For Shore

A few days later, I have the good fortune to be invited to join my dear friend Caren at the giant shore house she has rented with her husband. And her children. And his children. And those children's husbands, and wives, and children, and boyfriends, girlfriends, and assorted bridal party members.  Did I mention that the house is enormous? 

Caren and I are old friends. We met when I was in Drill Team and she was in the Rifle Squad.  Her best friend, who became my good friend, Sally, had a locker next to Scott's.  The entanglements are long and complicated. Let's just say, there are no strangers among us.

Caren and her husband Joe are great people with big hearts and big appetites for fun and games. I offer to bring dinner. They tell me wine or beer or both would be better. I am overly obliging. It's going to be a wild three days.

And why not?  I am not working and have no interviews to conflict with the little sojourn.  I pack some fun clothes, a few bikinis, lots of sunscreen and my little job search notebook so I am not caught with my panties around my ankles if one of the nameless, faceless HR people from one of the hundreds of job applications I've submitted half-heartedly sends up a flair of good will.

Caren and I do what we've been doing all summer. Soak up the sun (though usually it is while standing in the waist-deep end of her pool) drink wine (though we are far less concerned about blood alcohol levels since no one is even leaving the porch, let alone getting in a car) and catch up on our lives (though mine has more highs, lows and hairpin turns than hers).

We share secrets. We laugh at our new "old age" habits (Hers is a sleep mask. Mine is incessant moisturizing.) We fill in gaps since the last hilarious chat. My job hunt. My man hunt. My kids and their climb into teenagedom.

I tell her about the message from Scott. I also tell her that her husband Joe thinks I should just search my soul and if I can still feel anything toward Scott, just cut the crap and let him back in my life. We were in love once. We'd remember how it felt and be married by Christmas. Has so much changed?

She nearly huffs wine out of her nose and looks around as if she's looking for something heavy to hurl at him.  She's making that "Are you an asshole?" face at him.  He's not even on the porch. It is a remote telepathic thing only spouses enjoy. Somehow, telepathically, he knows he was smacked upside his head.

I tell her what I told Joe. There have been so many wonderful people who I already have in my life, why would I choose someone who treated me so poorly for the coveted position on my arm forever more?  Friends treat me better. Acquaintances have been kinder and more concerned about my well being. Strangers have heaped praise upon me. Why spend time with someone by whom I will always be reminded that when the going got tough, he bit his nails down to nubs and went scampering off to hide, whimpering and afraid to speak? 

I tell her about the older man I met at a local pub who described me as "the only lady on the pirate ship" and who found me so charming and disarming he offered genuine help in networking for a new job.  And the man at Girls Weekend (we've not covered that yet, friends, but we will!) who kept telling me I was "delightful." Joy and I had howled with laughter about that. Oh yes, I am a delight alright. You just ask anyone.  Give me a minute and a few other D words will come to mind. Drunk. Disorderly. Deranged.  Disheveled. Maybe even Douchebag. You never know which direction the evening will go. 

Caren has the perfect reply for Scott. One word. "Delightful."  Only she and I will know the joke behind it.  He'll be confused. And maybe just astute enough to know that the message has more than one meaning.

I am delightful. I am.  My life is delightful. And other people find me so, as well. Too bad you let me out of your sight. But there I will stay.

Delightful. Send.