I Love You.

My father once wrote a note to me and signed off with, ‘We love you.’  I still have that note or at least the photo of it.  It was the closest he ever came to saying, ‘I love you,’ or so I thought.

We just weren’t a family that said I love you.  My father died in 1994 and very gradually the phrase began to seep into our vernacular many years after that.  Today most of us have said that to each other, but still not all.  

Today during yoga class a memory of my father surfaced.  It started as a memory of how I made $50 when I was about 18.  Our neighbor hooked me up with the opportunity.  There was a boy about my age who needed a ride from Scarsdale, New York to Long Island.  The family was very, very wealthy and the houses were mansions.  The boy seemed depressed and barely spoke during the ride.  As I was in this very relaxed state, lying on the floor in yoga class, I contemplated the whole experience.  Until this moment, the memory was just the boy, the $50 I earned, the drive and the mansions.

Today another aspect of this memory took front and center stage.  My father, who had six kids, chose to ride with me.  He let me drive.  He didn’t want the money.  So why was he with me? My father was a psychiatric social worker.  He was a humble, probably introverted person.  During the drive that day, he managed to engage that depressed boy in a little bit of conversation, in a way I certainly couldn’t have at the time.  My father seemed so brave taking that task on.  How wildly talented he was with these mad interpersonal skills!  That's what I was thinking at the time.  

Now, on the floor in yoga class, I contemplated what he did that day.  He took probably three to four hours out of his day.  Simple math tells me that he went W A Y over my allotted daddy/daughter time, being one of six. 

He was protecting me.  He gave me this time, not because I asked for it, but because he wanted to ensure my safety.  I wasn’t scared, it was our next-door-neighbor who set this up and she knew the people well, but I guess that wasn’t enough for my father to be sure I was safe.  This was before GPS telling you turn by turn how to get from point A to B, maybe he was worried I’d get lost.  Maybe he heard the description of this troubled boy from the neighbor, and his experience with troubled children as a psychiatric social worker caused him to err on the side of caution. 

I may not have heard I love you in words from him but I hear it loud and clear now from his actions that day.

Thank you dad,

I love you too.

She Looks Better Than ME!

"She looks better that ME" is a qualifier that IS a compliment coming from someone half your age, not from someone who is your age.  This is the latest trend torturing my age averse brain.

At a party last night, a group of about six of us were talking when one man recounted a story about me to the group.  We live on the water and one day while in my boat, passing his house, I had a chat with his house guest who was in the backyard.  My neighbor told the group at the party that his house guest told him about my boat-by visit, and he described me as a young girl of about 25-years-old.  I gleefully told the group that this story was going in my gratitude journal.

Then his bitch common-law wife or whatever she is, added her contribution to the story.  She said in an attempt to identify who the house guest was talking about, she asked if the woman he was talking to was in her sixties, the decade of life she assessed me to be in.  Me and a couple of other people present gasped at the assumption.

She went on to pour more hot lava into the crater of hatred I now have for her by saying, "What?  You look great, I always say that you look better than ME," as if to imply I was much older than her but keep myself up nice.

We are the same age.

Here's what has been dominating my thoughts since:

• First, I looked up her age online. - My hatred of her solidified.
• Why does everyone think I'm older than I am?  I dress young, work out all the time and have a hot body.
• Maybe she associated me with her next door neighbor who is in fact in her 60s and has a hot body.  This is my favorite mental massage/masturbation.
• How can I devastate her as much as she devastated me?
• I'm going to church in a couple of hours reminding me to take the high road.
• How do I take the high road in such a way that God devastates her for me?
• She is oblivious to the stupid, thoughtless, insensitive things she says and does all the time, maybe I could just feel sorry for her instead.  
• Her live in boyfriend cheats on her all the time.
• No, that's not enough.  Clearly she is someone who tolerates that.
• The universe does have a way of breaking the psychic knees of people who knowingly offend me, and usually in a much harsher way than I would have wanted.  Can I count on that again universe?  This time, I think I'd just be grateful and not find whatever you decide to do too much.  I'd put it in my gratitude journal right under the 25-year-old compliment.