So I’m driving home from a date with a guy. It’s been disappointing in that way that you feel when you show up hungry for dinner and order the wrong thing to eat. I’m ruminating down 287, chastising myself for audaciously wasting my time. I’m about to go into full-blown over analysis of the situation in my own head when I decide to call my mother instead.
Now I will admit to being completely lucky. I’m 50 years old, and my mother is only 74, and totally hip. She answers the phone at 9;45.
“The date was kind of a bust”, I tell her. “So what”, she says. I laugh. Bevie’s like, “Look, I know you probably want to spend some time talking about this, but honestly, who really cares. Sometimes, dates just aren’t that much fun.” I’m thinking to myself, what the hell does she really know, she was married for 53 years. How can she even remember the mind-numbing awkwardness of early dating?
I begin to protest and she continues, “Please don’t spend a lot of time on this Sus, it’s just not worth it.” And suddenly, right in the middle of 287, I’m having what feels like a million flashbacks to all of the times in my life where my mother has been there for me and rather gently guided me out of the murky darkness of the inside of my head into, well, more like a real life perspective. I’m awash in the gentleness of her spirit, the sweet, sweet love she feels for me and I decide, just like that, to let the whole damn thing go.
“Yeah, you’re right,” I say to her.
“I know,” she echoes right back.
“Who’s picking me up for Mother’s Day Lunch at the Claremont tomorrow?, she asks.
“I’ll call you in the morning”, I say.
We hang up together and I drive the rest of the way home, content.
I’m going to try to be cool now: #perfect#mother’sdayeve#moment.
In deep deep gratitude to Beautiful Bev Bev.
Big Loving Namaste!