Life Outside the Bubble

A week ago, I missed a good friend's birthday. Not just a good friend. The kind of friend who gets excited about your birthday weeks before it arrives, the friend who takes charge of your celebration, the friend who sends cards at least a week early and would never find a stamped, un-mailed card buried beneath piles of crap on her desk. 

To make matters worse, it was a significant birthday. Not that every birthday isn't significant, particularly as we move through the AARP years, but let's face it, fifty-five, "double nickels," is a big deal. And, if my math is correct, I actually spoke to her that day. About me, about something going on in my life. Sigh. If I had only looked at a calendar, noticed that a new month had arrived. Actually, it's my daughter's fault. When I told her of my screw-up, she said she had considered reminding me, but she thought that would be unnecessary. It was uncharacteristic of her to overestimate me, she who worries constantly that she will be called upon sooner than most to care for her addle brained mother. She will, no doubt, never make such a mistake again. Yes, it's my daughter's fault. 

But she shares the blame. I think at least some of the fault lies with Facebook and that arrogant snot-nosed kid Mark Zuckerberg. I have, over the past year, wished countless happy birthdays to people I never see, folks whose lives are accessible to me only to the extent they post pictures on line. It's not that I regret having extended good wishes to them, and I certainly appreciated all the good wishes I received from them on my own big day. But I have come to rely upon Facebook to notify me when somebody is celebrating a special day, damn it; I have abdicated all personal responsibility for these matters. Yes, it's Zuckerberg's fault. If he accepts my friend request, I'm going to blast him.

And, while I'm pointing fingers, I think it's my friend's fault as well. Why the heck is she not on Facebook. Doesn't she know it's so much easier to keep in touch with thousands at once than maintain intimate relationships with the folks who make up your small inner circle? Why cultivate deep, meaningful friendships when, with a mere click of a mouse, you can stay in glorious superficial touch with every Tom, Dick, or Judy you have ever so much as rubbed up against in the past thirty years? How can anyone be expected to remember birthdays the old fashioned way. Like phone numbers; most of us would have no idea how to reach our own mother if our phone disappeared, contact list and all. Unless, of course, mom is hip and on Facebook.  Yes, it's my friend's fault. She is so early nineties.

I glide through my days in my new neighborhood in blissful obscurity. At best I have shared my first name with a few people. They know nothing else about me, have no basis upon which to form any opinions, good or bad, which works for me. When I am the first one out in the snow, I shovel the steps I share with a neighbor, and am extra meticulous with her half. I don't know if she notices, or cares. The other day, the guy two doors down came over to help me finish shoveling. He said it was too painful to watch me; as far as he knows (or cares), my inept shoveling technique is my worst flaw. I will never forget his birthday because I will never know it. Come to think of it, maybe it's his fault I was so negligent about my friend's birthday. Surely they bear some of the blame, he and all the other folks around here who are content to let me remain relatively anonymous, who unknowingly enable me to barricade myself inside a bubble.

Or maybe it's the endless days of bitter cold and snow; or the new job (which has yet to start) or the new house (which is not so new anymore); or my blind dog who likes to eat breakfast at three o'clock in the morning. Or, maybe, just maybe, it's me being an idiot. A completely self involved idiot, no less. Yes, the more I think about it, the more I realize that is the only logical explanation. 

It doesn't really matter whether the neighbors know it, because I do, and so does my friend. And she is far more generous -- and forgiving -- than I am. I have no doubt my Valentine's Day card is already in the mail. 

Super Bowls and Magical Flutes

I am slowly letting go of everything I don't need.

This year, I made an executive decision to decline any invitations to Super Bowl parties. Why go somewhere and sit, bored and alone, while everyone watches football. Why do that when I can sit, bored and alone in my girl-cave, while everyone watches football somewhere else.

It's un-American though, and kind of pathetic -- almost as bad as sitting alone on New Year's Eve with a noisemaker in one hand and a single serving bottle of champagne in the other. As luck would have it, I discovered there are plenty of people out there just as pathetic as I, even more so. Take, for example, my good friend who just had surgery on both feet to get rid of some very pesky bunions. She is housebound for several weeks, and under strict orders not to put any weight on her feet. What some folks will do to fit into a pair of Manolo's! Let's just say I started to feel better about my own life when she sent me a surprisingly tasteful picture of herself sitting on "the commode" while her dinner sat on a tray only inches away.

Feeling charitable (and, I admit, a little bit superior for still being able to, well, not shit where I eat), I offered to bring dinner over for her and her mom, who has been in town as a devoted caretaker for over a week and, I am sure, praying that her flight out in a few days does not get cancelled. My friend sounded downright giddy. "Yay! A Super Bowl party!" Yes, we would definitely have to remember to turn on the television, just to make it all seem authentic.

It's been a long time since anyone has seemed all that excited about a visit from me, so, armed with two giant cookies I had swiped from a "shiva house" (which I believe is totally against the rules) and everybody's favorite chopped salad, I was off to a Super Bowl party after all. When I arrived, having eaten much of the bread that came with the salad and with only a half of a large cookie remaining (it was a long drive), I kind of felt like a Navy Seal on a daring rescue mission. I apologized for demolishing the dessert; they assured me my visit would be the high point of their week. I suppose when the boundaries between eating and excreting become that blurred, the bar is about as low as it can go.

This was no ordinary Super Bowl party, and not just for the obvious reasons. We ate off of eclectic ceramic bowls that looked like museum pieces, and we drank champagne (yes, champagne, not beer) out of glass flutes resting inside beautiful and ornate stems, each one a unique design. Though there were only three of us, there were at least eight of these champagne glasses in view; a couple held flowers, a few simply sparkled on the counter top. I asked whether we were expecting other guests. My friend's mom explained the array of flutes: "At my age, I use everything that is beautiful. I don't save it."

Wise words. I thought about my new little townhouse, the relatively small space into which I managed to fit everything I wanted to keep from the previous chapter of my life. There is very little storage space, so there is very little hidden away. Like pieces of a giant puzzle, the beautiful and beloved relics of my history, some of which I had forgotten existed, fell into place in the space that has become my new normal. I had to let go of a lot of things, and keep only what I need -- or really really want. To be sure, I have not entirely let go of the "old normal;" I may be shoveling my own driveway these days, but I'm doing it in diamond earrings and a Burberry scarf.

I helped my friend's mom wash the beautiful ceramic bowls and, together, we admired the array of glistening champagne flutes. And we polished off all the food, including the last half of the large cookie. After all, why save it?