Good Eats

I always wonder if grocery store cashiers pass judgment on the contents of people's shopping bags. Like, "honey, you could stand to lose a few, why don't you ditch the ice cream?" Or, "dude, if you drink any more beer, you're going to need a new pair of jeans."

I'm sure they had a good time looking at my basket today. I wandered into Publix this afternoon, and after a lovely chat with Emily Wring and her mother, I wandered up to the "10 items or less" counter with my 10 items or less--tampons, two Green & Black's chocolate bars, a bag of M&M's, two bottles of wine and a half gallon of milk--the latter a last minute addition to make my purchases seem "healthier." I don't think I fooled anyone, especially since it was obvious that the milk was going to be consumed with massive amounts of chocolate. Throw in "Steal Magnolias" on DVD and a pair of pyjama pants, and it couldn't have been more obvious that I'd be sitting at home all night in all my period bloat glory, eating chocolate, drinking wine and watching Lifetime movies.

Happy Hour

Tonight, I drank a margarita in honor of my grandmother, Elizabeth, whose ninety-one long years of life my family celebrated this morning. Mom Mom, as we called her, wasn’t a particularly big drinker, but I distinctly remember the first time I visited her in her assisted living facility in Florida and asked her what she had done the previous day. Expecting to hear about Bingo or perhaps an excursion to a local concert or museum, I was surprised when Mom Mom said “drank margaritas at our Happy Hour.”

Granted, the margaritas were probably glorified lemonade and were served in those small Dixie cups, but still—they were margaritas to her, and they gave her something to smile about, something to choose for herself in a world where those choices were becoming limited.

Mom Mom lived autonomously and proudly for the first eighty-eight years of her live, driving herself to and from “rummage” sales, church activities and the homes of far-away friends and relatives even after my grandfather passed away in 1994. Fiercely independent, “assisted” living was certainly not her favorite dwelling place, though she tried her best to make it her own with her knickknacks, familiar books and pictures of family, all the while referring it to it as “prison.” She managed to maintain that independence, sending countless staff members running from her room by screaming “get the hell out of here” if they were unfamiliar or didn’t treat her with the dignity and respect she deserved. She refused to eat dinner if the meals weren’t pleasing to her palette. She selected stacks of books to read and re-read, and at her age, deserved the right to cheat more-than-occasionally during games of Upwards—most of which she could win outright without even bending the rules—her brain was sharp to the end, and she had an astounding vocabulary, probably gleaned from her love of literature. Even in her advanced age and deteriorating condition, she commanded respect and was stubborn, even to the end—holding on out of sheer refusal to go before she declared it time.

These qualities—spunk, independence, and tenacity—probably not considered very “lady-like” for her generation are the ones her daughter, my mother, imparted to me and my sister, and I can only hope I live up to her great example.

D Day

As of yesterday around 11am, I am legally single again. Ironically, the official divorce decree says "the marriage contract heretofore entered into between these two parties...is set aside and officially dissolved as fully and effectually as if no such contract had ever been made or entered into."

Obviously, I get the legal point, but it's not like I can erase nearly eight years of my life. I think that is the most difficult part of this whole journey. Regardless of how disfunctional the relationship had become, regardless of how much I needed to sever my relationship from him in order to heal myself, to move forward with my life and grow professionally, emotionally, spiritually and otherwise--he will always be with me. Every day there are reminders, from his name on my prescription drugs, to the random note I'll find in my drawer, to his friends that inquire about his mental state to the countless memories that become more abstract, yet no less painful. Some are good memories. And those are mostly the ones I remember. And they make me sad. Not because I could or want to go back to that specific place in time, but because those people are no longer. Yet, just because we've gone our separate ways doesn't mean I stop loving or feeling or caring. And I do, infinitely. You don't forget someone who has a profound affect on your life, who grows into adulthood with you.

And yet, to continue that journey, I had to leave, I had to move on. And I did and am, and the life that I am building is so wonderful and perfect, I have a hard time recognizing who I am today and who I was a year or even six months ago. And it's freeing to know that I can move on, to continue to grow and learn and build something that's authentic and real and entirely adult--a life that fits me and my dreams.

But I do occasionally pause and thank him for getting me this far along the way, even though I had to say good-bye and go the rest of the way on my own.