Spring Shower

We are bidding farewell to spring, 2010. It’s a sad farewell because this past spring was just about the loveliest I will ever remember (except for Lindsay’s hospital stays). The weather could not have been better, summer-like days, few rain-showers. And one big shower- the bridal shower that we threw for Lindsay- that turned out as picture perfect and charming as any I could have imagined. I could look back on that day with a smile and a sense of accomplishment.

It was a mild Sunday morning in the beginning of January, one of the very few, that Kim and I traveled from east to west, then west to east on Jericho Turnpike to search for a venue. We began in Floral Park- the Queens-Long Island border. My friend, Dorothea, recommended the first place we went to. The minute we walked into it, Kim and I said simultaneously, “This is it.” With its coral painted Tuscany- styled ambience, an outdoor garden and nostalgic brightly colored paintings, including one of the “Little Rascals”, it just took our breath away. It was named after the Little Rascals’ teacher. How serendipitous is that? I was a teacher. Kim is a teacher. Lindsay is a teacher assistant. I couldn’t have dreamed a place more perfect. And they served brunch! That’s just what I wanted- a bridal shower brunch! (Although, Lindsay did say afterwards that she’s really not a breakfast person- who knew?) Kim and I went through the motions of looking at other places on Jericho Turnpike, even though we left a $100 deposit, immmediately; it was just for something to spend the rest of the day on. Not one place compared and not one place served brunch. It was settled.

Lindsay wanted a surprise shower. We kept the secret very well. We even showed her the invitations, at her insistence, covering the date and the place. She had no idea- she thought she was going to her cousins’ graduation party. Her aunt even sent out faux e-vites. And then someone blew it, with a slip of the tongue, a week before. We came so far and then one sentence just ruined the whole surprise. Lindsay was quite upset, naturally. I was almost relieved- first, because I was not the one to slip, then, because I didn’t have to conceal everything anymore. Then Lindsay said- I want everything else to be a surprise- the decorations, the games, the centerpieces. Centerpieces? Did she say centerpieces? What centerpieces? I had decorations- I put together a wishing well, which Kim and Lindsay’s friend, Jaime, decorated beautifully. Jaime also made a cake, which was gorgeous beyond all expectations. Best friend, Lisa, had all the games planned. Sister-in-law, Michele, had a special poem planned. What centerpieces? And then Lisa told me she’s doing the centerpiece game where someone at each table wins the centerpiece. I knew the restaurant was putting vases with fresh flowers at each table. I doubted they would allow anyone to take them home. I had to, now, in one week, think of what to do for six centerpieces that someone would want to win, no less. Back to Michael’s, the craft store. Back to the Styrofoam aisle, and the scrapbook section and coming up with different ways you can use pipe cleaners and decorative foam hearts. I went to sleep, each night, trying to think of ideas. And then it came to me in a discount store a block away from my office. I spotted bracelets- six of them- exactly the same as the one Lindsay and Scott brought me home from Aruba. That would be a nice prize. As if there was a muse placing a symbolic light bulb above my head, I thought of THE CENTERPIECES. Each table had a vase, filled with sparkling rocks, with one of the bracelets wrapped around it. Coming out of the vase were pipe cleaners with foam sparkling hearts and in the center, was a Styrofoam heart, covered in a sparkle foam sheet of either gold, white or silver and bearing one of the theme words for the ingredients to a happy marriage- Live, Love, Laugh, Dream, Trust, and Faith (also Lindsay’s middle name). The place cards, instead of having the boring: Table 1, 2, etc., had Live, Love, Laugh, etc. It took me one night to design and decorate the centerpieces. What a relief, then I realized I never wrote a speech.

I googled “Bridal Showers” for inspiration because I couldn’t think of what to write for Lindsay’s speech- me, the writer, or writer wannabe. I found out some interesting facts- like showers began in 1890 for girls who were too poor to have a dowry. The intention was to “shower” the bride with gifts to fill her home. I needed the muse that helped me think of the centerpieces to return and inspire me to write a suitable speech to give to my daughter on the day of her shower. Kim and my mom became my muse and assisted me with writing the following poem:

To my daughter, Lindsay, on her Bridal Shower:

Showers

On the day you were born, I loved you so,

I showered you with kisses from head to toe.

As a baby and a toddler you were my bundle of joy,

And I showered you with all kinds of toys.

Quickly you grew and clothes became your passion,

I showered you with things to wear in the latest fashion.

When you became a teen and outgrew all your toys,

I had to shower you with caution about all those boys.

And now your wedding day is almost here; soon you will be a spouse,

So, we’re showering you with gifts to fill the rooms of your house.

May married life ahead be bright and sunny,

And your days be showered with love from your honey.

And whatever showers come your way,

May the love in your heart be the sunshine to brighten your day.

Holding a glass of champagne punch, I toasted Lindsay after reading her poem, above. A delicious brunch was served; although, my bride-to-be daughter had a special dish of lobster ravioli prepared just for her, because she’s not a breakfast person. She can’t even pronounce the word “breakfast”- it comes out “brefixt”, for some strange reason. We tease her about it all the time. Ironically, as I write this on father’s day morning, Lindsay is cooking pancakes for her dad.

Lindsay’s shower is a beautiful distant memory. Everything turned out as wonderful as we had hoped. The games were a success, the food was delicious and the cake- was the “belle of the ball”. Even the weather cooperated. Thunderstorms were predicted all week, threatening the use of the outdoor garden, but thankfully they didn’t come until after all the gifts were packed into the car and we drove away, tired, relieved and ecstatic all at once.

I thought of all the stress that proceeded this important event in our wedding journey, how at one point, I even said, “I can’t wait for it to be over.” But when I was in the moment, looking at my two pretty daughters smiling and my beautiful mother kvelling*, I wanted to freeze time. My friend, Roselee, said to me- “We stress over all these occasions and it all works out in the end and then they’re over in a minute, and you say to yourself now what do I do?” She was so right.

The next day on Monday, I worked with a group of teachers. One of them just had her wedding that previous Friday; I could tell when I looked at her perfectly French manicured nails with a line of silver glitter on each one. She looked almost sad when she talked about her wedding. “I feel like I didn’t even get to enjoy it and now it’s over,” she told me, dolefully. It was a quick reminder of how we have to live in each moment and a caution to me about making sure how we all must thoroughly enjoy the wedding yet to come.

*kvell- (Yiddish) to beam with pride and pleasure

Moon Over Mumbai

Sounds soothing and romantic, even a little mysterious, right? It’s actually the name of my nail polish. Well, not even nail polish- my new soak-off gel lacquer. It’s the latest fad in manicures- stays on for two weeks, doesn’t chip, protects your nails and lets them grow without ruining them. If you don’t want to continue, you just soak them off and you are free of any future obligation, if you so choose. I chose to continue- the cost is a little more than a manicure, but it lasts longer. And now I have ten equally long, beautifully manicured “Moon Over Mumbai” nails. Prior to this, I had been neglecting my nails for a while. With the wedding approaching, I had to think about covering all the bases. I went through the whole acrylic period and wrap period. This entailed commitments, which were more time consuming than the soak-off gel lacquer. Add that to my commitment to touching up my roots and I was a slave to my appearance. And then you have routine visits to the gym, of which I am a shameful slacker. In the summer, you must get pedicures, lest anyone sees your just plain feet. Oh and I failed to mention all the hair removal requirements. The curse of being a woman is working hard to improve every detail of your body, while your body constantly has its own agenda.

Of course, when you’re in your fifties, you get a slight break with menopause when you no longer have to worry about your friend, “Flo” showing up. But then, the side effects are the hot flashes, which cause the $50 dollar make-up that you just scrupulously applied to hide all your wrinkles and discolorations, stream down your décolletage. As you are trying to salvage whatever make-up remains, you notice a whisker, dark and daring jutting out of your chin. You swear that whisker was not there two minutes ago when you were putting on your makeup. That thing never would have missed your eyesight, even though your vision is getting weaker. The whisker is disgusting. At the beginning I had taken to naming each one- after the seven dwarfs- “Grumpy”, “Bashful”, “Dopey”, etc. Now, I just name them all “Godzilla”, after the beast that they really are. I scrounge through my drawer to locate my tweezers to remove Godzilla. Naturally, I can’t find the tweezers right away. I curse in frustration; but my determination takes over because I will never leave my house knowing that beast is hanging onto my chin. Do you know what the most essential beauty product is? Answer-a good pair of tweezers- yes, that’s it. I have a pager for my cordless phone, which I am constantly losing. I need a pager for my tweezers, because they are more important. While anxiously digging through my cosmetics drawer, stuffed with things I don’t have any idea why I keep in there anymore because I haven’t used them in years (bobby pins, for example), I notice my lovely “Moon Over Mumbai” nails. I stop to admire them. My instant calm brings on good karma and I spot my tweezers sparkling under an ancient pot of lip-gloss. I raise the tweezers to pluck out the beast- he is thick and bold, but I win, with the help of the magnification side of my makeup mirror. Like a surgeon, I carefully remove this persistent, unwanted growth. Beauty conquers the Beast.

It’s a battle, a constant battle to maintain your beauty. But in that battle you still need to preserve your sanity. That means finding the right places to assist in your beautification regimen. That’s a job in itself. You need a place that is not a factory and that makes you feel special. My hair salon is perfect for this because there’s cappuccino, which the assistants will bring to you. And there’s my hairdresser, Teresa, who is also my quasi-therapist. We were using a nail salon, that didn’t look like the typical nail salons. It had a huge rock garden landscape with water cascading amongst tropical plants. The whole ambiance was aesthetic and relaxing; however, it was located in a strip mall with a very popular grocery store and the parking lot was a nightmare. By the time you got a spot, and got into the salon, you wanted to bang your head against the rock garden.

One weekend, Kim and Lindsay and I drove around searching the neighborhoods for other nail places. There was one on each corner, sometimes even two, but none of them offered the atmosphere of the one we were using. Until Kim, on her own, discovered a new one, just opening, five minutes away with a much better parking lot. There was no rock garden, but there were comfy couches, dark wood floors and it looked like Architectural Digest inside. As a matter of fact, amongst the magazines to read, there were several copies of Architectural Digest. The owner explained that she used the magazine to decorate. She wanted an atmosphere to relax her clients and keep them feeling that this is a time for them to pamper their bodies. When you get your pedicure, it’s in a bamboo bucket and the huge cushioned leather chair reclines all the way as they give you a fourteen-minute foot and leg massage, included in the price. Kim did good. This is our new place for our manis and pedis. We even reserved the date for the whole wedding party.

Getting beautiful and pampered simultaneously. Who needs a battle all the time in the quest for beauty? If you have to spend so much time on your appearance, why not do it with tranquility? I’m even thinking of cancelling my gym membership and joining a yoga studio. I just need to find one that charges only $10 per month.

Kink

Two weeks ago on a Thursday after work I went with Lindsay to look for a headpiece and veil. There was a trunk show at the store where she bought her wedding gown. She put on a sample of her dress to match it up to the veil. Mary Lou, the salesperson that sold it to her, was there. Lindsay had weighed almost 90 pounds on that night; she had put on some much needed weight after having pancreatitis. It took two hours to decide that the first headpiece she tried on was the one she wanted and to find a veil reaching her fingertips with enough “bling”. Bling should be Lindsay’s other middle name. Bling is in the description of everything that Lindsay has ordered to plan this wedding. “It has to have bling,” she says, with a sparkle in her brown eyes and a nod of her head. Even the invitations, which didn’t come with bling, had bling inserted onto them. A tiny luminous Swarovski crystal was carefully glued onto the middle of each motif at the top of every invitation, over 100 of them. There was an intense discussion beforehand about whether to put one crystal or three. Too much bling can be tacky while just the right amount of bling is elegant.

The headpiece and veil were blingy and elegant, with a price tag that defied my imagination. I had no idea toile, which weighs next to nothing, can be so expensive. Both the headpiece and veil cost more than half the price of what I paid for the dress. I nearly fell off the fancy little cushioned stool I was sitting on when Mary Lou brought me the sales ticket. I suddenly realized that the phrase “What price range are you looking in?” was never stated. Exhausted and in a small state of shock, I just handed over my credit card, which Mary Lou had to release from my tense grip. I regretted that moment dearly. But how could I say no after we had invested two hours of our time deciding? However, two days later, my practicality triumphed when I explained to Lindsay that it was just outrageous to spend so much, without looking into other options. She had heard about a lady, Adi, who sells headpieces and veils from her home. We cancelled the order and made an appointment with Adi for the following Friday night. Then came the kink.

The kink was revealed on Wednesday night. Lindsay had to go back for the procedure to remove both stents that the doctor had put in her to repair her twisted pancreatic duct and bile duct. The stent from her pancreatic duct was supposed to pass naturally, but didn’t. It had to be removed with the same procedure that he did to place it in there. So, he decided, why go back to remove the other one and have to go through anesthesia again? Let’s just remove everything. The appointment was set for Wednesday morning and Mark was going to go with her because I had to work in Stamford, Connecticut that day. I was really not happy about not being there for the procedure, but Lindsay would not change the appointment. I left my cell phone on while I was doing my workshop to keep in contact with Mark. At about 11:30, he called to tell me that recovery did not go so well. They suspected she had to be admitted into the hospital again. I was 50 miles away. I left Stamford, Connecticut, flying down the rain-slicked I-95; I do not think the wheels of my car hit the pavement at all. I was not aware of the speed I was travelling, but I do remember the constant hum inside the car as I defied time to get to my daughter. If you listen carefully, you can hear panic; it envelops you in a vacuum. It forces you to focus on every uncomfortable millisecond that passes. It is callous and insensitive.

When I arrived at the hospital, Lindsay was being admitted to a different unit this time, a private room in the “M” wing. She was still in a drowsy state from the anesthesia, but it was clear she was in a lot of pain again. Her amylase level was 2003; lipase was 8232. Higher than the last time. Pancreatitis, round two. Dr. Stark explained the problem. A kink. There was a kink in her bile duct, like a kink in a hose. The cause for the kink was a choledochal cyst, which is a congenital deformity. It occurs during the first 45 days of fetal development. It was my fault, after all, I felt. What did I do during those first vital days? I had to do something wrong- take an aspirin, perhaps, or twist in the wrong direction. It’s silly to blame myself, I know, but nevertheless, I do. What’s so cruel is that this has revealed itself during what is supposed to be one of the happiest times of our lives. I take a deep breath. It is not a sigh of relief. It is a sigh of anticipation. For now, the doctor had to put in a new stent, one with pig-tails that rotates and will hopefully correct the kink. If that doesn’t work, he will try a different stent. If that doesn’t work-surgery- very invasive, complicated surgery. One day at a time; I say; we will take it one day at a time. And hope for the best.

The stent has to stay in for at least three months. That is three weeks before the wedding. It is too risky to remove it then because every time he does the procedure, there’s a great chance that she will get pancreatitis again. So, Dr. Stark says he will wait until after the wedding. The stent walks down the aisle with Lindsay. In sickness and in health….with or without stents. The honeymoon has to be postponed because there is risk of infection. She can take antibiotics with her, but I say no- I am not letting her go to St. Lucia with a stent and a pill. She will have to wait. One day at a time. And hope for the best.

I returned to work last Monday. Thursday I went to my office. I sleep deeply on the Long Island Railroad, now. As I walk through Penn Station, I carry a heavy burden on my shoulders, blending in with the frenetic hustle of the crowds of people. Sometimes, there is a man who plays an organ, right before the entrance to the “2” subway. He was there this Thursday. He is in his eighties, I think, with silvery white hair and leathery brown skin. He must have osteoporosis, because his head hangs down over his slumped neck. Maybe he has a kink, too. A mechanical monkey claps its cymbals right beside the baskets where people drop their money in for his music. He plays the same song all the time. I always stop, no matter how hurried I am, and find some coins or a dollar to place in one of the baskets. And every time I do, without fail, he lifts his heavy head, and waves his hand to thank me. His smile is broad and sincere. It is in that moment, I am almost certain of the presence of G-d. It is the organ-player’s smile that lifts the burden from my shoulders.

This time, Lindsay was in the hospital for five days. She is now 87.9 pounds. We went to Adi, the veil lady’s house yesterday. We found a veil with bling that costs $250 less than the veil in the store. She will make a similar headpiece for $200 less. We continue with our wedding planning, even with a kink in the journey. One day at a time. And whenever I feel the weight of the kink I think of my organ playing man lifting his head and smiling. And I hope for the best.

This is blog #36. 36 is double chai. Chai in Hebrew means 18 and life....a good sign.

Palindrome

Mom. The word mom is a palindrome. A palindrome is a word or phrase, which reads the same in both directions. It is derived from the Greek palindromos, meaning running back again. Didn’t the father in My Big Fat Greek Wedding say that the root of every word is Greek? I guess he was right.

It makes sense that mom is a palindrome; it should be the example- the mother of all palindromes, don’t you think?

Mom begins life and life begins mom. That’s a palindrome sentence. It’s also a true statement.

My Mom-

Sweet Sylvia. Funny lady, my mom. My main gal. The one who’s always there for me, anywhere, anytime. Sylvia started “late in life” getting married and having children. Of course, what was considered late in life in 1952 was 28 years old. Lindsay will be almost 28 when she gets married, but in 2010, that’s considered just about right. Funny how things change.

Sylvia was told by her doctor, sometime in 1953, that she probably wouldn’t be able to have any children, after unsuccessfully trying to get pregnant. She went home, dejected, and decided with George (my dad) that they would just go on and make a life without kids. Doctors can be wrong, though, and in April 1954, Sylvia had Marjorie, a strawberry blonde, green- eyed little girl, inheriting my father’s fair features. Then in April 1956, she had me- dark like her- black hair, dark brown eyes. Claire was born on my birthday (never forgave her) in 1958. Three girls in a row; the April girls.

Genevieve, our next-door neighbor and mom’s good friend, had four kids. When her youngest was born, I begged my mother to have another baby. I remember it well. I was by the stove while Mom was cooking, pleading with her to have a baby. “No,” she told me, “three is enough.” The next thing I recall was being in the car with my parents, returning from the doctor and trying to eavesdrop on their conversation. Mom was upset, but I sort of got the gist. “Are you having another baby?” I asked, excitedly. “Yes,” she said impatiently, while she was deeply embroiled in the discussion with my dad. I was elated. I kind of got that Mom was not. That’s because she was scared. She was pregnant, but also had a tumor, which she carried along with the baby for nine months. In April 1962, my brother, Martin, Sylvia’s miracle boy, was born. He was over eight pounds; the tumor was the size of a grapefruit. But all was well. And my dad smiled from ear to ear. I could touch that smile; it is so vivid in my memory.

Four kids and my mom; we were her life. I knew that. And through most of it, she had her mom, Grandma Fanny, living with us. She took care of her mom and us. Her life began with us- the life she always wanted- to be a mother. It was her job- basically her only job. She will tell us stories, new stories all the time about her life before us. They are wonderful stories- but to me- my mom will always be my mom and that is where her life began for me. Mom begins life.

Me, a Mom?

I remember the day that I told my mom that I would probably not ever have children. I said to her “looking at young girls wheeling babies in carriages depresses me.” I could just picture the puzzled expression on her face. But she didn’t dissuade me; she just said, “Okay. Whatever you want. Just make sure you finish college and are able to support yourself- whether you have children or not.” Best advice she ever gave me. She always listened carefully, never really told me what to do; just planted seeds. She was a seed-planting mom.

Well the rest is history. I met Mark, fell in love, got married and my life began again when I found out I was pregnant. Three months later, I began to bleed heavily and thought for sure I had miscarried. I went to the doctor and after the examination he told me that the pregnancy was probably terminated. He sent me for a sonogram to check further. In 1982 you had to wait to go for a sonogram, which was usually done in the hospital. I had to wait two long days. In those two days, my pants wouldn’t close and on the night before the sonogram, I felt a strange sensation in my stomach, like butterflies. But I still believed what the doctor told me- there was no baby anymore. Doctors can be wrong, though. And while the technician was doing the sonogram, she said, perfunctorily, “there’s the baby’s heart, beating.” “What baby?” I said, shocked. “Your baby,” she laughed. Life begins mom.

On September 19, 1982, my life began as a mom to Lindsay and on August 1, 1986, my life began as a mom to Kimberly. I had a life before. It was a good life. This one is better. I am blessed.

I found the first Mother’s Day card I ever got that was hand-made by Lindsay. It said “Happy Mother’s Day” on the front. She put dots on the bottom of all the letters to make the print fancier and glued on colored glitter in the shape of hearts. Inside it said:

Thank for…giving me what I really need and that’s a hug I love you

To: Mom

and for…buying what I need

and for…giving me love and care.

and for….helping me with my homework.

and for….kissing my boo-boo

and for…Taking me to school from: Lindsay

Lindsay and Kimberly…thank you for giving me a life as your mom. And Mom, thank you for giving me a life.

Mom begins life and life begins mom. A very special palindrome.

The moment a child is born, the mother is also born. She never existed before. The woman existed, but the mother, never. A mother is something absolutely new. ~Rajneesh

Happy Mother’s Day.

Flashback, Flash Forward

No matter how much I try to remain in the present, my mind takes over and I have either a flashback or flash forward. Of course, there are times that I’m just having a hot flash and disconsolately in the present for that. It is May, already. April came and went in a flash. The day of my birthday, the 22^nd, was uneventful, a day of work like any other; until I was surprised at home when Mark, Lindsay, Scott and Kim hid Sonny from me and then brought him out, golden fur, decorated with a red bow. I got my first “mother-in-law” birthday card from Scott, which I will treasure always. And then Phil and Phyllis- Scott’s parents- yes, I chuckle every time I say their names together, too- came over to join in singing me happy birthday while I blew out the candles on a fancy cake.

126 days left of this journey. Thursday, at last, Scott and Lindsay officially closed on their house. That was a journey in itself, with the typical back and forth of uncertainties and frustrations of buying a home and getting a mortgage. Even up to the day before the closing, there was a problem and they were unsure that the deal was going to go through. A roller-coaster ride, just like most anything in life. I kept telling them, “Everything will be alright, you’ll see.” And, luckily, I was right; my daughter and future son-in-law will reside in a lovely little cape five minutes away from us, four if there’s light traffic on Jerusalem for a left-turn and I make the light on Hempstead Turnpike. When people ask me how far it is and I tell them this, I add- “it’s as far as the umbilical cord will stretch." It’s also five minutes away from Phyllis’ and Phil’s house- equidistant to both sets of parents- one set to the north and one set to the south. I flashback to the days when Mark and I got our first apartment- a stone’s throw away from each of our parents. Friday night dinner at my parent's house, Sunday night dinner at Mark’s.

And now the work begins- breaking down old walls, putting up new walls- demolishing, building and making it their own. I came home from work early on Thursday and Kim and I decided to go over to Scott and Lindsay's house to congratulate them. Before we did, I called my best friend, Meryl, in Florida to find out what the traditional things to bring to a new home were. She told me sugar, salt, bread, a candlestick and matches. Although she couldn’t really explain what each one stands for. My mom, as always had most of the answers; sugar is for a sweet life, salt is for a little spice, bread- so they should always “have what to eat”. She never heard of the candlestick and matches. I brought them birthday candles and decided that it meant they should celebrate a lot of birthdays there. Who knows; it sounded good. The sugar, salt, bread, birthday candles and matches went in a large red gift bag and of course, I also bought them one of those sappy little plaques with a sappy little saying about a home. Kimberly bought them a beautiful azalea, bursting with pink buds.

Lindsay greeted us at the door, holding a large Ziploc bag filled with ice on her head. “What happened?” I asked, a little panicky. “I got hit by a hammer,” she responded. “Your future son-in-law lost the grip to the hammer because his hands were all sweaty. It went flying…and landed right onto the top of my head. He said it was like it was happening in slow motion and I told him it couldn’t have been that slow, because I had no time to move away from the flying hammer.” Always a little drama when it comes to Lindsay. It makes sense that she’s an actress.

I looked around at Scott and Lindsay’s future home; presently the floors are filled with torn sheet rock and nails. Lindsay led us around, explaining how the furniture will be placed and how they will rearrange the kitchen. I tried to flash forward beyond the demolition to picture what it will look like. My mind got carried away as I walked to the backyard and I could almost hear my future grandchildren giggling and playing in the grass. I shook myself back to reality, when I noticed how overgrown and weedy the grass was and the monstrous, diseased tree, smack in the middle, that must, unfortunately be cut down.

It’s a lot of work that needs to be done. But they are young and strong and have handy, wonderful friends to help them, besides for Mark, who is excited to be part of this project. When I got home later, I noticed Lindsay and Scott’s boxes, still piled by the wall of my dining room. “Another few weeks,” I tell the boxes, “and you’ll be out of here.” I am happy and a bit sad all at once.

By the time we returned home, it was too late to make dinner. Mark and Kim and I decided to go to our favorite diner. We were sitting next to two older couples, who caught my eye for some reason. As they left, the older of the two gentlemen, slowly and carefully got up from his seat. I could tell this was difficult for him. He was bent over, his spine circling towards the floor. His wife, looking much younger and better than he, helped him put his jacket on. And that’s when it clicked. I realized that the older man was my former boss, the one I worked for when I was getting married. He and his wife were even at our wedding. I saw perhaps a glimmer of recognition in her expression, but I chose not to say anything to them. I whispered, excitedly to Mark, “You know who that was- Al- my old boss. Look how old he got.”

Then the flashbacks began, as a comfort, at first. Mark and I had both worked in the store where I worked for Al- at the jewelry concession. Mark had worked in the small appliance department, before I got the job. It’s where we met. I had bought a tape recorder from Mark and he called me to find out how I liked it and then he asked me out. The rest is history, as they say. It’s also where I met Meryl; we worked together. Mark and I started reminiscing about all the people, who worked with us, telling Kim the stories from the past. There was Bebe, the alcoholic, who worked in the jewelry department, too, who fell asleep one night smoking a cigarette and set her apartment on fire. She wanted to get a face-lift because her skin was so wrinkled from the booze and cigarettes, but she was too chicken to do it, so she sent her husband first, as the guinea pig. He ended up getting the face-lift and looked 20 years younger than she did; she never got up the courage to do it herself. Then there was Fran, tall skinny, nutty Fran, with her huge boobs that entered any room two minutes before she did. We laughed, remembering the time she was rushing past Meryl who was pregnant with Matthew then. Her boobs literally knocked Meryl into the garbage pail. I could just picture Meryl, sitting in that pail, with her enormous belly sticking up and her feet dangling on either side. We were laughing so hard that we couldn’t get her out of the pail. Flashbacks.

That night, after all the memories faded, as I was lying beside Mark in bed, I thought of Al and how old he got. He had to be younger than we were now when we got married. Maybe he was close to 80 now. 32 years. The flash forward started to come over me. “Mark,” I said, with angst, “He got so old.” “Who?” he answered, trying to sleep. “Al. He got so old. It’s only 32 years. Just think, that will be us in 32 years. We’ll be old like that. Maybe even bent over, like Al. It’s so depressing. And that’s if we even make it another 32 years.”

“Go to sleep, Jeannie,” Mark sighed, “Let’s just get through tomorrow.”