Other Than That, Mrs. Lincoln, How Was the Play?

As lonely as I am, I know that there are women out there sleeping with warm bodies who are equally, if not more, lonely. Because nothing is lonlier than walking, talking human beings who are in an emotional coma (zombies have to be a metaphor for someone). The point is the idea of waiting around for a man, or a cat (although I refuse to become Creepy Cat Lady, it is tempting), or a child, to give my life meaning is starting to sound pretty lame-ass.

It’s sort of like in “Terms of Endearment” when Jack Nicholson and Shirley
MacClaine are lying in bed and he says that the greatest moment of his life
was when he landed on the moon (or something like that…he was a former astronaut), and then Shirley MacClaine says, “this is mine…this is mine…” (which is a totally different scene from the Deborah Winger, death-bed “I know you love me!” scene, but both are stuck in my psyche like some bad drug experience). Anyway, I remember watching that scene when I was a kid and thinking, “She’s gotta be kidding. That’s what I have to look forward to?!” It was kind of a bummer to think that the culminating moment of a woman’s life would be lying in bed with an alcoholic sex-addict. Even at ten I thought “Hey, lady, get your co-dependent ass in therapy!” (though I didn’t know the word “therapy” at that time). Well, now, twenty years later…just for good measure, I’ve been there/done that and it’s ok. Nothing to write on my gravestone (I imagine Shirley MacClaine’s character’s headstone would say something like, “I Slept With Him!”) I think I would rather find my own ticket to the moon. And then if I meet some guy there, then great, we’ll have the same greatest moment. And there won’t be weirdness for me or him, or any little girls looking to me as a role model.

Just for today, I’m going to the moon solo.



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