The Girl in Black

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Photo by Gioele Fazzeri on Unsplash

Dear Diary,

They think I don’t hear them.  They think I’m oblivious and lost in a haze of weed.  They think I’m a retro Goth.  

I don’t care what my senior class thinks.  I quit caring about sixth grade when the cliques got serious.  I really stopped caring when my great-grandfather died. I wore black to his funeral and have worn black ever since.

They all have no idea, and I like it that way.  I’m not just an introvert, I’m very private.  I don’t even talk to the therapist my social worker has been making me see for two years.  The one my state insurance pays for because we don’t have any money.

I don’t care what my family thinks.  I was a mistreated child that nobody could be bothered to rescue.  My summers with Great-Grandfather are the only reason I’m not a real mess.

I don’t care what anyone thinks.

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Reunion

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Writing Prompt from Lee Martin: Choose someone from your past whom you haven’t seen in several years. If you were to see them, what would you say and/or do?

I’ve missed her. 

Dreadfully.  It’s been a good long while now, too long since I’ve communed with her.  The last time we interacted, she was just hitting her stride.  And then her world fell apart – emotionally, politically, creatively, and physically. 

The years have passed slowly in some respects and like a galloping racehorse in others.  Any way you look at it, too many years have passed.

She is me.

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The Worst Date Ever

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I turned 66 this year.  I never expected to live this long, but it’s been a good ride.  Until the damned COVID, things just kept getting better and better.

Much to my surprise. 

Dating is one of the things that is so much better now than it was when I was an angst-ridden young adult. 

I went on my first date at the age of 13.  I can’t imagine what my parents were thinking.  I was married for 19 years and change.  Do the math – that’s 34 years I’ve spent dating.  A lot of different guys.  And a lot of them were just plain old, um, different.  I think I married the first guy I felt like didn’t need therapy. That turned out not to be quite true – he just hid it well. 

Don’t get me wrong, I adore men.  I really do, but I’m here to talk about my worst first date.  It would have been about 1981.  I was 22, a disco queen, young and attractive. 

No, really.  I was.  When you get to be my age, you will look back and realize there is a beauty to youth.  I think that’s why so many people fight aging.

Anyway.

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Reblogging: Broccoli and the Importance of Staying in School

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What are the odds of finding a photo of broccoli WITH cherries? http://www.flickr.com/photos/marcoveringa/3091439509/sizes/l/
What are the odds of finding a photo of broccoli WITH cherries? http://www.flickr.com/photos/marcoveringa

Back in 1990, my son’s teacher sent him home with a yellow ribbon pinned to his shirt – presumably my 5-year-old son was doing so to proclaim his support of the troops in the Gulf War. Never mind that when I asked him about the ribbon his explanation centered on the fact that the teacher gave it to him and all the kids were wearing them.

I had a melt down.

Now there ain’t nobody on this planet that is more supportive of troops than I am. I believe in a strong military. I just wish we’d quit putting them in situations that endanger them for stupid reasons – morally bankrupt reasons.

So. Small child. Yellow ribbon. School.

I sent him back to school the next day with his ribbon. The ribbon was attached to his shirt with a button emblazoned with “What if Kuwait’s No. 1 Export Was Broccoli?”

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