parades and such

I fear this won’t be all that cohesive tonight, but I’m guessing you don’t really come here for the cohesion. I spent a night this week in Northern Virginia with two friends, drinking and smoking more than a former first soprano ever should. After the staple conversation about work and yet slightly more about work, the topic turned to relationships as it seems to do for both those betrothed and those going home alone. Our exes. Our present engagements. For one of us, a seemingly perfect mate snapped away too soon.

I feel hugged and loved and validated each and every time I’m with these two crazy cats. One, a woman with whom I relate on an emotional level, a southern girl who has talked me through more than one bout with self-flagellation with wise words and several glasses of Pinot. Another, a man who I love dearly, a poet with such passion who I beg will find a niche for his voice. We know each other. We have known each other. They have seen me at my proverbial worst: frizzy hair, mismatched outfits, hangovers, regrettable relationships, the shaky voice that at times sneaks out when I’m speaking in meetings. They know well my cynicism, from people who approach you on the street to children being born into this world who may actually be well behaved. And although I know the intent was not so, but only to cover me with a blanket of loving caution, why, oh why is there always someone to rain on your parade?

My first memory of this phenomenon, much to the pleasure of the Freudians out there, traces back to my mother. I was 17 years old. I had been nominated for homecoming queen of my tiny New Jersey high school, a reward clearly not bestowed upon me for my looks but instead my ridiculous and likely irritating level of energy. The day of the awards I found myself nervous but excited about the possibility of being acknowledged by my peers, something I think most of us would have enjoyed in an age of headgear, growing breasts and awkward kissing. But that day I had done something wrong. I had transgressed in some minor way that I don’t actually recall at this moment, but one which clearly had my mother in a tizzy, ready to make me pay. We yelled. She handed down the punishment. And I had to engage in some ridiculous compulsive series of chores before I was allowed to attend the pep rally for which I had waited so long. I cried so heavily on that 1990 evening that you can still see the swelling in my eyes in those pictures. The ones in which four of my guy friends are carrying me up to accept the crown. Could she not have kept it to herself? Was this not my moment?

And so it went the other night in my first discussions about The Boy. With my every passing word of excitement, the friends used their words in a most interesting way.

He said what?

The two of you have planned to do what?

And you’re thinking that what?

I was the 17-year-old girl once again. Are you really going to make this more about you than about me? Can we not just sit over drinks and listen to one another’s latest tomfoolery and newest dreams? I am 33, right? A woman of my own devious devices, a totality of years of lessons learned via therapy and failed and semi-successful relationships as well as those that simply crashed and burned? A compilation of chapters written over a young, full life?

I focused on my beer and yet one more round so I wouldn’t obsess over their vocal reservations. No, I have not known him as long as I’ve known my mother; sadly, his womb was not available in 1973. But sweet baby Jebus we can spend more time together than most human beings can with themselves and laugh even more than those monkeys that always look like they’ve had too many screwdrivers. We are two human beings not looking to be completed, but those already complete looking to share that very state with one another. There are times when you feel like you’ve known someone, friend or lover, for your entire life, and wonder what exactly your many years looked like before his arrival. Remember that connection of which I once wrote?

I know that you love me but, sweet friends, this moment isn’t about you.

Know that what is mine is mine, from each and every joy to each and every misstep. If you haven’t realized this by now, regardless if it’s about men or career failure or the time you became fashion road kill on 17th Street, support and happiness are always more meaningful when not preceded by a “but.”