The Trials and Tribulations of Online Dating

Last week I created a profile on yet another dating site.  I did this for one of two possible reasons. Either hope truly does spring eternal or I am a glutton for punishment. In my experience online dating can, in one fell swoop, fill you with confidence and promise of possibility and, at the very same instant, cripple you with self-doubt, assuring you that you are entirely undateable.

I know people who have had great experiences with online dating. And everyone “knows someone” who met their spouse on [fill in the blank with one of the innumerable dating sites out there]. This all just serves to keep that fickle temptress named Hope alive.

And so, let me tell you a story about the out of control, distracted, sleep deprived spaz online dating has turned me into this past week. It all started last Tuesday when a new friend from my running group told me about the dates she’d been on through a dating site I hadn’t tried yet (and let me tell you – I have tried many). On a whim I decided I would go ahead and sign-up. I’m new to the area and it would be a good way to “get out there” and meet people.

On Thursday I created a profile, answering questions about things as mundane as my hair color and birth order to the more substantial such as how important religion is to me and “how ambitious” I am. I uploaded the cutest, most flattering pictures of myself, wrote a brief summary “about me” and then let the games begin.

BAM! My phone started going crazy. Men “wanted to meet” me, they “favorited” my profile, and then they started messaging me. A very, very cute 22 year old messaged me and asked me out – suddenly I was aware that I am, in fact, old enough to be a "cougar". Another man messaged me and at first seemed innocuous enough but our conversation quickly escalated to his persistent, repeated question: “Would you tickle me?”

Oh dear. What made me think it would be different this time?

But then, my phone pinged. Someone “wanted to meet” me. I clicked on his profile and that tease Hope flared again. Here was a very sane, together seeming man. Significantly older than me – ok, not outrageously so but enough to notice. He was witty, a little self-deprecating, smart, very cute.

I messaged him and we began talking. Sometimes light and funny and a little flirty. Sometimes dry and a little formal. I was excited about him and eager to meet and realize how “right for each other” we are.

In the span of 24 hours I went from being a sane, rational, relatively calm human being to a wriggling, simpering mass of nerves. Is it too soon write back? Did I say the right thing? Am I coming on too strong? Am I being too introspective? Why hasn’t he written me back yet? And on and on…

Well, after a fairly consistent back and forth (for 4 days) I asked him out. I have, for the past week, been filled with a nervous, bold, flirty energy and decided to just go for it. He seemed interested. I felt good and excited.

BAM! I told him a date and time I was available and asked if it worked for him. SILENCE. I have heard nothing since Monday night.

What happened?

And this, my friends, is the thing about online dating. This is the real dilemma. We can never know what happened to the person who stops responding. Instead, we are left to wonder what went wrong. To ask “was it me?” And this is when I start to spiral.

Here is a sample of the various scenarios that have run through my head since Monday night and the potential ways I have come up with to “handle” the situation:

Did I come on too strong?

Was he not ready to date or to meet?

Was I too forward? Should I have waited for him to ask me out?

Was my flirting too over the top? Or was it too subtle and just fell flat?

Was I too introspective and serious?

Did I ask too many questions? Not enough?

Maybe I came off as too confident and intimidating?

Did he get distracted and busy?

Does he not realize we didn’t actually finalize our plans?

Is he talking to someone else he’s more interested in?

Has his work and writing project (did I mention he’s doing NaNoWriMo? How hot is that!?) and his kids just overwhelm his time and he hasn’t thought about online dating since Monday?

Was there a horrible, tragic accident and even now he is lying in a coma in a hospital bed?

No matter the myriad possibilities, rightly or wrongly, I am left wondering – What did I do wrong?

And so, I have written many responses to his lack of response in my head, trying (and failing) to be light and breezy, no pressure, not needy or pushy, to try and understand what happened.

Things like:

“Hey, I haven’t heard from you in a while. Just thought I’d check-in to see if we’re still on for Tuesday.”

Or

“Hey, so you never got back to me. I hope you had a good week. Do you still want to go out on Tuesday?”

Or

“Hey there buddy, I haven’t heard back from you about Tuesday. I have a date on Saturday that I am really kind of dreading and I’d love it if I had something to look forward to on Tuesday.”

Or

“Since I haven't heard from you I'm assuming you actually aren't interested. If you’re too busy right now or just aren’t interested that’s ok. JUST TELL ME!”

Each feels desperate and pushy and I feel increasingly irrational and unstable and I look over the past week and I think What happened to me!? I don’t even know this person! Why do I care? Why have I let this affect me so much?

I will likely send something resembling the first two on Saturday. In the meantime I am trying to ground myself, to remember that I am a fairly competent, together individual.

It’s hard to meet new people when you move a new town. When you’re not in school. When you live alone. Online dating is one way to help ease that challenge.

It is a game, though, with subtle rules and strategy. You've got to play it to win. This is where I have a hard time. I am not good at the game. I don't, in fact, want to play. I don't put in the energy, time and focus it requires. I go in spurts of activity. So, I just need to take a deep breath, remind myself that it is, in fact, not me and just keep on keeping on.

I doubt it...

I grew up in a home that took faith for granted. That my sisters and I were or would be Christians was never a question. We went to church, Sunday school and youth group regularly – read: weekly, without fail, uphill both ways. We talked about theology and the church and the world at the dinner table. We prayed before every meal. We prayed at bedtime. We prayed after reading one of the Gospel Christmas stories, our stockings in our laps waiting eagerly to be unwrapped.

The assumption was we believed. Our theological formation mattered and our parents took great care in helping us to grow into critical thinkers, to be kind and generous, to love our neighbors as ourselves, to pray often. They tried to instill the habit and rhythm of church attendance and participation. But the actual “if” of believing was never addressed.

To be fair, I don’t think either of my sisters ever talked to my parents about any doubts they may have had. I certainly didn’t. But by the time I did begin wrestling with doubt I was in my early 20s and was fairly certain it would upset my parents too much to know that I didn’t think I believed any of it anymore. I felt like I had failed them. So I swallowed down the lump of doubt that stuck in my throat and “talked the talk” I’d learned so well. It was surprisingly easy to fake faith.

My first experiences with doubt were while I was a student at Calvin College. It was particularly painful because I was surrounded by comfortably certain peers – or, at least, they appeared happy and easy in the certainty of their faith. I stopped going to church off campus or chapel on because it hurt too much. I was sinking into what I now know was depression but what I only then knew as darkness. I was scared. Everything I thought I knew was suddenly gone, like the floor had been ripped out from under me and I couldn’t find solid ground to stand on.

I was particularly stuck on the idea of “proof”. Science could not prove God – no, it couldn’t disprove God either but that was much less compelling at the time. It could, however, explain much of what we as Christians like to attribute to God. When something was worrying me and I prayed about it, psychology could explain the relief and calm I felt afterwards, I reasoned. I had good friends who were atheists and Buddhists and they were some of the kindest, most generous people I knew - Christians certainly did not own the market on that. So, if we can’t prove God exists and Christians aren’t notably different from others how can any of this be true?

I became angry. I felt duped. I’d spent years believing this set of ideas and living a certain way because of them and it was all a lie. What a waste of time.

I couldn’t talk to my parents about it. I was sure my mom would cry and my dad would shove theological essays and books at me, all about “doubt” and “truth”. I couldn’t talk to my friends. They were all content to continue to go to church and sing praise songs and be “Jesus freaks”.

After graduating I moved back to my hometown and started going to my parent’s church. Not because I believed any of it but because it was home, because I loved the people there deeply and longed for somewhere to belong. For months I had to walk out after the sermon only to return just in time to take communion – missing the Nicene Creed, the Prayers of the People and the Eucharistic Prayer. I just couldn’t handle that part. I kept ducking back in for Communion, though. I knelt at the altar rail and looked at the other parishioners and loved them and envied them. I wanted to believe. I wanted to know what the truth was.

As I continued to doubt and fret I began to wonder if I needed to make a drastic lifestyle change. I was still living the way I had when I was a Christian. If I didn’t believe any of it anymore why was I still acting like it? I figured I should start sleeping around and shooting heroine and generally being a jerk – it was a naïve and simplistic understanding of piety and Christian living to say the least. The overhaul in my lifestyle never came, which only served to frustrate me further.

The issue of Jesus never stopped nagging me. As much as I had stopped believing much of what I’d been raised to accept as truth I could not give up Jesus. It was easy to accept his human, 30ish years on earth, but more than that, I couldn’t stop believing in him as real today, as personal. I couldn’t stop believing in him as the Son of God. I didn’t know what to do with that.

And then my dad asked me to teach middle school Sunday school.

I am not entirely certain why I said yes – except that I felt like to say no I’d have to also tell him about my doubt and fears and anger and disappointment. Teaching the class felt safer and easier. It turned out to be one of the most fun, life giving things I have ever done. I fell in love with those middle schoolers and we had a blast doing Bible study and playing games together. It also kept me coming back to church.

One Sunday, in late fall, as I knelt at the altar rail and my mom sang a solo I started to cry. Something in me broke open. “Ok,” I said, inwardly, “Fine. It can’t be proven. I will never know for sure. But I still want this. I choose to believe in all this wild, irrational grace, forgiveness, love, justice, trinity stuff. I choose to be a part of the church.” I walked home after church sort of in awe. I felt so light and unburdened.

I cannot explain what changed. I truly do not know. Since then I have had moments of doubt – I currently can hardly say “He will come again” in the Nicene Creed – but I am grounded differently. Grounded in the choosing and the opening up to the mystery of it all.

What I have come to realize is that in those years of doubt what I needed was someone to say “It’s ok. Doubt is a normal and healthy part of faith. I am here for you. You don’t need to do this alone.” And maybe, had I given them the benefit of the doubt (pun intended?) my parents would have done just that.

I appreciate the Episcopal church’s ability to do much of this. We are eager to say “It’s ok! Doubt is ok!” And it is. My hope and prayer, though, is that we can offer more. Let’s tell our own stories of doubt and faith, of the darkness and the light, of the uncertainty and the choosing. Let’s acknowledge that even though doubt is ok, it can also be lonely and scary. Let’s assure one another that this path does not need to be walked alone. AND, let’s find ways to share Truth with one another that is not alienating and isolating but instead affirming and inclusive.

Body Positive

A couple weeks ago a friend and I took a day trip to Calistoga to visit a spa for a mud bath, mineral bath, steam room and towel wrap. It was a day of rest and relaxation and pampering, much looked forward to. Before going I asked my friend if we would need swimwear for our treatments. Neither of us had done anything quite like this before so neither of us knew what to expect. I decided to call and ask to just to be sure – knowing would help relieve anxiety, wouldn’t it?

The woman on the phone was friendly and cheerful when I called. It was clear that she’d gotten the question before. “Yes, bring a suit for the mineral pools. The mud baths are nude.” Funny how hearing that made my stomach do a flip. Even though I was sure I’d have a private room and wouldn’t actually be naked in front of anyone I still felt slightly queasy.

When we arrived at the spa we were assigned lockers, given giant towels (more like blankets than anything, really) and told to strip. Dutifully we tucked our things into our lockers and undressed with a deftness learned and finely honed in middle school, balancing the towels wrapped around our bodies in one hand while unclasping and tugging at our clothes with the other. It is a funny and humbling thing to be a 30-something woman with the same sensibilities and self-consciousness of a 13 year old. My friend and I were the only ones in the locker room at that point and yet we hid and protected our bodies as if we were strangers.

I was not prepared for what we walked into after we left the locker room. In one large room were several tubs filled with mud, showers, and more tubs full of water. Our spa attendants greeted us, explained the process, and then extended their hands expectantly, ready for our towels.

I experienced a moment of panic. You want me to drop the only thing protecting me from total exposure? You want me to hand over my towel and stand naked in front of you and my friend? I suddenly felt so shy and fragile. For one brief and flashing second I thought about asking if perhaps they had a private room I might use.

Instead, I gritted my teeth, pretended I was at ease, and relinquished what had become my adult security blanket. I stepped into the shower, not bothering to draw the curtain closed, rinsed off and stepped back out. My attendant then guided me to my mud bath and helped me get in. I wriggled and squirmed and sank into the delightfully hot and gloriously obscuring mud until my nakedness was covered.

My friend and I soaked in neighboring mud baths for 15 minutes. I, for one, was coursing with adrenaline as I processed my unexpected, and what felt like public, nakedness. Not only was I suddenly naked in front of one of my closest friends – a woman I have been vulnerable with in many other ways – but also with strangers – clothed strangers.

As I tried to surrender to the calm tugging at me during that mud bath I began to contemplate nakedness, vulnerability and body image. Why was it so uncomfortable to be naked in front of someone that I trusted, who knows me well and whom I know well? Was there an as yet un-experienced power imbalance between the attendants and me because I was forced to be suddenly vulnerable with them while they remained clothed? Why was I feeling such shame and embarrassment about my body? Where did that come from?

Sure, I don’t look the way I would like to. I would like to lose weight. I have stretch marks and cellulite and insane tan lines. I am not hairless or spotless or without scars.  In so many ways I do not fit the standard of beauty I compare myself to, even though I know better than to compare myself with what the media offers. And I reminded myself that I know almost no one who fits that absurd standard and even fewer people who feel good about and happy with their bodies.

I ended up thinking a lot about Anne Lamott and her essay in Traveling Mercies about her “Aunties”. She writes about heading to the beach and being “ambushed” by a group of young, fit teenage girls and the shame she felt standing next to them, comparing her body to theirs. But then she goes back to her hotel room and is filled with affection for her thighs and the rest of her body and the life they represent. As I soaked and steamed and sweat I started thinking about what my body has been through, the places it has taken me, the things I do like about it.

By the end of our time in the spa I began to think about my body differently. It has traveled the country with me. It has packed and unpacked new and old apartments. It has hugged loved ones, offered a shoulder to cry on. It has danced at weddings. It has sweated through Bikram yoga classes and Zumba classes and seasons of jogging. It has slept on the floor at youth retreats, been bruised and sprained from epic dodge ball games. It has climbed up to roofs in Mississippi to help with Katrina relief. It has laughed deeply and often. It has been wracked with sobs in grief and in celebration. It is mine. I would not trade this body and the experiences it has lived through and the people it has loved for anything.

Eventually, as I laid on the table, my towel draped over me and light, plinky music playing in the back ground I began to wonder about how I might take better care of my body, how I might show it appreciation and tenderness. I committed to more fresh fruits, vegetables and water. I committed to using it more often to run and to do yoga and to play. I committed to getting better and more consistent sleep. I committed to pedicures and massages. And when I can’t afford a pedicure or a massage I committed to bubble baths and hammocks and lotion. I committed to sunscreen. I committed to more laughter and more touch. I committed to less magazines and commercials and other such things that perpetuate the unhealthy game of comparing myself to fiction.  I committed to surrounding myself with good friends who are supportive and encouraging and committed to being body positive with me.

I have been wondering, since, about our aversion to nudity. It seems to permeate not just to our bodies but to vulnerability in general in this culture. What would it be like if we practiced exposing ourselves more often, in healthy and constructive ways? What would it be like if we supported others as they practiced this same thing with us?

Adeline

Here is this week's writing assignment. A departure from Laverne for now. Adeline is a character I've been wanting to write about for a while and she fit perfectly with what we were asked to do this week.

Incense filled the sanctuary with its smoke and smell, leaving a haze as it dissipated into the rafters. Adeline took a deep breath and closed her eyes as the pipe organ pumped out generic classical music. She sat in the middle of the church, at the very end of a pew by the center aisle. It was a neutral spot. She could be invisible there. She was far enough back so as not to be family, not a close friend. She could be a coworker or an old college roommate. Close enough, though, that she could see the family, could see the deceased’s wife and children, could hear their sobs. With her eyes still closed Adeline rubbed her thumb back and forth over the embossed letters of the bulletin’s front page. Peter George. The name meant nothing to her. The picture on the back of the bulletin was of a face she’d never seen. But just as she soaked in the smell of the incense and the sound of the organ Adeline soaked in the grieving widow’s sobs, the wracking shoulders of her two daughters.

~

Which, of course, was why she was now sitting in a circle, on one of the 2 dozen cold, metal folding chairs that are the trademark of all church basements, listening to the Emotions Anonymous facilitator, Rachel, invite anyone who wished to share about their week. People shifted in their chairs and avoided making eye contact with Rachel. Adeline stared at the dull and scuffed linoleum that stretched out around her feet in seemingly endless monotony. The fluorescent lights that sat in giant rectangles in the low ceiling flickered occasionally. She wasn’t convinced she belonged in these meetings and was determined not to volunteer to speak. She sipped her coffee, trying not to make a face. It was lukewarm and tasteless.

After an older woman told a story about fighting with her son, tears leaking out of her eyes, Rachel turned to the rest of the group. Adeline was still captivated by the woman’s pain when Rachel said her name, “Adeline?” She blinked, her mouth suddenly dry. Hoping she’d heard wrong Adeline slowly looked at Rachel.

“Would you like to share this evening?” Rachel’s cheery, overly understanding smile encouraged her.

Adeline cleared her throat, “Ok,” she agreed miserably, “I hadn’t been to a funeral in over a month. I went to one this week.” It was a slip, a falling off the wagon of sorts.

~

The priest stood, somber in his robes, and the congregation stood with him. There was a hurried rustling of pages as people turned to the right song, racing the organ to get there in time. Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound… floated up to the very top of the room, mingling with the smoke from the incense. Adeline held the hymnal, open to a random page, close against her stomach as she watched. All around her were signs of grief and loss. The congregation was a sea of black mourning uniforms, flecked every now and then with the white of a handkerchief. Occasionally a sob would escape from Peter’s wife that rose above the sound of the organ and the people singing. A thin woman with grey hair reached over and put her arms around the widow, Margaret the bulletin called her, holding her close. Adeline watched as Margaret sank into the other woman’s arms. Briefly she closed her eyes and imagined that it was she the woman was hugging and for a moment, just a moment, Adeline felt like she might cry. She chased it, leaned into it, tried to summon the tears. But no, she couldn’t quite reach them. Instead, she opened her eyes and watched other people’s sorrow.

Dreaming of Dollywood - a memory

This week our assignment was to write a memory, the goal being to write as an older, perhaps wiser, narrator looking back. I'm not sure that I've captured Laverne's voice in the following. I think it will need some tweaking. I'm also not sure that this will be a part of whatever this becomes, if it becomes anything, but it was good to get to know Laverne a little bit better anyway.

That night Bernie and I crawled into to bed in the camper, both of us high as kites. Never in my life did I dream I’d do anything like this with Bernie. Never really thought I’d do any drugs myself, matter of fact.

After we settled down I took a deep, calming breath and said something to Bernie I shoulda said a long time ago, “You got a good kid, Bern.”

There was enough light coming through the slits in the blinds that I could see her eyes. Bernie didn’t say anything but she looked straight back at me. It was like she was scared to admit that she knew.

“I mean it, that son of yours is something special. You should stop trying to make him someone different and start loving him for who he is.”

Bernie rolled onto her back, away from me and stared up at the ceiling. For a long time both of us were quiet.

“Do you remember the night I met George?” Bernie asked me, breaking the silence.

Of course I did, only I don’t remember it as the night she met George. I remember it as the night our cousin Tammie got me drunk on bourbon. I remember it as the night Howie and I slept together for the first time. It’s funny how the same night leaves different impressions on people. Mother and Daddy were visiting our grandparents in Pittsburgh and left Tammie in charge. Tammie was 19 and studying to be a stenographer at the local college. Bernie was sweet and innocent at 17. I, on the other hand, was already smoking regularly and drinking whisky sours after school at Tammie’s at 16. We were different as night and day.

After our parent’s car disappeared behind a hill on the long stretch of highway by our house Tammie turned to us, a glint in her eye that could only mean one thing; she had a plan. A thrill went through me at the sight of her expression. I lit two cigarettes and handed one to her. Bernie’s breath came out in a disapproving huff. In that moment there was nothing that irritated me more than Bernie’s huffs. Poor girl was always so good and always trying to make me good too. Problem was, I just never quite felt like being good. It’s like that part of my DNA was missing. At the time, I would have blamed Tammie for corrupting me, but I know that’s not true. We just are who we are, I can’t help it anymore than Bernie can, anymore than Simon and Spencer can.

One thing Tammie could do better than anyone else was throw a party together at the last minute. She rang into the operator and before long half the people under 25 in our town knew to be at our farm that night. The three of us spent the afternoon clearing out the barn. Tammie had it in her head that if we had the party in the barn we would be less likely to get caught. Reluctantly Bernie helped. What got into her that day, I’ll never know, but by the time we were done and everything was ready she seemed almost excited.

I stood in front of the vanity in my room, admiring my reflection. I wore Howie’s letterman jacket over a blue and white polka-dot dress of Tammie’s. She’d even curled my hair and put some of her dark red lipstick on me. I hardly recognized myself. It was one of the only times in my life I felt like a lady, and one of the only times I actually liked it. I imagined the look on Howie’s face when he saw me and blushed a little.

The crowd gathered in the barn. Cars, bikes and motorcycles lined the street and our yard. Music and laughter filtered into the night through open barn windows. People stood in circles or sat on bales of hay. A haze of smoke filled the air. It was warm and inviting. I couldn’t help but grin as Bernie took her first sip of bourbon and spit it out, choking. A group of boys walked into the barn at that moment, among them was George. I know only because Bernie told me later. At the time I was distracted by Howie’s arm around my waist and his breath on my ear as he whispered that we should go up to the barn loft. The mixed smells of cigarettes and dry hay still take me back in time to that night.

It felt dangerous and daring. Below us people were dancing and talking, oblivious to the two of us sneaking the latter up so that no one could follow. Howie led me to a bale of hay and we sat down next to each other. Our nerves were electric between us. Even with the open windows and the hole in the floor letting light and sound into the loft, when Howie leaned in to kiss me he was all that existed for me. My heart beat fast and my breath came shallow. I've seen movies with fireworks and cheering crowds. This wasn’t anything like that. This was quiet and still, like the lake at night or wheat in the breeze.

After, he held me in his arms and told me he loved me. He gave me his class ring as a promise ring. We giggled at what we had done, at our secret, at our boldness. When the barn had emptied of all but a few people we snuck back down, concealing smiles, afraid we’d reveal to the whole world our most intimate moment. Howie kissed me good night and left. I let Tammie fill me with bourbon. I was probably irritating the hell out of her with my giddy energy and the only way to shut me up was to make me drink more. So much more I got sick and swore the stuff off. To this day I won't touch it.

After getting sick I crawled into bed with Bernie. We curled up facing each other much like that night in the trailer. I was only half awake as she murmured she’d met a cute boy at the party. Too tired and drunk and distracted by my own night to care much.

Of course I remember that night. 

Dreaming of Dollywood II

“Simon, put that away!” Jane swatted at Simon’s hand.

“Stop being such a prude, Jane!” Simon pulled away from her and proceeded to lay out an array of objects on the picnic table, “Mama’s asleep, anyway.”

“What in the Sam Hill have you got there?” I squirmed in my seat. I could guess what my nephew was getting ready to do.

Simon looked at me with a world of impatience and exasperation. There was some mischief in his eyes as well. “You said you’d always wanted to try it,” he shrugged.

Spencer laughed.

“You callin’ my bluff?” I asked. I ain’t never backed down from a challenge and I could hardly do so now with my nephew. Pride was at stake.

By way of response he handed me a little, thin white roll. I took it. I’m not ashamed to admit my heart was racing. I felt like a school girl all over again, sneaking cigarettes from Daddy’s desk. Simon’s lighter flared to life and I leaned forward to catch it. I inhaled long and deep. And then. Then I started coughing like my lungs were trying to jump outta my body.

Simon, Jane and Spencer all laughed.

I glared at them while Jane took the joint, glanced toward the trailer where Bernie was sleeping, then took hit, slow and cool, like she’d done it a thousand times. She probably had.

When it came back to me Spencer said, “Take a smaller hit and just let it sit for a minute, then let it out real slow.”

By the time I handed it back to Jane my head was swimming. Not in a bad way, it just felt light. Lighter than my body, which had suddenly become heavy as bricks.

“She’s baked already” Jane laughed.

“Am not,” I tried to snap, only instead I laughed when smoke came out of my mouth as I said the words. Good god, everything was funnier than it should have been.

Simon crept into the camper and came back with a bottle of wine and four plastic cups. He moved like a dancer, prancing from person to person, pouring us wine.

“You sure are faggy, aren’t you?” I asked as he poured my glass.

“You sure are bitchy, aren’t you?” he asked without missing a beat.

I cracked up at that. We all laughed loud and hard for a long time.

“Yeah, I guess I am,” I finally said, wiping tears from my eyes.

“Does it bother you?” Spencer asked, “I mean, really, does it bother you that your nephew’s queer?”

A minute ago everything seemed so funny. Now my brain felt thick, my tongue felt like it had become cotton. Simon and Spencer both looked at me, seriously, Simon with a little fear in his eyes. I stared back at them for a long time, figuring out what to say and how to get it out of my foggy head.

Finally I shook my head, “No, not really. We always knew you were who you were. When you were little you insisted on wearing pink and always wanted to go to Jane’s dance classes. Nearly drove your mother crazy. Your dad was steadier, less afraid of what it meant. I guess I just didn’t know what it really meant. Your mom was sad and angry, your dad was cool and quiet. Never seemed like my business.”

Spencer nodded.

“You love to torment Mama about it, though,” Simon said quietly. Jane reached over and squeezed his hand.

I grunted a laugh, “Yeah, well, it was always easy to get under your mama's skin. Guess I liked not being the only one she prayed and fretted over. Whenever she scolded me for not going to church or smoking I’d remind her about her son and that would shut her up.”

“You think I’m the one who’s easy to get under her skin but you’re just the same, Laverne.”

All of us jumped. Spencer spilled his wine and Jane dropped the joint. There was Bernie, in her flannel nightgown and hair curlers, standing on the camper steps.

Jane let out a last puff of smoke, “Hi Mama,” she said, laughing.

Bernie looked at us stunned, as we all started laughing. Things got funny again for a minute. Then Bernie did something none of us expected. She came down from those steps, reached for the joint on the ground, and took a giant puff. She took two giant puffs and sat down on the bench next to Jane. “What?” she asked when we wouldn’t stop staring, our mouths hanging wide open and our eyes fit to pop out of our heads. That got us all laughing again, even Bernie.