Dear friends,
I’m sorry but it’s time for us to say good-bye. This
relationship is simply not working for me. I’ve said it before, I know. Attempted to cut
the cord umpteen times and counting. But today, right now, I mean it. I’ve got
the proof here at my fingertips, in my appointment book: 3:30, Friday, Sylvie
B. See? This is really happening.
I know what you’re thinking. You’ve heard this sad song a thousand times already
for crying out loud. I’ve scheduled
so many, many appointments, and never followed through: too cheap, lazy, needed to read one more silly story on cracked.com, whatever.
None of that wishy-washy stuff this time. I’m ready. I’m not backing out like
I did last year when I set a day and time, then let my daughter talk me out of
it. She’s out of state. Has no idea what
I’m planning. Or maybe you’re thinking
of four years ago, right before that big date, when I canceled both the
appointment and the guy, and bought myself some outrageous earrings and a sweet bottle
of cabernet instead.
Nope. I’ve cleared my schedule. Got the jewelry and wine shopping
done, too.
In truth, I knew I wouldn’t back out the second I heard Sylvie suggest
it. First, there was her sharp intake of breath immediately followed by the
flash of a grimace. Then her voice, low but firm, as she combed out the tangled
layers and prepared for the cutting: “Maureen, it’s time.”
She was right. I knew it instinctively. Understood it the
way I know deep in my gut each time I find that perfect wine-cake-frosting
combination. I knew it was time to cover you up. I’d seen it coming. Truth is
I’ve been thinking about this for a long time now. You’ve gotten way too spirally,
wiry, and worst of all, dull. Dull is not who I want to be.
It’s not that I don’t appreciate you. Haven’t I been your
biggest supporter these last few years? As you’ve grown and multiplied I’ve
worn you with a cut-the-crap none-of-that-nonsense-for-me 'tude. I’ve always loved you, my gray ones, as much as I love all
the evidence that proves I’ve lived a solid, rich life for oh so many marvelous,
precious decades.
My laugh lines show the world I love to smile. My blistered
feet? Trophies from miles of marathons. And you, my ashen doves, each one of you holds
a precious nay, distinctive memory of a hurdle I’ve vaulted, a challenge I’ve crushed:
raising two kiddos all alone, teaching thousands of hormone-addled not-so-innocents how to fill in test bubbles; surviving multitudes of cats, most of them ridiculously long-haired and
insufferably cute; vacuuming a couple of times a year every few years.
It’s not that I’m ungrateful that I’ve passed the half
century mark. It’s just that I’m looking for a change. I've got a yen for adventure that you're just not satisfying. I'm yearning for something new. Perhaps a more daring me? Though Sylvie suggested
I start conservatively, and maybe think a little longer before I go for the
eggplant hue I’ve been craving. Ditto blue-black, or orange with magenta highlights, though
I think they’re all excellent options.
It’s time to bid adieu my pale, frail friends. Please don’t
despair. I am sure this is just a temporary farewell. You know I have commitment issues. Remember
the Sun-In summer of ’81? The copper
Captain and Tennille helmet I swore I’d keep forever? That lasted what? Six months? And what about my almost-mid-life-crisis a
decade ago, my year of living blondishly? Remember how that turned out? How you grays, browns, doves, salts, all came out to play within days of my third canceled hair salon appointment?
You know as well as I do that this isn’t au revoir in any
permanent sense whatsoever. This is see ya later. I know you'll always be there for me, ready, waiting, willing
to enter back into the fray, at least until I hit my 80s. After that, I know all bets are off. I've seen how my forbears have aged. Eesh.
Until we meet again,
Me
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