After returning from Colorado with a tweaked back and another tale of unfulfilled romance, I transitioned through the usual stages of grief, from “what’s wrong with me,” to “why not ME.” There was a time I would have lingered much longer in each phase. Now I move right through them. And for that, I thank my mother.
She was a master of disappointment. She was disappointed not to finish college, not to get the quality of employment she deserved. She was disappointed that her immigrant parents, who owned a grocery store on the lower east side of Manhattan, didn’t have time for her. She hated that her legs were too thick for her tiny waist. (All valid, by the way.) But her loudest and most long-standing lament was saved for me. She was disappointed that I didn’t marry and give her grandchildren.
With that as my mother’s relentless complaint, we lost a chance for a close relationship. But it taught me a powerful lesson. Don’t be bullied by disappointment. You’ll miss the good stuff.
Last night at a lively dinner with friends, I shared my recent saga of unrequited love. Driving home it hit me. Even though my Colorado trip didn’t result in a happy ending, I was lucky to have had an adventure and a juicy story to brag about. For today, that’s my happy ending. Bad back and all.
(Photo: Cape Disappointment [1], a real place in the state of Washington, with one of the largest number of hours of fog in the U.S.)