Well, Yes, That Makes Sense

Some people understand themselves. Not me. I have to think about shit a long time to make sense of it. And as long as it doesn’t make sense, I feel anxious.

I’ve been on the verge of tears the whole weekend.

Well, duh.

I don’t live here. I don’t have a chance to get used to the fact that we’ve got no reason to turn down Christy Road, even though Uncle B.’s house is almost visible from Capitol. There’s no need to look for the church on the corner of Bradley; the grandparents are dead.

For the folks who live here, they obviously have had time and reason to get used to this.

For me, I’ve been doing “acceptance” for a long time like a total cheater because I never saw these folks in this place but twice a year anyway.

Intellectually, I’ve long ago gotten used to the fact that I wasn’t going to see them again. I just hadn’t confronted the fact that even life here would go on without them and their loss would just become a fact instead of an affront.

Wedding Day

So, no, I didn’t spend today moping around the local cemeteries.

Instead, I had a wrestling match rivaling anything put on by the WWE. I was pinning the nephew. He was pinning me. He got me in the rarely-performed nose-hold. I put him on the bottoms of my feet and shook him for all he was worth. He repeatedly put his butt in my face.

It doesn’t matter what size someone is, when they’re sitting on the side of your head–and they’re a member of my family–you’re just praying they don’t fart.

My prayers, of course, were not answered.

We had lunch at my aunt & uncle’s–the parents of the bride. My dead uncle’s son was staying there and his kids and the nephew got along famously.

Until the wedding. Then the nephew wanted to know why he could not be in the parade and why T., my cousin’s son was walking with the nephew’s girl–the flower girl.

Later, at the reception, he threatened to beat T. up for dancing with his girl. Sadly, the relationship died a quick death after they collided on the dance floor and the nephew got a bloody nose.

I’d like to tell you I had the best cleavage at the reception. I looked up and caught a glimpse in the mirrored ceiling and my other cousin’s fiancee looked up, too, and was like “Nice bra, B.”

“Damn,” I said, checking stuff out from below. “Good bra indeed.”

So, you know, otherwise I may have looked like a painted-up sausage encased in sea foam, but the girls looked good.

Still, not as good as the tits on the woman on the groom’s side who wore a shirt cut so low you could see her belly button.

“Why would you dress like that at that age?” One cousin asked.

“She put some money into that,” I said.

All in all, it was good. It was nice to see everyone and catch up on things.

My cousin with the kids and I agreed–it’s funny how different the paths our lives have taken are, and yet how similar we all are, as well.

I’m glad to see them at weddings. It’s so much better than the usual funerals.