I was leading a discussion group. One white haired gentleman, pretty quiet, offered up that on his last anniversary, he arranged that he and his wife should renew their vows. She didn't have a clue. She was dressed up for a big night out on the town. He pulled up to all their friends and relatives waiting at the park. Cake, preacher, the whole nine yards.
All the women in the group listened and then glanced sideways at their husbands. Considering, I guess. I looked at my husband sitting in the crowd. His face was easy to read: "CRAP!" it said.
Tim is a quiet husband. Lately, this has been bugging the snot out of me. Probably this is partially due to the fact that I'm wrassling with menopause and just about everything bugs the snot out of me. Probably because I still don't know where my oldest daughter is, or if everything is okay. I find myself with this desire to talk compulsively, probably desiring to drown out the internal worrying mom voice in my head. But Tim -- well, he's pretty quiet. When Tim does talk, he tends to talk about the new house we bought. We discovered that beneath the disgusting carpets are cherry floors. There was a drawer with silver, real silver. He has big plans for this house, and he wants to talk about the heating system, appliances for the apartments, etc. Compulsively. On and on. Even when we are in bed and he is stretched out next to me, our pillow talk consists of houses and rehab. Not to sound repetitive here myself, I'll say it again, this is bugging the snot out of me.
I've been dealing with this by becoming quiet myself. Retreating into old romance novels from the 1800's. Waiting it out, patiently. This too shall pass.
I read a blog today (http://www.bushbabe.blogspot.com/) and she talked about her 40th birthday. She threw a big party for herself. Really celebrated. People drove for hours. It sounded like great fun. On my 50th birthday last year, I was having a big party too. It was a joint party to celebrate my son's graduation from college, and an engagement party for my oldest daughter and her fiance. I'm not a person comfortable with being the focus of things, so I had a really fine time watching everyone rejoice with Dylan, and with Brianna and her Jeremy. I felt like I was reaping the rewards of turning 50. It was all good. Still, it was something reading about Bush Babe's bash. I wondered if maybe I should have done it differently.
I logged off (we live in the woods. I still have dial-up) and called my friend Mary. She turned 50 last week. She has had a rough year. Her mom passed away in August, and then she began to have some alarming symptoms in November. I wanted to have a party for her birthday, but in the manner of people who have been friends forever, she just said, flat out, "I don't want a party. I am not in the mood for it." So, I called her up to see how her birthday had gone.
Now understand, Mary is a quiet woman married to a huge man with a drooping mustache and sad looking eyes. He proudly calls himself 'a big dumb Polack'. Danny is also the funniest person that you've ever met in your life. One of the 'aw, shucks' things that Danny does on a regular basis is that he writes funny little poems to Mary to commemorate special occasions. Isn't that sweet? Not for her 50th birthday. He wrote her a long poem, and PUT IT IN THE PAPER. It went something like this:
"Mary _____ (yes, last name was included) turns the big five-oh!
No, this is not a typo.
She used to ride a palomino
wearing a poncho
being all macho
and it degenerated.
There was talk about "libido".
"Spicey food and Bean-o".
Mary read this in horror as Danny sat across the table waiting, with a big smile under his drooping mustache. He really thought this was humorous. Mary got to the word 'commando' and screamed "Do you know what commando means?" Turned out that he did. He thought it was funny. Not true, but funny. "This took me three hours to write," he said. "Do you know how hard it is to find words that end in 'o'? Don't you like it?" Turns out she didn't. Not at all. We live in a small town. She was not happy with people pondering her underwear or lack thereof. She was not at all pleased with people reading about her libido or wondering whether she had gas. Man. Mary was PISSED. She was still screaming mad when relating the story to me, a full week after the big day.
Oh boy. I laughed until my sides ached. I roared in the most undignified way. The tears flowed. I wasn't ROFL, as they say, but man, it was close. I howled. I also counted my blessings that Tim is a quiet man, not given to words. Written or otherwise.