This Saturday had potential...
I have been writing all day. I have a ridiculous amount of work left to do but I've managed to put a substantial dent in the list I made.
I would like to share something quite odd.
Every Sunday and sometimes Saturday they shuffle through the wooden doors and into the church. They are dressed in the florals and pastels that lined their closets twenty years ago but are still wearable today. Every Saturday and sometimes Sunday they are in the church together and alone. They are addressed but not spoken to, consoled but not loved. An hour passes by with nervous glances at the different florals and pastels. Maybe one of them is wearing something new. They wonder where she got it, how much she paid for it, and if her husband knows yet. They check their lipstick in tiny compact mirrors while the reverend is preparing the bread. They can see the florals and pastels behind them and wonder why they hadn't thought of bringing the compact to church before. Maybe they sort the contents of their purse after communion. Waiting for the tiny bearded man at the alter to sit down can take ages and they wonder why he hasn't retired yet. It's not good for the church's image, they think. He's going home to a fridge full of beer, they think. On certain Sundays and sometimes Saturdays he takes longer than usual and makes an off-colour remark about the good Lord not answering his prayers about a decent arthritis medication. They wonder if he's even allowed to say that.
They all belong to the same club that meets twice weekly in the church basement. They play cards and knit socks for orphans or soldiers or dogs or something. Sometimes they'll end a conversation and eye one another nervously because they all know that no one knows anyone else's name or even the name of the club to which they belong. What they do know is that the woman in the peach is sleeping with the husband of the woman in the violet, the woman in the pink left early because of a fairly audible comment about a supposed botched nose job, and the woman in the yellow isn't sure who her new baby daughter should call daddy.
When they have run out of cards or yarn or rum the women begin another ritual that usually involves the woman with the largest hat pushing back her chair and declaring that she must get home to her husband. The woman with the second largest hat gives the woman with the largest hat two kisses on each cheek and states in a louder voice that she too must be getting home because she's ovulating and you know what that means. The woman with the largest hat then wraps the woman with the second largest hat in a too-long embrace and says in an even louder voice that it's nice to see the kids playing house again and that she looks forward to seeing everyone again next week for some more fun and games.
When the next Sunday and sometimes Saturday comes the florals and pastels shuffle through the same wooden doors into the same church. One by one they take out their compacts and check to see if the mole they'd found last week has gotten any bigger. After the communion fashion show they sit down again and discover that the new nail polishes they'd bought yesterday are still in their purses. This manicure is especially enjoyable because it seems to have gone on forever and that little man on the alter hasn't even said anything yet so they know they haven't missed anything. They become increasingly relaxed and begin a top coat without sparing a glace towards the front. It's amazing, they think, how one can get so lost in a simple task. So lost, it would seem, that by the time the woman with the largest hat finally checks her watch an hour and forty minutes has passed and Father Something is sitting behind the alter deeply engrossed in a rousing game of solitaire. She looks around at the florals and pastels in great horror and begins to take stock of her moral bank account. Heaving an audible sigh, she directs her attention back to what may or may not be an infected hangnail and wonders if the woman with the second largest hat really was ovulating.
I would like to share something quite odd.
Every Sunday and sometimes Saturday they shuffle through the wooden doors and into the church. They are dressed in the florals and pastels that lined their closets twenty years ago but are still wearable today. Every Saturday and sometimes Sunday they are in the church together and alone. They are addressed but not spoken to, consoled but not loved. An hour passes by with nervous glances at the different florals and pastels. Maybe one of them is wearing something new. They wonder where she got it, how much she paid for it, and if her husband knows yet. They check their lipstick in tiny compact mirrors while the reverend is preparing the bread. They can see the florals and pastels behind them and wonder why they hadn't thought of bringing the compact to church before. Maybe they sort the contents of their purse after communion. Waiting for the tiny bearded man at the alter to sit down can take ages and they wonder why he hasn't retired yet. It's not good for the church's image, they think. He's going home to a fridge full of beer, they think. On certain Sundays and sometimes Saturdays he takes longer than usual and makes an off-colour remark about the good Lord not answering his prayers about a decent arthritis medication. They wonder if he's even allowed to say that.
They all belong to the same club that meets twice weekly in the church basement. They play cards and knit socks for orphans or soldiers or dogs or something. Sometimes they'll end a conversation and eye one another nervously because they all know that no one knows anyone else's name or even the name of the club to which they belong. What they do know is that the woman in the peach is sleeping with the husband of the woman in the violet, the woman in the pink left early because of a fairly audible comment about a supposed botched nose job, and the woman in the yellow isn't sure who her new baby daughter should call daddy.
When they have run out of cards or yarn or rum the women begin another ritual that usually involves the woman with the largest hat pushing back her chair and declaring that she must get home to her husband. The woman with the second largest hat gives the woman with the largest hat two kisses on each cheek and states in a louder voice that she too must be getting home because she's ovulating and you know what that means. The woman with the largest hat then wraps the woman with the second largest hat in a too-long embrace and says in an even louder voice that it's nice to see the kids playing house again and that she looks forward to seeing everyone again next week for some more fun and games.
When the next Sunday and sometimes Saturday comes the florals and pastels shuffle through the same wooden doors into the same church. One by one they take out their compacts and check to see if the mole they'd found last week has gotten any bigger. After the communion fashion show they sit down again and discover that the new nail polishes they'd bought yesterday are still in their purses. This manicure is especially enjoyable because it seems to have gone on forever and that little man on the alter hasn't even said anything yet so they know they haven't missed anything. They become increasingly relaxed and begin a top coat without sparing a glace towards the front. It's amazing, they think, how one can get so lost in a simple task. So lost, it would seem, that by the time the woman with the largest hat finally checks her watch an hour and forty minutes has passed and Father Something is sitting behind the alter deeply engrossed in a rousing game of solitaire. She looks around at the florals and pastels in great horror and begins to take stock of her moral bank account. Heaving an audible sigh, she directs her attention back to what may or may not be an infected hangnail and wonders if the woman with the second largest hat really was ovulating.