If you come to my house, I’ll forget to tell you where to put your coat or purse or keys because I’ll be ushering you into the kitchen for a drink, some almonds. I’ll try my hardest not to apologize about the state of my home because I’ve learned enough to know that true friends don’t clean for your arrival. I’ll hope you take the dust bunnies as mascots of your inner circle status. If you don’t, that’s OK. We’ve all got our things.
I’ll want you to sit down and spill the beans. What are you learning right now? What’s going on with your kids? This means that if you’re coming to my house for a meal, you’ll likely get fresh bread or a homemade pizza. I can simmer or saute or poach while engaged in a conversation, and I’ll always choose the conversation. This also means I’m a naturally poor hostess, often too lost in stories or thought or sentences to notice that I already refilled your glass or the cookies have the timer going off. For this reason, guests must forgive me. Sorry about that. Come anyway, please.
We might talk about design or style or beauty, but probably not. I struggle often to justify my disenchantments of aesthetics. I love to rearrange furniture and choose fingernail polish shades and discuss collections and have amassed more than enough statement jewelry over the years, and I sometimes treat these gifts as if they’re burdens. I sometimes wish I could trade these passions for something more “worthwhile” – whatever that means – and then I realize how ridiculous that sounds. Gifts are gifts. Passions are passions. We don’t choose them; they arrive.
We might talk about children, families, relationships.
We might talk about covid-19 or the latest news update or last week’s death count, but I might have nothing to say. I don’t follow pop culture or celebrity gossip or sports teams and I can nearly guarantee I was asleep by 9pm last night. We might talk about the latest Internet meme, but I might have not caught that either. We might talk about how I’m often in my own world, churning around questions and answers and revelations in my head, and then, yes, we’d have something to work with.
Other topics that might burst forth, if I’m leading, that is: baking brownies, books on my nightstand, books on your nightstand, how on Earth one folds a fitted sheet, upcoming travel destinations, my quest for the perfect mascara (found it), yoga, your deepest dreams, lists, Internet Speeds, why our culture’s so obsessed with fitness and perhaps a lively debate on tea vs. coffee.
Topics that we probably won’t cover? Marriage. I’m not proud of the way they ended, yes, but they are not my everything. They are slivers. Snippets, clippings in fine print – captions overshadowed by real, everyday life: jumbled thoughts and junk mail, swirling doubts and snagged sweaters. The everyday stuff is less glamorous, to be fair, but it’s part of me, too.
For every well-written blog post – cursor blinking, fingers hovering – life can sometimes look like a dance. Like a beautiful, effortless, and perfect ballet.
But I know better. Dancing can bring blisters, too. You can’t see them beneath the silky pink pointe shoes, but they’re there. They’re always there. So if you come to my house, I’ll forget to tell you where to put your coat or purse or keys. But I know exactly where the bandaids are.
Here’s to blisters and blog posts, bandaids and beauty.
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| It's nice to see you again. |
