Susan Senator

Oppressed by the wide open glorious day. I have no excuse to feel this way. Purely ornery. It is a lovely weekend, nothing needs to be done. Even my children are obliging by showing their best selves. Nat and I talked before he went to bed last night about the situation with lights, and how if he was calm and quiet this morning, we would make pancakes.

So he was. So we did. I ate none of them. I had eggs, Atkins style. Back on that for a little while to reduce the belly that even hours of bellydance and other ab work cannot seem to flatten. My trophy from successful childbirth? Great, but did I have to win the grand prize?

Sometimes I feel like my socioeconomic peers — all of whom seem to have wonderful plans for this Memorial Day weekend — are the people who do everything more beautifully than you, like the character in that Sylvia comic who ages terracotta pots with yogurt and monograms her children’s underwear. Most everyone around me seems to know how to drink beer and “hang out.” Ned and I don’t really “hang.” He doesn’t go out with The Guys; he never has. We both have a few very very close friends, but that’s it. There isn’t much hanging out to be done. We see our friends here and there, but it’s each other that we hang out with. And when one of us is glued to the laptop, then the other one has to fend for his/herself.

Yesterday I was so oppressed by the laughter of my happy neighborhood, floating over my way that I told Ned I wanted to move. He said, “Okay.” I went upstairs and lay down. Ned came up and softly rested his hand on my hip while I slept it off, like a bad drinking bout. He knew it was just something I was saying, because I didn’t know what to do with my feelings.

Today he said of one particular friendly-sounding get together down the street, “Let’s just walk over there,” and I said, “Okay.” And then we both looked at each other, a little wide-eyed. I truly understand my shy and perhaps anti-social or otherwise labeled children, because I am one of them. They came from us, after all. And here we are, at our dining room table, typing away while Nat marches all around the first floor, chatting himself up, and Ben plays the Wii; we are each our own island, for better or worse.