I went to a bridal shower for one of my sorority sisters this past week-end. The bride-to-be is one of the youngest of my sorority sisters from my pledge class. We used to joke her that she was the baby, that we were bringing her up, bringing her along.
At her shower the other day, I noticed that she, her sister, and her bridesmaids are still in their twenties (late twenties, but twenties nonetheless). Other guests included her mother, her aunts, her grandmother and other family and friends that were older than me. Two other of my sorority sisters, one the same age as me, the other slightly younger, were also in attendance. Talk turned to weddings, parties and receptions. One remarked that if she were to do it again, she would love to have another big wedding. The other said that if it were her, she’d keep it small and quiet.
“Why have another big wedding?” I ventured. “Let’s just have a big blow out party just because. Or let’s do it for the next big birthday. What’s that going to be anyway?”
*Pause*
“Thirty-five,” we said in unison.
Wow.
I don’t know if my other two sorority sisters felt what I did just then. It was this odd sense of being in an age limbo. Not quite as young as the bride to be and her attendants, but not quite as mature as the mother of the bride and her guests. Maybe I’m over-thinking, building up that mountain out of nothing.
I never have given much thought to how old I am. I don’t feel old. I don’t look old (at least not according to the bartender at McCormick and Schmick’s). And yet, discovering that my next big birthday number is 35 was jarring.
1. Like I said, I’ve never given much thought to how old I am
2. Now that I share my birthday with Coever, truly, it’s her birthday, not mine.
3. 30 for me fell on the first day of school for the girls and my priorities were elsewhere.
When I turned 25, I had a big blowout at our house. We hired a DJ, had it catered, had all manner of friends and family. Truth be told, I liked the planning and the execution of the whole thing. I love getting together with family and friends; I wish we did it more often and on such a large scale. I’d do it again for 35, but I think it would be more poignant for me because I, in fact, would be turning 35.
So that funk I was telling you about? Yeah, it’s decided to settle in for a while. I’m still trying to beat back the blues, keeping up with my favorite things, but I’ve hit the wall. I really want to write, and yet, I’ve got nothing to say. I used yo do this exercise in my journals where I would just write, “I have nothing to say. I don’t want to write. What am I talking about,” and inevitably, I would end up with pages of verses and paragraphs that I would string into poems.
I think that’s where I’m headed today.
What started as a”I don’t really have much to say” type of post has morphed into a “Let me tell what happened to me” type of post. So, let me tell you what happened to me. I sliced off the tip of my ring finger cleaning the tub. Yes, if you draw blood with doing housework, it’s time to get someone else to do the housework.
Yesterday, in a fit of insanity, I decided to clean the bathtub. I was already wiping down counters, vacuuming carpets and sweeping floors like my name was Cinderella. I was in the girls’ bathroom, scraping dried toothpaste from the sink and turned to give the tub a wipe. Then I took a good look at the shoddy lick and a promise method I’d previously employed and decided to get serious with the Soft Scrub.
As I ran my cleaning rag around the rim of the tub, where the tile meets the tub itself, I felt a sharp stab of pain in my finger. Then, I noticed red spots dotting the newly cleaned bathing surface. I looked down at my hand. Hmmm, you’re missing part of your finger there, chief. What the what? Turns out, a piece of tile close to the faucet some how cracked and separated from the wall. In my zeal to clean, I just ran my hand around and basically scored the top of my finger off. Nice.
Still, I’m not going to let a missing fingertip slow me down. I’m not Jamie from Top Chef. I had a lot of momentum going behind this cleaning binge and it was going to happen now or never. I grabbed a washcloth, wrapped up my finger and kept on cleaning. The bleeding eventually subsided, but I found myself in a situation like when I sliced off the tip of my other finger using that flipping mandolin to make onion rings. Yes, there is a lesson to be learned in all this.
I need a housekeeper.
And a chef.
Oh, and a transcriptionist (yes, that’s a real word) to get all of these thoughts down while I tape up my finger tips.
So, I’ve had to Barbie dolls tucked away in my closet for a few months now. I bought the dolls thinking that there’d come a day when I’d be in need of a respite and would gladly hand them over to Mo and Co for some playtime. Today was that day.
The girls were finishing up their breakfast — yes, the tone of the day had been established quite early — and I brought the dolls down, setting them on the kitchen counter facing the wall. The plan was that after breakfast, I’d let them pick a doll and they could go play while I had my International Foods Coffee moment.
Coever is notorious for bypassing her meal for whatever beverage is being served up. As a result, we withhold the drink until she’s eaten at least 3/4 of what’s on the plate. I had left her cup on the counter and went upstairs to get the dolls. When I came back down, I checked her plate, was satisfied with her progress and she came with me into the kitchen to get her cup of juice. Morgan, who had been reading to herself on the couch, came into the kitchen and promptly began to relate the reason why the cup of juice that had been left on the counter was empty.
“And then, Coever came in here and drank up all the juice and put the juice cup back on the counter and then went to the table!” she finishes dramatically.
Then her eyes land on the Barbie boxes on the counter. “Are those for me?”
But wait a second. The cup of juice wasn’t empty. There had been juice in it when I gave it to Coever. Whether or not she sneaked a few sips while I was upstairs, who knows? But when I gave it to her, there was juice in it.
So I say to Morgan, “Why are you telling tales? There was juice in the cup. Why would you do that?”
“Well (aah the infamous well), um. . .sometimes. . .I. . .get,” and she is steadily eyeing the Barbie’s. “Sometimes, I get cranky when Coever doesn’t give me time by myself to get myself together.”
“Well, Morgan,” I say, “You’re going to have plenty of time to get yourself together right now. Go on into the other room, please.” I scoop up the dolls and head off to the laundry room to put them out of sight and out of mind.
“But Mommy,” comes the plaintive wail, “What about the presents?!”
“Morgan,” I say, “you lied to me about something, so I’m not going to reward you by giving you a doll.”
“Oh. Please don’t tell Daddy!”
That’s the extent of her concern. Not that she slandered her sister, but whatever.
Morgan, clearly in the wrong, will not be receiving a doll today. The question I have though, is what about Coever? She, having done nothing wrong (as far as the juice is concerned), could have her doll. But should I give it to her and then deal with the inevitable Morgan-sized fall-out? I’m just not up for that. Surprisingly, Coever seems to have forgotten about seeing me bring the dolls downstairs in the first place, so I might just get off the hook on that little technicality.
I have a feeling one, if not both, of them is going to bring it up. Yes, I am the grown-up. Yes, I don’t have to give it either of them today, tomorrow, or ever. Still, I’m curious.
What would you do?
What would you do?