Slamma Lamma Ding Dong, Round Two

Of course immediately following that call, I breathe into a paper bag for a minute or two, recover my ability to speak and call Charlotte. I try with all my might not to sound like I've come untethered from reality.

I verbally scroll through the events of the past few minutes. I'd packed a lot of drama and activities into such a short time. Charlotte is curious about the rest of the heinous letter. I tell her I would be happy to pluck it from the mail slot and let her read it, but reiterate that my disinterest in the rest of its intended message is genuine and enduring. No, she says. It can be on its way. As it should be.

It is liberating actually. I am having a fully formed succinct thought about something that has been percolating under the surface for years: I really do not care what my mother has to say about her impressions of me. And if it is at all possible, I care even less about whether or not Bill is impressed with me or my conduct or my children or my choices in men or anything else he might observe in his 3.2 hours in my company prior to passing out cold.

I am not a sociopath. I do actually want to abide by society's mores and norms and contribute something, and do good. And I would never want to be tried unfavorably in the court of public opinion, or even fall out of favor with my friends and certain family for my conduct or my attitudes.

It is just that I don't care what Mom thinks. I am sure there was a time when I did, but that ship has left the harbor.

I don't seek her approval.

I don't need her permission.

I am not concerned whether or not she likes me.

I don't emulate her and am not motivated to create for her a sense of pride for me.

Those things are reserved for other people. Charlotte, Jack, their children, MY children, Scott and his family. My boss. His boss. My employees. Kate, Joy, Priscilla, Jackie - and some of their parents! These are the people, in no particular order, who keep my sense of decorum in tact and my moral compass pointed due North. Not my mother. And certainly not her lousy husband.

I realize my breathing has slowed, my hands have ceased to shake. I pour myself a low carb beer, put on my jammies and turn on the game. I feel like I've just finished a long novel and have closed the cover and placed it on a shelf, never to be read again.