Whose life is it anyway?
Is this one, ostensibly mine, in truth an extension of my mother’s, my decisions and my path attesting to her skills, her mores, her progress toward being a decent person?
Or is this a race to heaven, perhaps a qualifying preliminary, with watchful eyes on me, keeping a running tally of moves good and bad?
Some enlightened student has surely theorized that we exist to serve the mission of capitalist masters, field laborers in a grand design to amass fortunes for a few. And at various points in human history they wouldn’t be far from the truth – more than a few unlucky ancient peoples spent their glorious 25-year life expectancy hauling rocks from creeks to pyramids.
Let your mother take charge and she will, ask for some divine purpose and you’ll spend your life seeking it, sit at the office and your time is now that of the company. And, so we’re clear, while these are your only three options, there will be judgment in whichever you select. Attempt to balance between them and face resentment from each. Bring in a partner that dares to have an individual opinion, to push a fourth agenda, and prepare for outright civil war.
Tradition dictates this push and pull between moms and gods and bosses, and tolerates the influence of mouthy partners as a necessary means to an end. Early 20s are for working long hours and dating, late 20s for marriage and children. Rotarian, deacon, maybe later in life a run for mayor? Each of these is ascribed a timeline with little room to wiggle. Marry in your early 20s and you’re premature, marry in your 30s and you’ve missed out on life, sorry, and likely will forever be known as a wild partier, no matter what else you achieve.
Fear not, though. Should you choose tradition, you’ll be supported by a volunteer army of nosy-ass paragons of reproductive responsibility with a sworn duty to keep you on track. Answer the question “Who are you dating,” and foster the follow-up, “When will they marry,” which days after the wedding becomes, “I wonder when they’ll have kids,” and, “Will they have another,” and if, God forbid, you find yourself cursed with multiples of the same gender, “I just wish she could have one boy.”
Aurelius would roll his eyes at the degree to which “Live every day like it’s your last” has become clichéd trope, as the tradition-minded who appropriate such fare for living room wall art have no desire for anyone to actually go and live without consequence. Perhaps their worldview is better summed up by, “Hurry the hell up and do your duty; you could die tomorrow.”
We run to tradition because it’s comfortable, it’s easy. Why spend life running from the questions when you could just live in such a way that they’re answered? Pop out three kids and generally the questions stop – even the volunteer army starts to judge if you go much further – other than occasional nagging disappointment in two boys and one girl versus two girls and one boy, but then you just can’t please some people.
But if life exists beyond the realm of comfort, outside the rules of tradition, does that make it necessarily wrong?
This adventure begins, as classics oft do, at Newark Airport.
It’s a Tuesday – or maybe a Monday, doesn’t matter – in Terminal B. Had we flown into JFK, surely an army of penguins, platters of hors d’oeuvres held high, would greet these slack-jawed southerners to the world’s capital: Moët popping, a small orchestra trumpeting out Glenn Miller favorites.
But perhaps sharing my concern over the rattles emitting from somewhere beneath our venerable McDonnell-Douglas, the pilot instead went ahead and stopped at Terminal B.
Is there food here?
On any other day I would’ve scarfed down several of Delta’s knife-sharpening rolls and wilted ham, but today the nerves are aflame so forgive me, I opted for bourbon.
A sign promises a new fish hut soon, and I make a mental note to arrive early for my next flight, but it does not appear there are other options. An Indian gentleman operating the sundry shop is here only to read his book, not entertain the whims of needy customers, but kindly puts it down long enough to retrieve a sandwich from what appears to be his personal beer fridge.
Its room-temperaturedness is startling. The Indians at the office enjoy lukewarm water, so perhaps this is how he drinks beer. I’ll be culturally sensitive and keep my mouth shut. Anyway, beggars can’t be choosers, and I had the option of Delta ham and turned it down so that’s on me. If this ends poorly don’t let me blame the innocent proprietor, just wanting to kick back with a cheap novel and warm beer.
How many giddy visitors are deflated on welcome by New York’s gritty ports? Surely the arrival onto sunny Ellis Island was magical for those fortunate to escape Irish famine, but what of the Mickey-eared British tourist today, certainly questioning his choice of destination upon sticking to the floors of the LaGuardia loo?
There are dumpy airports around the world, make no question. Berlin’s tiny Tegel was built with all of the pizazz of an airport designed to receive Cold War coal, Detroit could host marathons between its two terminals and my only lasting memory of Shanghai’s Pudong is a flickering lightbulb above the Gatorade cooler in the lounge. But perhaps no city can match New York’s cigarette smoke-cured triumvirate.
Bags in hand, I retrieve a note from my pocket, scribblings from my cousin’s husband detailing instructions on navigating New Jersey Transit, and toss them in the bin before hailing a car – train-riding pedestrian, I am not – my headphones making clear I want no discussion on the weather or traffic or certainly the Yankees. I’m a Braves fan.
In silence we putter along cracked roads, paying a day’s salary in tolls on the turnpike and finally lifting onto the Pulaski Skyway, Manhattan’s sea of towers coming into view.
Architecture would have been a nice field, though to design a masterpiece only to have it squat underneath a sheik’s bedroom in one of those new park-side pencils would sure be a shame. I suppose the same was said of the original World Trade Center towers, though now either in deference to tragedy or exhaustion with ubiquitous glass boxes we speak glowingly of the steel-hardened presence they brought downtown.
So I’m here. The adventure the shrink ordered. A touch of excitement builds, then we hit traffic for the tunnel. That touch of excitement waits, and waits, and I look for another song to keep it going while stuck next to a Sears for what seems like a half hour.
Jesus, it’s hot.
The car is stuffy, the driver bundled under six layers, perhaps just off the slopes in Vermont, though by smell I’d guess a morning swim in the Hackensack. But I’m a southerner, not the type with six inches of thick-sliced bacon wrapped around my waist but also big enough to warrant a “you’re looking good” at family gatherings when I don’t take a third slice of cake, and southerners need air conditioning for chrissake, especially when roasting in late-summer exhaust.
Six months ago, give or take, a friend made me see a therapist who prescribed a move out of Atlanta. Try something new, she said.
Eight years of turmoil had given way to eligible bachelorhood at thirty-two, in Georgia a mother’s nightmare, requiring her to brag a bit excessively about any perceived strengths to head off questions over the naked fourth digit. Even the last of the stragglers among my friends was moving on, and success at work flung the banner ever higher – “something is wrong here!”
It wasn’t for a lack of candidates. There were the Elaines, a series of girls immediately after the break-up whose names I mostly don’t recall, though they were certainly not named Elaine, but it stuck.
HRH Elaine I of Druid Hills needed companionship in a hurry before aging out of eligibility for an associate membership at her father’s club. She was also gluten intolerant – years after this was en vogue, no less – a fact she failed to mention before our first date at a French restaurant but for the waiter revealed with flair.
Surely Eisenhower managed to get through a dinner without mentioning that he saved Europe; not so the front-line warriors in our collective struggle with bread.
My friend Brody loved her. Stylish, talented, runway frame and a face for social media, she was everything he craved, and maybe in hindsight I should’ve been less of a jerk and then I, 33 years of age, might not be here single and sweating, stuck in the shadow of a Sears.
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