I just had the most satisfying cry. To be fair, I cry most Monday mornings, but my recent cry was definitely a post-holiday-weekend cry, the usual emotions and sensations that get stoppered in my body most weekends made more intense by Thanksgiving.
- For one, Jill, who has been gone nearly three years, wasn’t there. I didn’t want to dwell on this fact with her kids around, but I missed her badly. When I counted and realized we had 13 people at dinner I knew she had insinuated herself into Thanksgiving after all — 13 being her favorite number. Then I dreamt of her Thanksgiving night. In one dream she was wearing porcelain high heels. They were white and delicate and appeared somewhat painful. She was unable to walk in them so couldn’t descend a set of stairs, although I awaited her at the bottom. In another dream, she left an event we both planned to attend before I even arrived. I didn’t find out she’d been and gone until I’d waited on her all day.
- Add to this the fact that, after all these years, I might still be a little afraid of my sister.
- The above notwithstanding, I cried today, in part, because I watched far too much football over the last four days. I saw too many men smashing into other men, their bodies bending in unnatural ways, guys ripped off their feet. While watching these hours of football, I was inundated with commercials to buy things I don’t need, enticed to get stuff for people, who, likewise, don’t need any more stuff. Question: do people really buy Lexuses for Christmas? Then, early this morning before I’d had a cup of strong tea, the paper noted that “low-income people feeling flush” had spurred the weekend’s holiday spending. Despite feeling pretty excellent after finding out my children did not have a snow day, and the article’s attempt to cast a positive light on poor people spending lots of money on holiday shopping, I was like, ut oh. This can’t end well.
- It probably also had to do with my husband leaving early for his trip, flying out ahead of last night’s “blizzard.” I drove him to the airport. It took us 27 minutes to offload at the O’Hare exit. Waiting in dead-stopped traffic I checked my email and found a rejection from an editor. It was a nice one, the best kind, rejection + invitation: “Though this piece does not fit us at this time, I enjoyed your writing, and I’d encourage you to submit other works in the future.”
These sort of notes are always heartening.
Rejection is rejection.
Can’t a woman get a few minutes to boohoo?
Once taken, onward.