the edge

It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a married, stressed woman about to turn 42, in possession of a few unscheduled hours, must be in want of a blog post.

Well hello, long-neglected blog!

I’m coming to you today from here, a favorite hangout from before full-time employment across state lines took me completely out of local circulation.  It’s so good to be sitting here in a local place for a little while.  Though the bing-bong, new age version of The Beatles’ All My Loving, I can do without (God, it should be outlawed!  I’ll bet Yoko Ono is somehow responsible for this).   After an initial poor table choice, beside a table of five men, who, despite their earnest tones and clothing, were discussing things like private equity and social media and other capitalist mysteries, it is now very quiet in here.  Well, except for the squirrels in my head, but I can’t exactly complain to the management about that.

Somewhere along the way, I’ve lost my ability to sit still and keep the tedium at bay.  My head is filled with the worst, most boring minutiae.  The stuff that they tell you you won’t be concerned about on your deathbed.  Need to pick up Stretch at her friend’s house, where she has attended a birthday sleepover in which they apparently DID stay up all night;  need to figure out what to make and bring to the farewell brunch for Father S. at church in the morning;  need to find a way to pay for things, now that the Mr’s unemployment has long overstayed its welcome.   Baseball uniforms unwashed, chores undone, discussions not had, decisions not made.  I don’t dare look up for a moment and wander from this fascinating thought-habitrail, for then my mind turns to Life’s Big Questions, and that’s asking for trouble if you only have an hour and are limiting yourself to one iced latte.  We’ll save Life’s Big Questions for later, over a glass of Malbec.

It’s a Doppelganger Morning here at The Edge.  Over there, a younger Steve Buscemi, with his buzz-cutted, Asian girlfriend, neither of them speaking for about an hour.  Over there, it’s a thinner older, gayer, better looking Dominick Dunne, with a white linen shirt, checked shorts and brown low-top Chuck Taylors.  And a khaki canvas man-purse.  Only one acquaintance-sighting, a former school department adversary who is now retired (but young-retired—school department-retired) and probably spending her mornings at Tai Ch’i or yoga.  I did not want to do any sort of Stop & Chat, so I made myself invisible for a minute, and she left without seeing me.  Lots of contentious interactions between that woman and me, years ago.  She once told a group of people at a meeting table that she was an “expert in closed head trauma” and so she could speak with authority about what this child did or did not need (she is actually a speech pathologist.  not that there’s anything wrong with that!).  Good times.

If only I could commit to scheduling such sanity-saving time more often.

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