Modern Dance

The wedding season continues.

My friend, the grooms mother, half joked about her relief that nuclear war had been stalled for another day. I spent much of the day in the noble pursuit of bash worthy hair and makeup and pondering such earth shattering decisions as Spanx or no Spanx (I chose breathing over beauty) and whether anyone would notice that the shoes under my glittering gown were tacky and cheap. On that item, I chose discomfort, if only to not embarrass my mother, who wasn't even invited.

I barely paid attention to the news, had not really digested the enormity of what had happened in Charlottesville that morning. A twenty-first century version of Kristallnacht, right here where it could never happen,  went virtually unnoticed. I was vaguely aware of some unrest, vaguely aware that 45 was still spouting ridiculous apocalyptic rants like an old fashioned schoolyard bully. My dad can beat up your dad. My nukes are bigger than yours. Vaguely aware that though the net continues to gather momentum, we are still only in the early dawn hours of the twilight zone presidency, with no relief in sight.

As always, I hated my hair. The hair lady did exactly what I had asked her to do, but, as always, I was surprised to see my face still looked the same. I still await the curling iron that can smooth out wrinkles. I comforted myself with the prospect of makeup. Ah, again, surprise -- me, staring back at myself from the mirror. I put all my eggs in the basket of my dress. My Spanx-less dress, revolutionary and daring, a middle aged woman's version of bra burning. The day was turning to shit.

All while Charlottesville was burning. The kinds of things that just cannot happen here are happening here, and we find ourselves surprised, shocked really. (It brings to mind my Uber driver in New Orleans right after the election, mocking me for not knowing how close to the surface racism and hatred has always remained.) And, on the anniversary of Hiroshima, across a small sea on one side and a large sea on the other from a country that has devoted three quarters of a century to protecting the world from what science has enabled us to do, just because we can, two buffoons are having an atomic penis war, a frat boy contest to see who can best write his name in the snow.

My Uber driver, that day in New Orleans, told me he gets up every morning and he feels lucky to be alive. To have his children and his grandchildren and to see the sun and to chat with all sorts of people from all sorts of places as he transports them from here to there. And he reminded me that unless you take action, complaining is pointless. I think about my wise Uber driver every time I shake my head and roll my eyes in despair and wonder what action there is I can take.

In the meantime, it's wedding season, and we party like it's, well, some other time, and we revel in each others joys and we look forward to all the upcoming celebrations. And we complain about our hair and our makeup and our bodies even though there's not much we can do to change any of it. While the world teeters on the brink and Charlottesville burns. And we feel lucky, each day, for the reprieve, so we can continue to enjoy the good stuff.