Yeah, it’s funny. The second that I made the switch to post on Tuesdays and Thursdays, I longed for the old days of posting Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays.
Those of you who know me personally aren’t surprised to read those words, I’m sure. I mean, I’m a New Yorker. If I’m not complaining about something, then I really am in throes of a bad depression.
OK. Moving on.
There’s a joke in the house where I live with Mr. Vulcan and Heather Wilhelmina. When explaining my presence in their home, they’d love to be able to say to people, “So there’s this older woman who lives in our house. But neither one of us is fucking her.”
And that, in its funny and vulgar truth, is the situation. I’m more than a roommate. But at the end of the day, Heather Wilhelmina and Mr. Vulcan go to bed in one room and I go to sleep in another.
While Mr. Vulcan was playing in a sandbox that I know that he never really played in, but I’ll put him there right now for this image, I was about to drop out from my first round of college.
When Heather Wilhelmina was rocking color guard in high school, I was just starting on my first marriage.
People always talk about how hard relationships are, in terms of the person or people that you’re knocking boots with. But people don’t always talk about how friendships are sometimes a lot of work as well.
Mr. Vulcan, Heather Wilhelmina and myself clocked in some solid, “Working on the friendship” time yesterday.
But within all of that, I also know that I’ve received this amazing gift: I’ve become truly and extremely close with two younger men who aren’t my husband, completely free of any sexual overtone drama. Sometimes this old hetero lady can’t wrap her head around that gift. And sometimes it lays so clearly in the palm of her hand, shining brilliantly in the late afternoon sun.
With that in mind, I want to give an old-school shout-out (they’re both cringing as they read those words-lol) to Mr. Vulcan and Heather Wilhelmina.
I want to give them a shout-out for taking away my clip art and my faded red jacket. For getting me to wear slim cut jeans and highlights. For helping me to understand Texas and white boys better. For making me own more than one pair of heels and wear nail polish. For sitting with me in the 8th floor waiting room in Kaiser when my husband couldn’t be there. For reminding me that I’m half-Mexican and half-white and to face my privileges. For having a home where intersectionality is lived out and discussed every day. For all of the home-cooked meals and the pets who make me miss my cats a little less.
For showing me vulnerability, bravery, humor, intelligence and not letting me or themselves give up. Ever.
I love you guys like I love my pretzel rods, saltiness and all.