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?
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