The unpacking is barely done, or maybe not quite done, and I am on my way to a reunion of an odd assortment of people, some I barely know, some I once knew, some I do not know, all a group who have a common experience or experiences. Last time I struggled with my life long issue of never quite fitting in, this time it was lessened by two additional years of interaction, and a much closer friend in attendance. And perhaps, after all this time, therapy has helped, but the best help of all was a little tidbit from A. that there is a large number of socially awkward people in this world.
It took 12 hours to feel at home in my new home, 12 hours before I said, this is home, this is comfortable, I could get used to being here. And the comfort of being in my own place, and horror of horrors, being attached to the things in my life that have been missing for two years, gems and treasures of my Littlest Angel rough hewn box of godly gifts.
I don’t dance, I used to, until someone told me I dance like Elaine on Seinfeld, like I am having a seizure. I don’t do this, I don’t do that, I used to do them, before I was told how fat, ugly, stupid, unattractive, unworthy of time, unworthy of attention I am. I question myself, is my humor too much, when I hear a voice telling me I am unladylike, or that I should not speak this way, I am an embarrassment.
I sit in the early morning, talking with a bozo. Pain is just weakness leaving the body, you must have a lot of weakness I say. He hobbles to a chair and sits. I tell him I am done, with this thing called romantic relationship. He tells me do not be done, I say I am tired of being told I am not good enough, that I am fat, ugly and stupid. You are none of these he says. We pass wisdom between us, in the end I say, I am not saying I would not welcome romance, but I am not looking for it.
As I make my mashed potatoes and caramelized onions with last nights left over sausage, I think of how comfortable I feel in my place, and how I never want to lose this comfort again.
I think of the smallest of favors asked, and the refusal, and the hemming and hawing, contrasted with a kiss just yesterday morning. And the texts that follows calling out my son in law for not doing it for me. My calm response, he did enough for me yesterday as he carried in several heavy boxes, a table, and carried out over a hundred pounds of metal to be scrapped, I am tired of people speaking ill of this young man, who is maturing bit by bit, he isn’t perfect, but he treats my daughter better than the last two of my relationships treated me. He at least came over when I asked and did what I asked without criticizing someone else for not doing it. Forget it I say, I don’t need your help after all.
I watch as the dry husk of a spider floats on a gossamer thread in the breeze, shimmering until it is lost, and I am still here standing in the sun as the water sings the melody of the crone in my ear.
I am good here. And you? you both were or are wrong. because, I am good here and the fault lies not with me, but with the vile ugliness of your own reflection.
Do not tell me I am not good enough. For I am.