’s parents marry him off. Let’s go there, shall we:
Gandhi: "Are you kidding me? No way do I want to get married. Nuh, uh."
Mom: "You're getting married and that's the end of the discussion."
Gandhi: "Well, you can't make me."
Dad: "Actually, we can and we did. You're getting married to Kasturbai by the end of seventh grade."
Gandhi: "To who?"
Mom: "'To whom' and it's none of your business. You'll meet her at the wedding."
Gandhi: "But Mah-ahommm!!!"
Dad: "No buts, son. Now go finish your homework."
At this point most thirteen-year-olds would have said, "I hate your guys’ guts!" but, again, we're talking about Gandhi. So he and his brother were married and took to its obvious benefits immediately, even though he never forgave his parents for, “such a preposterously early marriage.”
Though any other hormonal teenage boy might have been distracted from his schoolwork by his wife's, um, cooking, Gandhi pressed on, working hard at his studies. He's even quoted as saying that one of his greatest regrets was not having worked harder on his handwriting. “I tried later to improve mine, but it was too late. I could never repair the neglect of my youth. Let every young man and woman be warned by my example, and understand that good handwriting is a necessary part of education.” You know you've lived a fulfilling life if your greatest regret is bad handwriting.
Then, while still a teen, Gandhi fell under the depraved influence of a bad egg who coerced him to eat meat—which was against his religion—; be unfaithful to his wife—also a no-no--; and steal from the servants to buy cigarettes. The chapter even ends in a suicide pact. He writes, “It was unbearable that we should be unable to do anything without the elder’s permission. At last, in sheer disgust, we decided to commit suicide!” What pathos, what angst. Vampires got nuthin’ on Gandhi.
So, the next time you wish your son would make more of an effort or stop hanging out with the wrong crowd; remember, he could have the makings of a spectacularly charismatic and learned leader. That head of hair, the one that so desperately needs washing, could be housing a truly enlightened mind. And that smelly room with the overflowing hamper and DVDs on the floor could be the sanctuary of a future pioneer of global action and compassion. Be patient. Your home could be nurturing an inspiration. This town could be lousy with Gandhis.
Saturday, May 8, 2010
By A Thread
Two years ago at Easter time, I asked my husband to move out for the short list of reasons that women usually do. It just so happened that he moved out on Mother’s Day wouldn’t-you-know-it. Soon after, things devolved to such gothic depths that I actually used the banister to climb the stairs for the first time since moving into our house; my home. My world caving in, it was hard to fathom having anything left to be thankful for—woe was I.
Sure of exactly nothing-- except that this mindset probably wouldn’t serve me very well—I reached for my sewing kit and grabbed an unremarkable spool of navy blue thread; cut off a length, wrapped it once around my left wrist and tied it in a knot. I decided that whenever this thread on my wrist caught my eye, I would remind myself of all that I still had to be grateful for, grope as I might.
Weeks passed and together the thread and I grew grubby and thin. I gardened and showered; swam in oceans and pools; sweated, mourned and lost seventeen pounds. I wore bracelets, watches and eventually mittens, and always the thread was there; silently stalwart, beginning to pill, but hanging in there, just like me. I would notice it and nod, giving thanks to my good health and the health of my son; to my neighbors, fresh snowfall and it’s hand-off to spring.
A year passed and I began to wonder when the thread would break. I was glad to have it—my bad patch was still in full swing—but knew it was on borrowed time and couldn’t help imagining its demise. Would a stranger break it off or a guileless young child? Would it snag on some resonant holiday? Tangle at some somber location woven with innuendo? Apparently not.
Just yesterday, after two years of constant companionship, I broke the darn thing off myself-- by mistake-- while taking off a sweater before getting into the shower. There was no collective gasp from the peanut gallery and no timpani sounded but I realized it immediately and froze. Just me, looking dumbfounded and slightly amused at my naked wrist, wondering why now? So I climbed into the shower and gave it some thought.
A good, hot shower is one of life’s better loved segues. It’s a portal to the next phase; it can also save you from your last. More times than I could count in the last two years a shower had saved me from reaching out in the wrong direction; from dialing the wrong number; from pouring the wrong drink; from drowning. Get in the shower, I’d say to myself, you’ll feel better if you do, and I did. And for mothers, especially, a shower is a sacred stretch of time, an instant vacation, a respite; the shower stall transforms into a baptismal font; a think tank, a space pod, a gift.
So maybe it’s okay that I broke the thread off myself while heading into the shower before Mother’s Day. Perhaps it was fate; perhaps it was folly. I think it was exactly right.
Sure of exactly nothing-- except that this mindset probably wouldn’t serve me very well—I reached for my sewing kit and grabbed an unremarkable spool of navy blue thread; cut off a length, wrapped it once around my left wrist and tied it in a knot. I decided that whenever this thread on my wrist caught my eye, I would remind myself of all that I still had to be grateful for, grope as I might.
Weeks passed and together the thread and I grew grubby and thin. I gardened and showered; swam in oceans and pools; sweated, mourned and lost seventeen pounds. I wore bracelets, watches and eventually mittens, and always the thread was there; silently stalwart, beginning to pill, but hanging in there, just like me. I would notice it and nod, giving thanks to my good health and the health of my son; to my neighbors, fresh snowfall and it’s hand-off to spring.
A year passed and I began to wonder when the thread would break. I was glad to have it—my bad patch was still in full swing—but knew it was on borrowed time and couldn’t help imagining its demise. Would a stranger break it off or a guileless young child? Would it snag on some resonant holiday? Tangle at some somber location woven with innuendo? Apparently not.
Just yesterday, after two years of constant companionship, I broke the darn thing off myself-- by mistake-- while taking off a sweater before getting into the shower. There was no collective gasp from the peanut gallery and no timpani sounded but I realized it immediately and froze. Just me, looking dumbfounded and slightly amused at my naked wrist, wondering why now? So I climbed into the shower and gave it some thought.
A good, hot shower is one of life’s better loved segues. It’s a portal to the next phase; it can also save you from your last. More times than I could count in the last two years a shower had saved me from reaching out in the wrong direction; from dialing the wrong number; from pouring the wrong drink; from drowning. Get in the shower, I’d say to myself, you’ll feel better if you do, and I did. And for mothers, especially, a shower is a sacred stretch of time, an instant vacation, a respite; the shower stall transforms into a baptismal font; a think tank, a space pod, a gift.
So maybe it’s okay that I broke the thread off myself while heading into the shower before Mother’s Day. Perhaps it was fate; perhaps it was folly. I think it was exactly right.
Monday, May 3, 2010
Steppin' Out
I stood in line to pay fifteen bucks behind a man in a purple suit-- complete with shiny purple tie-- and his date; a bottle blonde in a shiny purple dress gathered in a seam down the middle. They both wore shiny white shoes. I was decidedly less shiny. This should have been my cue to ditch, but I pressed on, knowing in my heart of hearts that I’d made a mistake but had driven a half hour to get here and so, what the heck.
Since I’d heard about this weekly event (open to the public) back in the fall from a friend’s art teacher, I’d been curiously excited. I'd been looking for joy, any flavor really. Quizzing myself as to the times I find myself truly happy, dancing always came out on top. I’d mentioned it to a few folks, but no one bit. “Imagine,” I pitched, “an entire room of single people who really love to dance.” It sounded like heaven to me. What could be better.
Walking into the Woodbridge Hilton’s ballroom-- I know, I know, should have been my first clue-- the thought that occurred to me was: Yikes. Then: Okay, I can do this. I’ve danced with my parents’ friends before.
For years in my twenties and thirties, I'd danced with all of them at least once and some of them often at the myriad of weddings I’d attended as an unattached young lady. Unwilling to stop for food or even drink when there was a great band, I’d danced with every father of every friend and every friend’s husband who’d let me. “Go ahead, it’s fine with me,” the wives would say, “I’m tired of dancing.” And so I would, with every one and anyone, to every song, until the band quit for the night and I was forced to eat my fillet cold. This shouldn’t feel any different than a wedding reception I told myself as I scanned the crowded parquet floor full of strangers for the one familiar face I wasn’t even certain would be there.
Sitting down next to the art teacher and her date at the edge of the dance floor, I folded my arms, legs and nervous energy in against myself as I watched a room of swirling, twirling men and women in their sixties and seventies mouth the words to odd versions of ersatz disco tunes only vaguely familiar to me. “I’m just here to watch,” I smiled as I told the first man who asked me to dance-- an attractive, graying Asian man with a Clark Gable mustache and ill-fitting beige suit-- “thank you very much, maybe later.” He swept off with a disappointed smile and was replaced almost immediately with another, older man with a putty colored golf shirt tucked in to brown slacks, buttoned to the top; and a comb over. He was central casting’s dream of everyman’s Uncle Arthur. I was regretting that I’d promised my next-door neighbor that I would stay at least an hour.
But I couldn’t leave. I was riveted to the scene where my future literally danced before my eyes. Powdered ladies in high-heeled shoes and high-teased hair danced with casual dandies in cuff-links and blazers. A young, balding man of no more than 4’11” in his early fifties, wriggled and writhed with a woman ten inches and fifteen years his senior. And Uncle Arthur swung his arms to and fro-- swatting at the air around a brunette in a lemon yellow dress. He was unbent at the elbows, waist and hips, like someone who’d just freed his arms from a straight jacket or was learning beginner jai-alai. I marveled at his moves and wanted to hug him for leaving his apartment much less asking women he didn't know to dance.
“No thank you,” I repeated my schpiel-with-a-smile again and again, starting to feel rude for having come. When during, “Lady in Red,” it was pointed out to me not once but twice that I was wearing red by smoothies in open collared shirts and buckled shoes saying, “This must be our dance,” I thought it was time to pack it in. Then the art teacher introduced me to Marty.
Marty Martino, a handsome rogue with a thick head of white Don Johnson hair and the self-confident twinkle of a man who has never been turned down—except by his ex-wives—sat down next to me and explained that he was probably the best dancer in the room. And a dance host on cruise ships. “My job is to ask the ladies to dance,” he said slowly. He looked to be a spry seventy-three. I later learned he was eighty-one.
“No kidding,” I said, “Sounds great,” I added, because I thought it did.
“Is it a paying job?”
“No,” he said, “but I get to go on the cruise for free and they give me a nice room. It’s a double and I have to share with another dance host, but it’s a nice room.”
“Wow,” I said, archiving this in the lobe of my brain reserved for future career options, “Are there any female dance hostesses?” “No,” he said. Oh, right, I thought. Duh.
Clearly a professional, his plan worked and I acquiesced. The music was easily spoken over and the lights were up almost full; a rotating portable disco light cast additional mood splotches of red, green and blue across the receding hairlines and bare shoulders of my fellow dancers. “Step, step, slide. Step, step, slide,” Marty instructed as we glided around the dance floor to “And I Love Her,” by the Beatles. I didn’t have the nerve to tell Marty that I could probably dance his cruise-ship-hosting ass off, so I let him tell me what to do, complimenting me as he did from time to time on my ability to pick things up quickly. I felt like a ringer in a pool hall. Just you wait, buddy, I thought, and we danced to two more songs. I was loosening up, finally, enough to laugh as I danced and be reminded why I had come. This is the feeling I love, I thought, this joy right here, right now while dancing. Afterwards I said thank you and he insisted on walking me back to my seat.
No sooner had I sat down than Uncle Arthur appeared before me. “I’d love to,” I said, and geared up for the challenge. He took my hand and didn’t let go, so I danced as best I could, side-stepping his other arm rotor as it sliced the air around me. Thankfully he talked the entire time; he had a lot to get in before the end of the song. He told me about the B side of the song we were listening to and who sang it first (Jackie Wilson) and how many covers had been done and which were the best. He told me about his cousin (Norman) who said he would help him transfer all his mix tapes to CDs, otherwise he wasn’t sure how he was going to ever find some of these songs again. “The internet is a pretty good bet,” I said, bobbing and weaving, still holding his hand. “Yeah,” was all he said before the song ended and he briskly moved away like a man who knows when to leave a party.
I was just sitting down again when out of nowhere, the very short, bald, wriggly man appeared in front of my face. I was sitting and he was standing, but there he was, glistening with sweat, eyebrows arched in anticipation of my answer. “Let’s go,” I said standing and for the first time in my life I felt tall. He led me out onto the middle of the dance floor and had the good manners to start off slow. A bit of rocking led quickly to stepping, which prompted a change in direction, some tricky hand swapping, leading up to the big kahuna; a turn.
“You weally gooood,” he said and spun me back the other way.
“Thank you,” I said smiling because I was having fun in a bizarre, David Lynch sort of way.
“My name is Hector,” he said, “I will teach you the salsa dance.” And with the very next song, he got his wish. He spun me out and twirled me back in, taking my arms and placing them at the back of his sweaty neck as he wriggled in front of me like I’d seen him do before; like Charo. This must be his signature move was all I could think. It was preferable to thinking about my hands on his sweaty neck.
“Let me hold you like a wife, not a nun,” he said and I knew what he was aiming at. Salsa is meant to be danced with your lower pelvic cradles practically fastened together with snaps, but I demurred and he got the picture without my having to say, “Why don’t you hold me somewhere in the middle, say, like a dental hygienist.” We continued to dance for two more songs; spinning and twirling, stepping and gliding. I was proud of my clairvoyant ability to follow unknown dancers so well and accepted this moment to preen. Bring it on, I thought, hit me with your best shot; wheelchairs and canes? I’m all over it. Oxygen tank on rollers? No prob. I can make you all look like gods on the dance floor and in that same shared moment will feel like a true goddess. Everybody wins and no one goes home hurt. Except maybe the next dame to dance with Uncle Arther.
As Hector and I parted ways, I decided to slip out. The perimeter was thickening with glaring men holding scotch glasses and I recalled the cartoon of the wolf in the zoot suit, heart beating out of his chest, lips stretching out to pucker and whistle as Pepe Le Pew’s lady friend-- or was it Bugs in drag-- strolled by. I grabbed my purse, said goodnight to the art teacher, and stopped off in the ladies room before heading out to my car.
“I hate it when Harold tells me what to do,” a woman in an orange dress and pink heels was saying as she leaned into the mirror to wipe a manicured fingernail under her lower lashes, “It’s not his dance floor for cryin’ out loud.”
“I know, he always thinks he’s in charge,” said her friend as she burst through the stall door-- a vision in sequins and aqua.
“I don’t want to be told what to do; why do you think I got divorced?”
They laughed as faucets squeaked off and pocketbooks snapped shut. The woman in orange held the door open for her friend saying, “I think Harold just forgets that we’re all here to have fun.”
We all forget, I wanted to add. I’ll be back in 24 years, ladies. And I’ll deal with Harold then.
Since I’d heard about this weekly event (open to the public) back in the fall from a friend’s art teacher, I’d been curiously excited. I'd been looking for joy, any flavor really. Quizzing myself as to the times I find myself truly happy, dancing always came out on top. I’d mentioned it to a few folks, but no one bit. “Imagine,” I pitched, “an entire room of single people who really love to dance.” It sounded like heaven to me. What could be better.
Walking into the Woodbridge Hilton’s ballroom-- I know, I know, should have been my first clue-- the thought that occurred to me was: Yikes. Then: Okay, I can do this. I’ve danced with my parents’ friends before.
For years in my twenties and thirties, I'd danced with all of them at least once and some of them often at the myriad of weddings I’d attended as an unattached young lady. Unwilling to stop for food or even drink when there was a great band, I’d danced with every father of every friend and every friend’s husband who’d let me. “Go ahead, it’s fine with me,” the wives would say, “I’m tired of dancing.” And so I would, with every one and anyone, to every song, until the band quit for the night and I was forced to eat my fillet cold. This shouldn’t feel any different than a wedding reception I told myself as I scanned the crowded parquet floor full of strangers for the one familiar face I wasn’t even certain would be there.
Sitting down next to the art teacher and her date at the edge of the dance floor, I folded my arms, legs and nervous energy in against myself as I watched a room of swirling, twirling men and women in their sixties and seventies mouth the words to odd versions of ersatz disco tunes only vaguely familiar to me. “I’m just here to watch,” I smiled as I told the first man who asked me to dance-- an attractive, graying Asian man with a Clark Gable mustache and ill-fitting beige suit-- “thank you very much, maybe later.” He swept off with a disappointed smile and was replaced almost immediately with another, older man with a putty colored golf shirt tucked in to brown slacks, buttoned to the top; and a comb over. He was central casting’s dream of everyman’s Uncle Arthur. I was regretting that I’d promised my next-door neighbor that I would stay at least an hour.
But I couldn’t leave. I was riveted to the scene where my future literally danced before my eyes. Powdered ladies in high-heeled shoes and high-teased hair danced with casual dandies in cuff-links and blazers. A young, balding man of no more than 4’11” in his early fifties, wriggled and writhed with a woman ten inches and fifteen years his senior. And Uncle Arthur swung his arms to and fro-- swatting at the air around a brunette in a lemon yellow dress. He was unbent at the elbows, waist and hips, like someone who’d just freed his arms from a straight jacket or was learning beginner jai-alai. I marveled at his moves and wanted to hug him for leaving his apartment much less asking women he didn't know to dance.
“No thank you,” I repeated my schpiel-with-a-smile again and again, starting to feel rude for having come. When during, “Lady in Red,” it was pointed out to me not once but twice that I was wearing red by smoothies in open collared shirts and buckled shoes saying, “This must be our dance,” I thought it was time to pack it in. Then the art teacher introduced me to Marty.
Marty Martino, a handsome rogue with a thick head of white Don Johnson hair and the self-confident twinkle of a man who has never been turned down—except by his ex-wives—sat down next to me and explained that he was probably the best dancer in the room. And a dance host on cruise ships. “My job is to ask the ladies to dance,” he said slowly. He looked to be a spry seventy-three. I later learned he was eighty-one.
“No kidding,” I said, “Sounds great,” I added, because I thought it did.
“Is it a paying job?”
“No,” he said, “but I get to go on the cruise for free and they give me a nice room. It’s a double and I have to share with another dance host, but it’s a nice room.”
“Wow,” I said, archiving this in the lobe of my brain reserved for future career options, “Are there any female dance hostesses?” “No,” he said. Oh, right, I thought. Duh.
Clearly a professional, his plan worked and I acquiesced. The music was easily spoken over and the lights were up almost full; a rotating portable disco light cast additional mood splotches of red, green and blue across the receding hairlines and bare shoulders of my fellow dancers. “Step, step, slide. Step, step, slide,” Marty instructed as we glided around the dance floor to “And I Love Her,” by the Beatles. I didn’t have the nerve to tell Marty that I could probably dance his cruise-ship-hosting ass off, so I let him tell me what to do, complimenting me as he did from time to time on my ability to pick things up quickly. I felt like a ringer in a pool hall. Just you wait, buddy, I thought, and we danced to two more songs. I was loosening up, finally, enough to laugh as I danced and be reminded why I had come. This is the feeling I love, I thought, this joy right here, right now while dancing. Afterwards I said thank you and he insisted on walking me back to my seat.
No sooner had I sat down than Uncle Arthur appeared before me. “I’d love to,” I said, and geared up for the challenge. He took my hand and didn’t let go, so I danced as best I could, side-stepping his other arm rotor as it sliced the air around me. Thankfully he talked the entire time; he had a lot to get in before the end of the song. He told me about the B side of the song we were listening to and who sang it first (Jackie Wilson) and how many covers had been done and which were the best. He told me about his cousin (Norman) who said he would help him transfer all his mix tapes to CDs, otherwise he wasn’t sure how he was going to ever find some of these songs again. “The internet is a pretty good bet,” I said, bobbing and weaving, still holding his hand. “Yeah,” was all he said before the song ended and he briskly moved away like a man who knows when to leave a party.
I was just sitting down again when out of nowhere, the very short, bald, wriggly man appeared in front of my face. I was sitting and he was standing, but there he was, glistening with sweat, eyebrows arched in anticipation of my answer. “Let’s go,” I said standing and for the first time in my life I felt tall. He led me out onto the middle of the dance floor and had the good manners to start off slow. A bit of rocking led quickly to stepping, which prompted a change in direction, some tricky hand swapping, leading up to the big kahuna; a turn.
“You weally gooood,” he said and spun me back the other way.
“Thank you,” I said smiling because I was having fun in a bizarre, David Lynch sort of way.
“My name is Hector,” he said, “I will teach you the salsa dance.” And with the very next song, he got his wish. He spun me out and twirled me back in, taking my arms and placing them at the back of his sweaty neck as he wriggled in front of me like I’d seen him do before; like Charo. This must be his signature move was all I could think. It was preferable to thinking about my hands on his sweaty neck.
“Let me hold you like a wife, not a nun,” he said and I knew what he was aiming at. Salsa is meant to be danced with your lower pelvic cradles practically fastened together with snaps, but I demurred and he got the picture without my having to say, “Why don’t you hold me somewhere in the middle, say, like a dental hygienist.” We continued to dance for two more songs; spinning and twirling, stepping and gliding. I was proud of my clairvoyant ability to follow unknown dancers so well and accepted this moment to preen. Bring it on, I thought, hit me with your best shot; wheelchairs and canes? I’m all over it. Oxygen tank on rollers? No prob. I can make you all look like gods on the dance floor and in that same shared moment will feel like a true goddess. Everybody wins and no one goes home hurt. Except maybe the next dame to dance with Uncle Arther.
As Hector and I parted ways, I decided to slip out. The perimeter was thickening with glaring men holding scotch glasses and I recalled the cartoon of the wolf in the zoot suit, heart beating out of his chest, lips stretching out to pucker and whistle as Pepe Le Pew’s lady friend-- or was it Bugs in drag-- strolled by. I grabbed my purse, said goodnight to the art teacher, and stopped off in the ladies room before heading out to my car.
“I hate it when Harold tells me what to do,” a woman in an orange dress and pink heels was saying as she leaned into the mirror to wipe a manicured fingernail under her lower lashes, “It’s not his dance floor for cryin’ out loud.”
“I know, he always thinks he’s in charge,” said her friend as she burst through the stall door-- a vision in sequins and aqua.
“I don’t want to be told what to do; why do you think I got divorced?”
They laughed as faucets squeaked off and pocketbooks snapped shut. The woman in orange held the door open for her friend saying, “I think Harold just forgets that we’re all here to have fun.”
We all forget, I wanted to add. I’ll be back in 24 years, ladies. And I’ll deal with Harold then.
Sunday, May 2, 2010
Yard Sale
“It’s like free money,” Rachel said to me while handing me a measly dollar bill. I was 3 hours in to my one-day-only yard sale and had given her negotiating power because she could sell ice to Eskimos. “But I paid eight bucks for that,” I said, lamenting that my lovely Haeger vase would have easily fetched $80.00 in TriBeCa. “Well, this ain’t the big city, sister, this is a tag sale in Jersey and unless you want the trouble of carting it off tomorrow, I’m selling it for a dollar.”
I didn’t want to donate it to the Far Hills VNA Rummage Sale. I wanted to sell everything. I had visions of getting asking price for all of my treasures then rolling in the dough like a nineties video vixen. I had purged for months; sorted, boxed and priced. I had high hopes in the same way I have high hopes for leftovers. “If you don’t eat it, I’m throwing it out,” I recalled George Carlin saying. It was ludicrous to feel self-righteous about stuff that wasn’t living up to my own standards. Was I hurt? Na. I know I have good taste. Except for everything on that table over there and that puffy, neon salmon, reversible ski jacket. And the magnetic jewelry. But otherwise, the stuff that I’m not selling? It’s all fabulous. Take my word for it. Great taste.
Rachel shoved another grubby dollar in my hand and said, “Don’t ask and don’t look,” so I turned away, tensing my shoulders as if I’d heard glass break. Clearly ensnared in an Escher-esque rubrik of commercialist greed vs. ego, I was beginning to feel mildly annoyed that I’d had the bright idea in the first place. Nothing like a divorce to get your purge on. But even if we weren’t I’d probably be doing this about now anyway. Ten years is plenty of time to log how often I’d used the waffle iron (twice) and needed seven extra ice cube trays on hand (never-- I buy bags at Kings) or six wooden, folding chairs from the late fifties which I’d completely forgotten were stored under the basement stairs, just in case. I’d paid twelve dollars each-- which was a steal then-- and now they’re going for five? Should be thirty-five! I was taking it all wrong. I was starting to go bonkers.
“You okay?” Rachel asked. “Yeah, I’m good.” I said, “It’s just-” She looked at me straight on, “You were going to donate it all for nothing, right?” “Right.” “And here we are enjoying a nice day, having a laugh or two, and you might make a little cash to boot, yes?” “Yes.” “But what’s more important is that you’re getting rid of all this stuff that you don’t need, and putting it back into circulation to make more room for you. So, it’s free money. And we’re lucky to be alive. Okay?” “Okay.”
Bottom line: lucky to be alive. Next time: skipping the sale.
I didn’t want to donate it to the Far Hills VNA Rummage Sale. I wanted to sell everything. I had visions of getting asking price for all of my treasures then rolling in the dough like a nineties video vixen. I had purged for months; sorted, boxed and priced. I had high hopes in the same way I have high hopes for leftovers. “If you don’t eat it, I’m throwing it out,” I recalled George Carlin saying. It was ludicrous to feel self-righteous about stuff that wasn’t living up to my own standards. Was I hurt? Na. I know I have good taste. Except for everything on that table over there and that puffy, neon salmon, reversible ski jacket. And the magnetic jewelry. But otherwise, the stuff that I’m not selling? It’s all fabulous. Take my word for it. Great taste.
Rachel shoved another grubby dollar in my hand and said, “Don’t ask and don’t look,” so I turned away, tensing my shoulders as if I’d heard glass break. Clearly ensnared in an Escher-esque rubrik of commercialist greed vs. ego, I was beginning to feel mildly annoyed that I’d had the bright idea in the first place. Nothing like a divorce to get your purge on. But even if we weren’t I’d probably be doing this about now anyway. Ten years is plenty of time to log how often I’d used the waffle iron (twice) and needed seven extra ice cube trays on hand (never-- I buy bags at Kings) or six wooden, folding chairs from the late fifties which I’d completely forgotten were stored under the basement stairs, just in case. I’d paid twelve dollars each-- which was a steal then-- and now they’re going for five? Should be thirty-five! I was taking it all wrong. I was starting to go bonkers.
“You okay?” Rachel asked. “Yeah, I’m good.” I said, “It’s just-” She looked at me straight on, “You were going to donate it all for nothing, right?” “Right.” “And here we are enjoying a nice day, having a laugh or two, and you might make a little cash to boot, yes?” “Yes.” “But what’s more important is that you’re getting rid of all this stuff that you don’t need, and putting it back into circulation to make more room for you. So, it’s free money. And we’re lucky to be alive. Okay?” “Okay.”
Bottom line: lucky to be alive. Next time: skipping the sale.
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