I’m so tired of crying...
11:06 a.m.
I remember Linda’s mother, of course, from when we were friends starting from around age 10. We lived down the street from each other, at opposite ends of the block, attended different schools, ran in different circles, but we were extremely close. It was the kind of closeness that meant we could sit for hours together in a room, leafing through magazines, engaged in some art project, or sketching together at the museum, without saying a word, just basking in the glow of our friendship. All sorts of things we did come back to me: sitting at the piano playing through her mother’s sheet music, me on one clef, her on the other; cutting out fabric to make matching outfits; putting on makeup as per the instructions in a teen magazine. That last one was pretty hilarious. These were still the late sixties, after all, and the eyeliner was thick and curved, the lips pale. Once I accidentally tipped an open bottle of nail polish remover onto her dresser and all the gold scrollwork washed off the white paint.
But this was supposed to be a reminiscence about Mrs. B, not her daughter. I had ambivalent feelings towards her, even though I knew her to be a good, kind and generous person. She was loud and unaware that she caused embarrassment by discussing your most personal details at full volume on a crowded city bus. She was slovenly, leaving dirty dishes, open cupboard doors, and Linda, as a teenager, was always running around after her trying to clean up.
One physical activity she loved, though, was dancing. She once had a boyfriend, Max, who was a traveling salesman of women’s clothing. For the several years that they were together, Linda’s basement was full of racks of blouses and we were told we could choose something if we liked. Max was a nice guy, as I recall. He and Mrs. B. used to go to a hotel on the lake shore in Toronto where you could order dinner, and then dance to an orchestra between courses. I even went with them once when they took Linda and her sister.
Mrs. B. was a large woman all the time I knew her, as opposed to her two daughters who have always been thin. But she was very light and graceful on the dance floor. I wonder if she had been encouraged to dance a bit more in her declining years if she would have been so averse to physical exercise. After all, movement is movement. But that is conjecture now. Perhaps her own self image prevented her from being physical at all. I know for myself that it’s very easy just to let it go.
In other news, Hubby and I ended up seeing a movie, The International, on Saturday night, followed by pizza and salad at the restaurant next door. It wasn’t exactly a Valentine’s Day kind of film. I would have preferred a romantic comedy and there was precious little to laugh at in this movie. But it was well done, and it made you think. He also got me a dozen red roses and a box of hand-made chocolate truffles from the French bakery in town.
This morning I had an appointment to get my eyebrows waxed, a first, and when I arrived I was informed that the aesthetician had broken a tooth and was at the dentist. The receptionist told me to come back this afternoon, but she just called a few minutes ago to say that the eyebrow waxer didn’t know if she would be coming in to work at all today, and so I just cancelled my appointment altogether. I don’t have any other time to go in before my concert on Friday, so I guess I’ll just get out the tweezers and do the job myself. Hubby looked at me as critically as he could (which is not very since he thinks I’m perfect anyway) and didn’t know why I wanted to “tidy up” my eyebrows. It’s true, from a distance they look fine. But I just kind of wanted to do something girly and frivolous for myself. Oh well, some other time.
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