Oh pantyhose, no more!

Oh pantyhose, up yours!

Hey hun, 

The house is pretty quiet now that Julian and Eve have headed back to Maine. We had a nice couple days before they peeled out, resolving to celebrate their recommitment to each other by planning a trip to visit their son, Mark.

For the life of me, I can’t remember where Mark lives. Of course they told me but it’s gone now. Is it Austria? Croatia? Albania? I don’t know. He’s something called a digital nomad, which just means he works on the computer. I know, it doesn't make much sense to me, either.

Mark also has a digital wife. I mean, they met online. I know that’s more of a thing now. People shop for dates like they’re ordering shoes. When I was young, we could meet people out and about because we weren’t looking down at any phones. Not a critique, just an observation!

Anyway, Mark’s wife also works online, as something they call an influencer. Basically, she sells stuff on social media, like some kind of QVC channel. Eve and Julian don’t particularly enjoy her company because she’s always talking about her branding. On-brand is good, off-brand is bad, and you always have to be “trending”.

She sounds more like a goddamn corporation than a human. 

But, they do want to see their grandson, so they’ll make the trip out and from there they’ll travel around to some other places. I don’t exactly remember what those places are, but I’m sure they’re lovely. 

Now that I’m getting back to my routine, I’ve been catching up the news. I’m sure you’ve seen it already, but I was shocked to see that the Supreme Court has decided to pretty much give the President carte blanche. The news people are saying they’re just laying out the red carpet for Trump. 

For a second I thought maybe I was having a stroke, or the first wave of dementia, and imagining the second coming of Hitler. I guess I could be forgiven since both have such bad personal style. But in all seriousness, it’s just another mediocre loser using unchecked power to punish a world that he thinks owes him something. It’s honestly frightening to think of what a treacherous turn this is. 

It also puts some perspective on what’s important and what’s not. Suddenly, it doesn’t seem to matter so much if the store has the ham you like, or if Smelly Melly cheats at bingo, or if the neighbor's untrained mutt rampages through your yard and leaves horse-sized shits by the back steps. It doesn’t matter because something much bigger and darker is lurking on the horizon. 

I say this to you, partly because I can’t exactly talk politics with Denise and the girls, but also as a reminder that there are things much more significant than you out there. 

It doesn’t sound very encouraging as I write it out, but it’s meant to be. I know that you’re having a hard time with the job stuff, and the mid-life crisis, and whatever other anxieties your mother tells me about on the phone. Trust me, if there was a time when it magically got easier, I’d tell you. 

Unfortunately, it kinda stays like that until you get old and die – presumably, as I haven’t had the pleasure of that second part yet. You know, recently I was going through a forgotten drawer and found an epic pile of old pantyhose. There was enough to dress myself up as a mummy for Halloween if I wanted to.

I used to have to wear them to my job everyday. The thing is, I HATE pantyhose with an undying passion. They rumple, they get ragged, and they’re just something else to buy and another thing to wash. Well, I needed the job, so I didn’t complain but I hated that I had become a…pantyhose person. 

It was a uniform and a safety net. My respectable attire told my employer I wasn’t likely to be any trouble and it told other people I was stable and employed. My clean house said I was a good homemaker. My well-fed, polite, and proper kids said I was a good mother. Keeping my husband happy said I was a good wife. Everything was on-brand. 

I won’t say there’s nothing I would have changed because sometimes I wonder where and who I would be if I didn’t do things just-so. On a screen, my life wasn’t exactly perfect, but striving to be. And for whom? Was it for us, or for a stranger walking by? Was it for some lidless God judging us all by how pristine the toilet bowl was? And where’s our reward now? 

So now, as you’re struggling to figure out what your uniform is and where your slot in life will be, maybe think about what brand you’re selling – and if you want to sell it at all. I’ve watched the world and this country make the same mistakes again and again, so trust me when I say that nobody is coming to save you or pat you on the head, no matter how many hours you clock or how green your lawn is. Do the thing that seems important to you, and don’t worry so much about how messy the process looks. Do it for all of us grim reaper groupies who didn’t get a chance to. 

As your Granddad used to tell me whenever I got stressed about the state of the house, “Don’t worry, everything will still be f’d tomorrow.”

Love, 

Grams