Happy Hump Day Kiddies!
As a bit of random trivia for you- researchers (I think in Europe) did a study and apparently Wednesdays are the day of the week that most people kill themselves.
That little factoid always pops into my head on Wednesdays and I am either in a crappy mood or a little punchy. Today was an exceptionally punchy and silly sort of day and I found myself getting the “What the Hell are you doing” look for more than one of my co-workers more than once throughout the day.
Time for the next exercise! And I do hope that Mrs. Batty’s keeps on keeping on because I love the story of how her parents met- it reminds me of a 60’s romantic comedy. Unfortunately, I don’t need to imagine how my parents met, but it does take imagination to try and remember that it really started out as a happy union, if just a bit naive.
3. Imagine how your parents met and write the story.
My parents met in Japan in the summer in the early 1970’s. He was a lifeguard at the American Club in Japan and on break from Dartmouth and she was the vagabond hippie daughter of my Grandfather and Grandmother (a story for a later date). From all of the stories I’ve been told, they got together because he looked good in a Speedo, so I don’t think that I originally thought my mother loved my father for his brain. After I’d thought about it, I know that their marriage wouldn’t have lasted as long as it did had she not found something in him that she liked.
So, they were married in Japan and there was tension between my mother and the in-laws. She apparently never felt like they approved of her as his wife, but not recognizing her own husband at the airport probably didn’t help on that front. I found out many moons later that there was an incident involving the big A prior to their marriage and this was suspected to have poured the guilt onto the fire of whirlwind to spur the union on.
After Japan came the mid west. They moved back to America and they both graduated from college. He got a job that had him traveling quite a bit and she didn’t. They had a son and my brother was born. My mother was never meant to be a stay at home mom. While not working, she organized a bowling league, a daycare “group” for the town home community, and was still not happy. She eventually got a job and work overnights as a waitress. Like most young families- her wage were spent to pay for the babysitter.
My father was still traveling for work and my mother was still finding herself, so they had already begun to grow apart. My theory is that I was born as either an oopsie, or as an attempt to save their marriage, but either way- I came along. Born by cesarean section at a local hospital on my father’s birthday I was a scrawny, blond, perky bundle of joy (don’t scoff at me, people change!). They were divorced about a year later.
Oddly, and not so oddly, the man who would become my mother’s second husband was actually at the hospital with cookies when I was born. Too bad he turned out to be a complete D-Bag.
This little tale is so pregnant (Ha HA) with other stories that it’s nearly impossible for me to start on the details without devolving into another tangent, but needless to say- they met, they fell in lust, they married, they bonded, and they grew apart. It was only 2 years ago that I actually had a moment where I broached this subject with my father in a non-serious way (it isn’t something that we talk about in his home with his wife and his son and his daughter) when my younger Half-Brother was accepted into a program where he would study in Japan for a semester. I asked my father if he could see the irony of this moment, and it took him a minute, but he did.
My father seems to have gotten it right the second time around and his children are much more successful and well adjusted than my brother and I, so I’ll put that in the win category. My mother seems to be happy at this moment. Husband number 3, though I think not so nice things about him, makes her happy and she has made her choice to stay in Europe with him. ‘Nuff said.