We had an afternoon luncheon down at the Episcopal church. It was Sunday afternoon. Of course it was because who would want to disrupt a weekday sullen faced afternoon sit on the porch swing resenting the evening breeze late arrival. You know, those days when you are bored out of your ever lov'in mind. Nope, had to be Sunday. When there was the morning service fuss to put on your best, Sunday supper to prepare and evening service begrudgingly dragging your sorry ass.
We all had to wear hats, gardening straw hats something flashing a purple ribbon for maximum comment. We're 80 years old for God's sakes. We have to wear hats! A stipulation like we're in eighth grade. We have to wear bangled friendship bracelets and wear our hair in the latest ponytail arrangement to belong. Aren't we beyond this? Didn't we outgrow this type of behavior? And yet, here we sit, eating charcuterie cucumber sandwiches and tiny desserts dipped in gelatinous marshmallow coating.
This is the highlight? This is what I've been waiting for?
Where is our authenticity? The depth of who we are, what we've done with 80 years of our life. Okay granted the first 20 might not count. Aren't we an eclectic combination of all our adventures? The different things we've done, the places, pictures we've taken, words we've written? And, yet, we get together at 80 for luncheon to wear purple laced gardening ornaments. Throw our lives aside to talk about frivolous hats and the balmy clingy you can't breathe weather?
"Oh, how delightful you look, isn’t this just lovely!"
"So nice to see you."
Overflowing gullets and empty hearts, we go home.
"Can't wait to do this again."
"Soon!"
Hollow words peal in my ears like poison oozing from djinns bottle of eternal misery. My tossed hat lands in the trash can as I pass into the house.
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