There was a lovely story in Sunday’s New York Times. I laughed out loud when I got to the part where the author wrote, “my mother used to track me down in the event of my untimely murder; lord knows she has imagined plenty of gruesome ends for me. I can’t tell you the number of times that public safety officers showed up on my doorstep in college because I hadn’t returned her calls swiftly enough.”
She could have been writing about my mother.
While she never went so far as to call the police, she did manage to convince a friend of mine to become a search party of one. She (my mother) was convinced — because I’d been working late and was alone in the office — that I’d either been attacked, killed and shoved into the coat closet or was lying helpless, bloody and injured at the bottom of the elevator shaft, the result of an accident involving snapped cables. Yes, Continue reading →
I’m not one who’s ever obsessed over age. It really has just been a number to me. Growing up and into my 20s, I spent a lot of time with my mother’s friends, who never treated me like a kid; and, as a result, I always felt like they were my friends, too.
In my youth I was attracted to older men and a lot of the guys I dated were at least 10 years older than I was. One was actually not much younger than my mother, yes, scandalous I know.