Tête-à-Tête

Image courtesy of Stuart Miles FreeDigitalPhotos.net
Image courtesy of Stuart Miles FreeDigitalPhotos.net 

There are times when I think, This isn’t supposed to be part of my life. Somehow I ended up in someone else’s nightmare. When did I become one of those people things like this happen to?

Wasn’t it enough when my husband’s mistress outed him on the same day I was to leave with my own companion on our “business” trip? She found me in the grocery store buying a bottle of wine she assumed was for my husband and me. Idiotic bitch. Of course I knew he had a mistress. No man spends that much time and money away from home unless he’s fulfilling his needs elsewhere.

I didn’t care. I stopped loving him years ago. Right about the time I discovered his online dating profile claiming he was a widower. I forgave him like all foolish women do for their men. But after a while I got smart. I got a mistress of my own. Except a man. A manstress.

The girl, no more than twenty-five, accosted me right there on the wine aisle between the Rosé and the Merlot. In a resounding voice that came from somewhere beneath her breast implants, she announced she was sleeping with my husband. My response, “Sorry to hear it, Honey.” My husband was a terrible lover. Being touched by him was like being fondled by a fifteen-year-old. Why another woman would want to sleep with him, I’ll never know. I didn’t want to sleep with him. That’s why I found my manstress. He was half my age with the stamina of a varsity rowing team.

The nosey wife of a mutual friend witnessed the event in the grocery store and told her husband who told my husband. When I got home, my husband was waiting for me. He wanted to talk. I wanted to pack my bags and head to the airport. We had a long conversation during which my husband spoon fed me all the same bullshit. He was sorry. He loved me. He didn’t know why he was so selfish and inconsiderate. He didn’t love her. Whatever, Honey. I got two tickets to Phuket and a tanned, toned twenty-three year old waiting for me.

Thanks to my husband’s attempt to keep his ass out of divorce court and free of alimony payments, my manstress and I missed our plane. I used the excuse that I was fed up with my husband’s lies to pack a bag and get the hell out of there. On the way to the airport, I called my lover and we met at a nearby hotel. We couldn’t get another flight until the morning.

“If all the world’s a stage, then this was not part of my script. Somewhere, someone else is reading my lines, playing my part, and I’ve been stuck in their role, for surely this role is not mine. My character was never supposed to turn out this way,” said I.

“But, perhaps it was, and you’re simply unaware because you aren’t able to read ahead,” answered he.

“I don’t like this part of the production at all,” I said as I covered my head with the sheets. “It’s downright miserable, morose and depressing”

“The scales are striking a fair balance; many parts of the production are very good. No production can be completely merry and light. Who’s interested in seeing a performance in which the characters are ideal and perfect?” he asked, pulling the covers from my face. “That wouldn’t be interesting at all.”

“No, we want suffering. We long for it; it’s why we create our own miseries. We loathe them, but they thrill us. I suppose it’s why we strive for imperfection,” I said burying my face in a pillow.

“Perhaps it’s the reason we justify our short-comings. We don’t want happiness; we do everything in our power to remain unhappy, then complain about it.” It was obvious what he was getting at.

“My observations have led me to believe I am not alone in my human imperfection. I would say humanity, but that connotes goodness. The human race is quite lacking in humanity. Myself included. Surely, I understand the failings of my human brethren represent an overall flaw of the species,” I said.

“No one is exempt from these biological, evolutionary, socialized short-comings,” he replied.

“In an ideal world,” I began, ignoring his response, “the term human could be linked with humanity, but in reality – which is never ideal in any way – the term human can be better linked with adjectives such as cruel and bizarre . ”

“Self-pitying, faithless . . .” he interrupted.

“Rude, and worst of all, ignorant,” I finished. “And these are our flaws, as humans. There are more, but I think these cover a pretty wide spectrum of our sadistic, self-serving human behaviors.”

“Are there any human behaviors that are not self-serving?” he asked.

“No,” I answered before rolling over and falling asleep.

 

Copyright Donnell Jeansonne. All rights reserved. Reproduction or duplication whole or in part not permitted without permission and credit to the author.

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God Save the Queen

I don’t understand why my wardrobe choice of today drew so much attention.  As usual it was no more than a t-shirt and jeans, my typical hospital clothes. Okay, my typical all the time clothes.

It was my t-shirt that got so much attention. I don’t know why. I’ve worn it before at the hospital, and plenty of places. It’s nothing spectacular. Just a regular old band t-shirt.

The attention drawing t-shirt. Queen’s legendary emblem was designed by Freddie Mercury. It includes symbols of each of the band members’ astrological signs.

The first person to take notice was the respiratory therapist, at six a.m. He said he liked the shirt and I said thanks. He then asked if I made the shirt, to which I replied no and explained Queen is a band, and he said he’d never heard of them. Okay, so, he’s younger than I am, and probably has different taste in music. Maybe he’s  been on Mars for forty years. I don’t know.

Later after lunch I went to the front desk to order my dinner tray. An elderly volunteer working there remarks on the shirt.

Her: “Oh I just love that shirt. It’s so pretty.”

Me: “Thank you.”

Her: “That design is just beautiful.”

Me: “Yes.” Thinking Freddie would be pleased.

Her: “It looks like it’s right out of London. So majestic.”

Me: “They are British, a British rock band.”

Her: “A rock band?”

Me: “Yes a Seventies rock band.”

Her: “The Seventies?” Okay, she is rather elderly. Probably spent more time listening to Pat Boone than rock and roll in the Seventies.

Me: “Well, the Seventies, Eighties, and Nineties. They put out music over that time.”

Her: “How did you keep it looking so new? It looks so new.”

Me:  “. . . Um . . .  it is new. Well, fairly new. A few months old.”

Her: “Oh.” Cue Edith Bunker impression. “Ohhhh.”

Jean Stapleton as Edith Bunker in the ’70’s sitcom All in the Family

The first guy didn’t know Queen, and the elderly lady probably listened to Pat Boone while Queen was combining pseudo-opera and rock and she somehow thinks I kept a shirt looking new for longer than I’ve been alive, but at least the next  person knew the band.

She was another respiratory therapist who is a little (lot) older than I am. Which she stated after she asked when I’d seen Queen, and I told her that I never did but wish I had and that I was only twelve when Freddie Mercury passed away. “Oh then you’re A LOT younger than me, then.” Then she asked, “Who gave you the shirt.” I hesitated, confused. “I bought it,” I said. “Oh, that’s good,” she replied. I supposed last time she bought a band t-shirt you had to actually be at the concert. I dunno. It’s called a catalogue people. But she said she thought the world lost a huge talent when Freddie died, and ain’t nobody can argue with that! Or at least I won’t. Of course the same lady asked where I’d found an app I have on the iPad for Doodles. “I went to the App Store . . . and searched for it,” I said. Did I mention she was a little (lot) older than me? Anyway, she’s OK in my book.

Statue of Freddie Mercury on Lake Geneva. Montreux, Switzerland.

Since tonight is my night off from PICU duty, and the hubs is at the hospital, I’m staying at my mom’s apartment. She lives much closer than we do. As I was walking to her building, I passed a couple on a bench. We all greeted each other like good polite Southerners, then as I walked away, one of the two says, “I like that shirt.” I thank her over my shoulder and walk on wondering what the hell is so special about my shirt today.

I’m by no means a fashionista. I mean, I only wear clothes because it’s the law. All right. I’m kidding. Nobody wants to see this fat bottomed girl letting it all hang out. Smirk.

Just in case any of my readers prefer Pat Boone to Classic Rock or have been on Mars for forty years, have a taste and enjoy the flavor:
Fat Bottomed Girls via Queen Official YouTube

Dancin’ in the Street – The Literal Version.

I’ve long thought that we, as adults, are missing a key ingredient to a joyful life. It’s not that we aren’t born with it. Children have it in abundance, but as we grow and mature and become grown ups we shed this adolescent ability to know true happiness.

To me the cause of this is no mystery. We try too hard. Simple. This thought occurred to me last night and again this morning. Two separate incidents occurred.

The first was witnessed by my mother and related to me. Last night she was leaving the hospital after sitting with Doodles for us. While driving down Magazine Street, the car in front of her pulled over. The driver exited the vehicle and started dancing in the street to very loud music blaring from his car-an adult, grown male. And when she told me the story, I immediately thought two things: 1) He’s apparently out of his mind, or maybe just won the Powerball.* 2) If only I had anything to be that joyful about.

The second thing occurred this morning and solidified my aforementioned theory. I walked down to retrieve some bottled waters from my trunk, and on the way back I see a boy, probably about seven or eight years old, standing near a lady I assumed was his grandmother or something, and he was dancing. No music. Nothing. Just the joyful act of dancing to dance and move one’s body around for the hell of doing it. And he didn’t care that anyone saw him. No one else cared or even paid attention to him.

So why is it strange that a grown man would pull over to dance in the street but no one pays any mind to a child dancing about simply for the sake of dancing about? Because we allow kids to be free and imaginative and creative and happy for no reason. But it’s not something we allow for ourselves.

20120412-112648.jpg
I didn’t see the Magazine St dancer, but if he was really good, maybe he looked like this.

*Also there’s a strong possibility that he was just high. But still.

Image courtesy Photostock via FreeDigitalPhotos.net

http://www.freedigitalphotos.net/images/view_photog.php?photogid=2125