Got together with the girls last night. Not spring, but early fall chickens, let’s say. Me, divorce, natch. Another laid off. Another retired with a condo that sucks all her hoped for disposable retirement money. Another couldn’t make it — watching her dad die slowly without a helpful, heartfelt Hollywood script. And, one who couldn’t come because she is still chauffeuring her oops baby around to his activities. Some of these people are composites, and some are made up, but the situations are real.
I always seem to come late to life’s parties. I know these things have been going on for years, but take my mom: She also was a second wife, but she and my dad stayed together until he died. Actually, they’re still very much together, just in a different way. She didn’t work when we were little. She went back to work for stimulation when we left the house. None of her friends were divorced. People didn’t talk about shepherding their parents into the afterlife, but oops babies are omnipresent, I guess.
The party I’m having is a pity party. I don’t like the hand I’ve been dealt and the beer is flat. But I’m not stupid. I will eventually show up to the cool party, hopefully toting a shiny new attitude adjustment.