Alone and Together, at the Bar

A young lady walked into a bar. Blew in, it seemed, with strands of hair escaping from her short pony tail and her jacket sliding down one shoulder. 

The seat next to me was open, and, as small as she was, it took her a while to get situated as she tried desperately not to disturb me with her large shoulder bag. I liked her for that, for all of it really -- her politeness, her adorable messiness. If she found the older man to her left at all creepy, she did not let on. 

I like this bar, a relatively cramped space in an otherwise spacious and popular restaurant. It reminds me of my old suburban haunt, where the bartenders know everybody and fill up your wine glass when you're not looking and have that sixth sense about when to chat and when to just go about their business while they pretend they're not listening. Everybody has a story, and I like to wonder what it is. The bartender knows, but would never tell. 

Like me, the young lady was from New York. An Ashkenazi Jew, like me. Odd that would come up, but it did. Messy, like me, and polite, as I like to think I am. Naturally, we discovered we knew some of the same people, Jewish geography in a bar in Chicago. She reminded me a little bit of my daughters, or maybe more than a little bit of a younger me, a bolder version though, treating herself to a nice dinner at a bar. 

She told me that she and her mother, when they get together, often go to help out at soup kitchens. She told me that, even at soup kitchens, there is a pecking order. A cool table, a wannabe table, and the ones who are content to be left alone. Everybody gravitates to a comfortable space. Like us, at this bar. 

My new young friend told me about her closet full of hideous bridesmaid dresses, how if her love life ever gets back on track she would make sure not to force her friends to buy dresses they could never possibly wear again. I imagined her closet, filled with lime green and lavender chiffon. I scrolled through my mental Rolodex, trying to locate some thirty-ish young man who might be worthy of this young lady, this young lady who reminds me of my daughters and the younger self I like to imagine I was. She'll be fine, though, either way.

We are all out there, I suppose, navigating a world that can seem daunting and unfamiliar, unrecognizable at times. A world where it seems the high road leads to nowhere and the line between truth and lies has become oddly blurred. But at the bar, the playing field is level -- no cool tables, no wannabe tables. We all sit in a row, in a comfortable space. 

The Kids are All Right

Most mornings and many evenings last summer, we'd walk by them, the elderly couple outside their small corner townhouse. By then, Eli had had his fill of fetching and sniffing and the occasional laser focused sprints back and forth across some imaginary finish line. I'd had my fill of idle conversation, but I never tire of watching the pure joy of dogs at play. 

They were always outside, the elderly couple, drinking what I assume was coffee in the morning, and something a bit stronger in the evening. Sometimes, they sat together at a small round table; sometimes, one or the other would be up and about, tending to the flower beds that lined the curb. We would wave. I often wondered what they could possibly have to talk about after so many years, so many hours, but they seemed surprisingly content. 

The place seemed locked up a few weeks ago when Eli and I walked by, something we do far less often now that the weather has turned cold. A tarp covered their table, held down by bricks. I imagined they were somewhere south now, drinking whatever the hour called for and chatting and tending to other flowers. 

My kids are all in Chicago now for the holidays. I never tire of watching the three of them together. It is far more complicated than the pure joy of dogs at play, but it is, nevertheless, a marvel. They have the secret language of siblings, borne of a shared upbringing that somehow seeps to the surface when they are together, eclipsing the divergent paths they have taken. In their adult faces I cannot help but see the plump cheeks, the uncertain toddles, the neediness that made me so relevant back in the day. 

This year, for the first time, I have no spare bedroom. My life has been downsized, which works for me. I have my new routines, and I have my coffee in the morning, something stronger in the evening, sometimes just with Eli, sometimes with others. Sometimes I chat, sometimes I don't, but I am content. I am certain that my kids wonder at the seeming sameness of my days. When they are here, I am reminded of how boring I am. All right, that's not fair; I am far more multi-dimensional than that, at least to them. I am ridiculous, occasionally helpful, often incredibly annoying. 

Soon, we will all return to the lives we live, by some combination of choice and happenstance. It's easier in a lot of ways, but I will miss the joyful albeit fraught interruption of their presence, as a group. I will miss watching the three of them together, overhearing their shared sibling language. I will have to settle in, again, to marveling at the pure joyfulness of dogs, and enjoying my seemingly mundane existence. When spring arrives, I will look forward to that secret feeling of superiority that overcomes me when I walk past the elderly couple and marvel at the tedium of their contentedness. 

Let's Hear it for the Girls!

I’ve imagined all week they’ve been feigning excitement, the girlfriends who have chosen to celebrate by milestone birthday with me in Vegas. Not that anybody needs an excuse to leave Chicago for a few days in a November that already feels a bit like February. But it was summer when we cooked up the idea, and I still can’t help but feel a little self-conscious that they are making this trip for me.

Excitement, gratitude, an occasional twinge of anxiety, a fear that nobody will have fun. That twinge evaporated by last night though, lost in a crescendo of emojis -- party hats and champagne popping and clouds of confetti, texts about packing (with even the more holier than thou among us – namely me – finally succumbing to the need to check a bag),  and sordid and self-deprecating texts that only women of a certain age would find amusing.  I abandoned my laptop, made myself a dirty martini in my new shaker, and rummaged through my closets and tried on all sorts of things I know I’ll never wear out in public but what better way to get in the mood. Turquoise cowboy boots and khaki shorts; a tame prelude to what I imagine will happen – and stay – in Vegas.

The guy who took my bag at the airport told me to have fun, and reminded me not to tell. There’s a certain appeal to that, the notion that you can transport yourself somewhere and transform yourself, if only for a moment. I doubt I can shake 59 years, 363 days of relative self-restraint, but then again I’ve never been to Vegas with the girls. At least my daughters will be there to roll their eyes at me before I do anything silly. Or after.

I am giddy this morning. Excited and grateful, and free of anxiety. I cannot wait to greet them all as they drift in, hand them their drinks, settle comfortably into the cozy cocoon they have woven over all these years, the women in my life. My friends, who know me better than anybody possibly could and still hang around. My daughters, who have no choice but to hang around, who remind me every day of the good I have contributed, in spite of myself. They are, all of the women in my life, the icing on my birthday cake, the blue cheese in my olives, the dirty in my martini.

I am about to land in Sin City, on the precipice of yet another chapter. Sixty, all of a sudden, does not seem so bad.

A Bagel With a Schmear

It's never left me, my love of Sunday mornings.

It was my time with my father, just the two of us. In my mind it was always sunny, although, oddly, I can still hear the sound of the windshield wipers. We'd head off in his Cadillac -- always a two-door coupe, not a sedan, on the off chance my brother or I might lean against a door and fly out. We didn't wear seat belts back then, but flying through the windshield was never on my father's worry radar. Why would it be, as long as he was at the wheel?

I assumed my father would never let anything bad happen to me. I counted on it. In my mind I was always happy, although, oddly, I can still taste some tears. But Sunday mornings, I believe, were perfect. Off we went, in search of breakfast. My brother had no interest in going; he had his own special times with our father (or so he says), but Sunday mornings were mine. My father's comfort behind the wheel was contagious, and I'd settle in to the passenger seat beside him, content to go wherever he took me, content to listen to him talk.

The "appetizing store." I've tried, with little success, to explain what that is to my Midwestern friends, how "appetizing" was not really an adjective. Wikipedia has given it a stab: it is best understood as a store that sells "the foods one eats with bagels." That sounds about right, but it doesn't do it justice. For me, it is the claustrophobic shop on the corner of Avenue J and East 14th Street, where ornery men in stained white aprons tossed fish on wooden cutting boards and sliced them with delicate and painstaking precision, oblivious to the waiting mob of impatient customers while they catered to the whims of old ladies who ordered things like a half of a quarter of a pound of nova or demanded a redo when the slices were too thick. My father would steam, until it was his turn. He relished his turn, content to kick back into slow motion. All of a sudden, we needed boxes of "Tam Tams" and anything else that needed to be plucked off the packed ceiling-high shelves with a "grabber." I was happy just to have more time with him. This was before I could imagine that my time with him would end some day.

I thought about all of this, last Sunday morning, as I made my way through the crowds watching the Chicago Marathon, trying to catch a glimpse of the leaders as they rounded the final turn before the finish. The air was crisp and the sun was bright, and I felt almost the way I did back in those days, straining to see over the heads in front of me while everyone waited. I craved a bagel with a schmear. A ride with my father, the sound of his voice. The feeling of a perfect Sunday morning, rain or shine.

This coming weekend we will celebrate what would have been my father's 100th birthday. He has been gone for 21 years, but I remember everything about him, as if it were yesterday. Not just our Sunday mornings, but waiting for him to walk in the door every evening at six; doing the New York Times crossword puzzle with him; hearing him remind me I could do anything as long as I "applied myself;" reading obituaries with him so -- according to him -- he could make sure he was still alive. Our private jokes. The sweet smell of his cigars.

I will always love Sunday mornings, no matter how bittersweet. I still wish I could ask his advice -- even if I might ignore it. And, still, there is no better way to start a day than with a bagel with a schmear and a little bit of nova.

The Ring

It was a coincidental cluster, but a cluster all the same, the rash of departures of mothers. Chronologically elderly mothers, the generation of mothers that bore my generation, mothers who, to their own daughters and sons, always seemed larger than life and immortal. 

With each departure I was struck with grief and a pang of fear. Grief for my friends' losses and my own, particularly for those moms with whom I had spent so much time over the years. And fear that my own mother's immortality would prove, one day, to be nothing more than a sham. I know that's unlikely, but one should always be prepared for such things. 

As my friend and her sister have spent considerable time bonding, these past few months, going through their mother's things, I have sat on the sidelines, still not believing I would never again have lunch with Ann, or celebrate a holiday with her, or grieve together, or even serve as nothing more than a buffer between her and her daughter. We do that for each other, we daughters, able to spin what might appear to be a mother's unrelenting critique into nothing more than inartful expressions of unconditional love. It's cheaper than therapy. 

The clean-up helped my friend and her sister grieve, and it helped me know more about the woman I really only knew as their mom. I would never have expected the fastidious Ann to have expired food in her fridge and pantry. I would never have expected the methodical Ann to have dozens of half empty tissue packets buried in every jacket pocket. I would never have expected the sensible Ann to have too many pairs of the same kind of pants, or to waste her time with fake flowers. The tissues were unceremoniously bequeathed to me, by her daughters, since I never seem to have any. The fake flowers adorn what used to be a large empty vase by my front door. 

I loved Ann's whimsical teapot collection, though I hate tea. I know I am getting one, and I hope it's the polka-dotted rooster, but beggars (and merely honorary daughters) cannot be choosers. 

What I never expected though, never would have asked for, was the ring. I had forgotten about this ring, the wide one with intertwined ribbons of metal, the one she always wore and I always admired. After everything was packed away, her daughters surprised me with it. I felt unworthy, as if maybe we should have gotten Ann's permission. Deep down, though, I knew she would have been okay with it, and it made me smile. 

After so many years of being daughters and mothers together, my friends and I have managed to blur the boundaries between family and friendship, and we have woven together an intergenerational tapestry that keeps us from becoming unglued, not just from each other but from ourselves. 

A wide band of intertwined ribbons, without beginning and without end. 

A Fish Out of Water, Swimming Upstream

I was not so much swimming as hobbling upstream, moving gingerly in my wildly uncomfortable boots through the onrushing tide of Bears fans heading south for the opening game at Soldier Field. I yearned for the flip flops in my purse, but I was off to a soirée of sorts, a gathering of successful women, two of whom I had met only once, three of him I had never met at all. Not the kind of event that lends itself to comfortable shoes. 

Or maybe not. I felt intimidated, considered turning around and joining the football fans. They are devoted networkers, these women, and I happened to get caught up in their mystical web. Most of them had arrived before I did, in this eclectic condo in Printers Row lovingly packed with the most astonishing potpourri of perfect touches. They were outgoing and friendly, animated when speaking and intent when listening. This would be all right. 

They spoke in some sort of networking code, and I tried (in vain) to follow the evolution of all the various groups and sub-groups.  I know precious little about networking; my experience (other than the one meeting that brought me to this place) consists solely of trolling dating sites on a particularly boring Saturday evening, searching for somebody who might make me laugh. Nevertheless, I felt, almost immediately, entirely at home, at ease. I was barely even mortified when I dripped the juice of a  stuffed mushroom on my blouse. After about ten minutes, I felt like family.The company? The hors d'oeuvres? The smorgasbord of art pieces everywhere? Whatever it was, my feet were grateful. I went to my purse and retrieved my flip-flops. 

They are successful professionals in ways I was not raised to be; not lawyers or doctors or Indian chiefs but filmmakers and communications analysts and leadership consultants and holistic financial planners. A gifted musician who had traded in her violin, at least temporarily, for a more orderly profession. We are polar opposites really; I seek out disorder in hopes of achieving some gift, even a modicum of creativity. But we are both Scorpios. We sat together at dinner, gave a separate -- dare I say cliquey? -- toast to our Zodiac bond.  

They are armed with tales of discovery and adventure, so much more interesting that my old standby, the one about childbirth, in all its excruciating detail. There was a tale of a youthful encounter with a handsome stranger at the top of the Eiffel Tower. There was a tale of a serendipitous stop in a small and unassuming French Village left nearly emptied and silent by a brief and atrocious Nazi pass through. Trips to India and China and Milan. Oddly, I could not remember going anywhere, discovering any mysteries; I certainly could not conjure up any chance encounters with a handsome stranger. 

The writer among us piped up, eventually, somewhat embarrassed about the nature and extent of her travels.  She wished she had the travel bug, but she just did not. It's not that she hadn't thought about it; it's just that she prefers to travel by reading. It is her life blood, her books. She ventures across the globe and back through time. She realized, I think, as she spoke, that she is probably more well-traveled than any of us. 

By my count, only two of the six of us had chosen to have children. By my count, though everybody's life seemed full, not one of us could claim a great career and children and an intact marriage. Two of the three was the best any of us could do. 

I left both exhilarated and confused, uncertain of who I am supposed to be and what I am supposed to be doing.  I took comfort, when I returned home, settling into easy repartee in a group text with my old friends, all of them intelligent and accomplished in their own right but having chosen a somewhat different path from the women at the soiree. I admire all of them really, my steadfast and indispensable circle of old friends and my new acquaintances, certain that each one is far more sure of herself, whatever her choices have been, than I am. I take a few minutes to prepare for whatever I will work on tomorrow, and I remember that I am good at what I do. I remember that my resume is three pages long, which makes me either accomplished or flighty, maybe a little of both. 

This morning I walked up the same sidewalk I had hobbled down last night, now empty except for the occasional dog walker. Everybody is wearing comfortable shoes, and everybody seems lost in their own thoughts. Interesting if only for its ordinariness. I head east, toward Soldier Field, as the steady hum of rush-hour traffic builds. I wonder if I should maybe take an interest in football since I live so close. But then I think of the possibilities -- a chance encounter with a stranger, a serendipitous stop in a village with a heart-wrenching story to tell, a book that takes me somewhere far away, or back in time.

A fish out of water, sometimes. Swimming upstream, when I have to. But more and more, unapologetic about my comfortable shoes. 

Love Me Tender (But Please Don't Do My Laundry)

For our seventeenth wedding anniversary, my husband surprised me with an Elvis wedding. Well, a vow revewal. It's not that things went south after that, but it's the last anniversary I can remember. It made me laugh, mostly because he and our friends had come to Las Vegas armed with matching wedding guest attire, lewd sex gifts, and a well-kept secret, and my husband had written his own pitch perfect vows. And mine. After 17 years, at least you can be somewhat realistic. Elvis? Well, he was too skinny and couldn't sing. 

I found the video when I was packing up to move last spring, along with the certificate that, I suppose, still counts me as officially renewed in marriage in Nevada. It's more than we have from our actual wedding. The photographer went AWOL and the friend who insisted on being our unofficial videographer forgot to press "record." Or something. Viva Las Vegas for getting it right. 

The other night I took a chance and asked my Uber driver what his day job was. I should have known. From the moment I entered the car he peppered his conversation -- mostly one-sided -- with occasional bursts of baritone. The temperature okay back there. . . DARLIN'? How do you like the South Loop. . . LITTLE LADY? He gave me his card. An Elvis impersonator. Blue suede shoes, tight bell bottoms, gaudy belt buckle, big hair. The real fake deal. I bet he would've done a great re-wedding. I almost expected him to break out the guitar and jump through the sun roof when we passed the neighborhood, um, correctional facility. 

I'm heading to Vegas in a few months, with a handful and a half of friends and my two daughters. Not a wedding, or a vow renewal; just a regular old sixtieth birthday celebration. Still can't quite wrap my head around that one, but I suppose I'll have to. I told Elvis he should come with. I told him about my last Elvis, the skinny one who couldn't sing. He flexed a bicep muscle for me; he works hard to keep himself in character, he assured me. Who knows, maybe I'd still be married if the other guy had taken voice lessons and lifted a few weights now and then. Elvis, not my ex-husband. 

In that little chapel in Vegas, so many years ago, in the vows my husband wrote for me to read out loud, I promised never to do his laundry. He had this thing about clothes sitting in the dryer for days on end, shriveling. It was an easy promise to keep anyway. Still is, come to think of it. A wedding vow, kept.