Not in San Francisco

June 16, 2013

My heart is walking around outside of my body. It is far, far, far away, the next town over. It is with my son, my twelve year old son. He is at his first “real” party. By this I mean, it’s not a birthday party or a school dance.

My husband took him shopping. He is an athlete, which means for the past couple of years, his clothing budget has been spent on sneakers, shiny polyester shorts, eighteen dollar socks that bear the logo “elite”, shooting sleeves and ankle braces.

On the invitation, the dress was described as semi formal. My husband’s definition of semi formal is a suit. Colin’s is bermuda shorts. New bermuda shorts. I think he consented to wearing a belt. Oh my, I just realized tonight my son wore his first belt. Let me pause to sigh meaningfully.

Now, here are my prayers. I hope a few other kids at the party show up in bermuda shorts. (Are they still called bermuda shorts? If they aren’t called bermuda shorts, what are they called? Shorts? Really short pants?)

I hope he has fun. I hope the food is good. I hope he ate something before he left so that he doesn’t fall on the buffet the way he does when we go out for brunch. I hope he forgets about the fact that his team lost two games today. I hope he doesn’t brag. I hope he doesn’t stand in the corner and wish he was home watching the Bruins.

I hope he does’t miss me. I hope he is happy to see me and tells me that he had a good time. Even if he didn’t. But of course, he is having a wonderful time. I hope.

I hope I learn to get a life sooner rather than later, and that my heart returns to my chest so that I can walk around and go about my life like a normal person.

Who am I kidding? I lost my hearth a little more than twelve years ago, and I lost it again nine years ago when my daughter was born.

And normal is way over rated.

 

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