More Weddings and a Funeral (and a Booty Call)

Things that can be depressing: funerals, weddings, Saturday nights.

The funeral thing may seem obvious, particularly if the deceased is someone who should, by all rights, have had many more years ahead of her. Often, though, whether the person lived a long full life or one that was unfairly cut short, it's the eulogy, not the demise, that depresses us. A well constructed eulogy can send even the most sane among us into a tail spin. Frankly, very few of us get to hear -- from outside the confines of a pine box -- someone describe in great detail, in front of hoards of people, how full and inordinately productive our lives have been, how well loved we have been, how little cause we have for regret. Except maybe for folks like Betty White, who earn the right to some pre-posthumous kudos by sheer virtue of longevity and a keen sense of humor.

Last week, a good friend of mine attended the funeral of a woman who had fought valiantly against the ravages of cancer for quite a while, a woman much too young to die. In her fifties, she still had children at home, an adoring husband, and a thriving business. I met her once; she was gorgeous -- a former model -- stunning and fit looking, except for maybe the disease and treatment related distended abdomen she tried so  desperately to hide under a dark tunic. She spoke frankly of her plight, upbeat in the throes of a short lived remission.

Like the rest of us humans, this woman no doubt engaged in her share of regrettable behavior. She was, no doubt, as imperfect as the rest of us, maybe unkind when she should not have been, maybe unfair to someone she loved, maybe even caught red handed a time or two, her panties around her ankles, guilty as sin for some, well, minor sin. But, like most folks who leave behind friends and loved ones, she was deified at her funeral, her life captured and reported through the rose colored remembrances of filtered glass, the good magnified, the bad sanitized. Before the funeral, my friend was devastated by the much too early loss of someone she had admired and enjoyed. After the funeral, my friend was devastated not only by the death but by feelings of inadequacy, for being nowhere near as accomplished or admired or just downright fucking fabulous as this woman had been. Envious, oddly enough, of the too young woman in the pine box.

Tis always the season, sadly, for funerals, but spring is more often the season to feign jolliness and eternal optimism at weddings. We sit in our party clothes and listen to officiants and toast masters extol the virtues of love everlasting, make us believe that this couple will enjoy a lifetime of enduring affection and, if not unadulterated happiness (let's be realistic after all) the loyal companionship of a partner who will never forsake, never intentionally cause any pain. We watch ordinary women who have endured months of dieting and at least a full day's worth of painstaking hair arranging and make-up application become transformed, briefly, into otherworldly beauties as they take their long awaited walk down the aisle. The newly anointed husband looks on with what appears to be love but is really the aftermath of an alcoholic stupor, nauseated from the pack of tic tacs he chugged to help dull the scent of the afternoon's drinking orgy. We sit, some of us with a spouse, some of us on the arm of a new loved one, some of us alone, dateless, pretending our tears have something remotely to do with joy, and we contemplate our own lives. Even the paired up ones can't help but wonder why they don't measure up.

I have to catch my cynicism sometimes, hide it beneath my taffeta skirt and hope for the best for the new couple, two people who, as most of us know, have a tough journey ahead, to say the least. I have to remind myself, sometimes, that though I might be lonely at the moment -- exaggeratedly so amidst the festivities -- I am in charge. I have to remember that life is ever changing, and that good things might happen tomorrow that might seem impossible today, and that I even have some say as to whether -- and when -- my dreams might come true.

Likewise, my friend, fresh from the funeral, had to catch her despair and bury it within the pocket of her dark suit. She, unlike the much celebrated -- and deservedly so -- young woman, I reminded her, is still very much alive. Like everybody, she'll have her share of disappointment and regrets, but odds are she still has a lot of years at her disposal, years during which she will be able to continue to grow, continue to accomplish, continue to love. Beats the shit out of being the one in the pine box.

No, these are not the boots I bought!

Then there's the issue of Saturday nights. The nights when, at least here in deep dark suburbia, all the "happy" couples go out, dates get underway, and everyone in the universe (albeit a small and claustrophobic one) showers, dresses, and celebrates companionship. This week, solo at the last minute, I opted for a booty call. Yes, off I went to Bloomies to purchase yet another pair of really cool boots that I hardly need. And I snuck them into the house while my daughter, aware (from me) that money is tight, was out of sight. Lord knows I didn't need to get caught, yet again, with my panties around my ankles. Lord knows my child will not be charitable (or dishonest) enough to omit shit like that from my eulogy.

If I die tomorrow, I will truly have no regrets, at least when it comes to boots. And if I get married tomorrow, I will wear them.