Sitting around the table at our holiday luncheon.
People are talking and I’m remotely listening.
I nod or smile but always, I try and appear interested.
I’m preoccupied. These pants weren’t so tight last year.
My 39th birthday is approaching, less than a month away.
The newest member of our staff takes pictures with his
digital camera and I notice how old my neck looks.
I make a mental note to look into some anti-aging cream.
The people I work with are saying inappropriate things
about people of different skins. This is the way they
get onto common ground with each other – I’ve heard it
before. Each time it happens, I try to understand why
I feel compelled to laugh with them even while I’m
telling them they’re sick. They know my disapproval.
They view me as “the heavy”. The older I get, the less
tolerant I become. Or is it the other way around?
The waiter comes and I ask him to run down the list
of desserts. I’m thinking an espresso will lift my spirits.
He says there’s angel hair cake in the lemon torte
instead of angel food. I smile at him.
One side of his thick young hair falls out of place
and swings over his forehead while his face turns red.
He’s caught himself in the mistake but says it again
and again, at least three times in the same sentence.
© Carrie Spadter, 2004. All rights reserved.
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