Has Anyone Seen My Rose-Colored Glasses?

"Eh-eh-oh eh-oh, Eh-eh-oh eh-oh...

When you close your eyes, does it almost feel like nothing's changed at all?

And when you close your eyes, does it almost feel like you've been here before?"

That catchy song she heard this morning replays in her head. So she closes her eyes, just for a second… Big mistake! The pain of her school days comes flooding back. The days when she would try hopelessly to please her fellow female high school students, who in kind would demonstrate their rejection by turning their backs to her, and almost coquettishly flipping strands of their long, fair hair over their shoulders, like they really wanted her attention, just so they could then refuse it. Excitedly they then pass whispers amongst each other, followed by loud bursts of laughter, as they glance back her way.

As she comes through the back door she passes her mother, in the kitchen busily preparing dinner. "How was school? What's the matter, honey? Are you okay? Are you hungry? Do you want a cookie? I just baked them." 

With all her strength, she manages to force a faint smile, "School was fine, Mom. I'm fine. And no thanks, I'm not hungry right now."

Alone in her room, she drops her schoolbooks on the floor, sprawls across her bed. She spots her journal on the nightstand. She picks it up and thumbs the pages. She comes across a page where she'd written about a visit from her grammar school teacher, Sister Joan. Sister had walked all the way from school, over a mile to her home just to talk to her mother. She remembers that day, five years back when, even though she knew it was wrong, she had eavesdropped from behind the door. She heard Sister Joan saying to her mother, "You know I always look at and assess the potential in my students. I've been teaching for 25 years and I've never had a student who has a knack for writing like your daughter. I’ve thought to myself that, if the Lord blesses me with a long life, I may one day hear or read that she has become famous." 

For the briefest moment, after reading the journal, she smiles. It amazing how words on a page can ease an ache in your heart. She puts her journal down. Maybe she'll take a quick nap before dinner. She thinks about school again. She steadfastly refuses to cry.

Forty-nine years later she hears a song "Pompeii" by Bastille on the internet radio:

“Eh-eh-oh eh-oh, Eh-eh-oh eh-oh… How am I gonna be an optimist about this?“ 

She realizes now that the days she'd always longed for have indeed arrived. She's been accepted and included as a member of the "In-crowd," at least here at the retirement community where she now lives. People who live here may not like to think of it as a retirement community, but if one were to factor the demographics … Anyway, the point is, she's now occasionally asked to sit with the "Elite A-Listers," who reserve a special table for themselves at every celebratory event. There she chats or smiles, or if appropriate, nods and furrows her forehead, as if giving careful consideration to the content of their words. She laughs heartily at the tired jokes of old men. She throws in interjections like, "That’s amazing!" or "You're kidding!" when they talk about their most recent prowess on the golf course.

Yup, I am one of them, she thinks to herself. I really am. Alone at home she sprawls across her bed. She curls up on her side. She cries. 

***

I'm startled back from a nap by a shrill whistle from my IPhone. It's my sister. You know it's so comfortable here in the sunroom, I often find myself dozing as I read or write. I glance at her text:

“Have you ever considered giving up that blog of yours? Cuz I'm pretty sure not everyone gets the subtle self-dep humor you're trying for in some of that stuff you write. ;)”

Good grief! Did I hit the "publish" button in my sleep again?