Being Anti-Social

by Leigh K. Cunningham

  It left me wondering the next morning, what Ben would have done if I had died first—would he have mourned me forever and regretted not forgiving me that night when he left instead. For surely when you withhold forgiveness there must be just as much remorse as there is for the guilty.

  Chapter Thirty-six

  I HAD been to a number of fittings with Lauren for my bridesmaid’s dress, but still had no idea what I would be wearing down the aisle. She was very secretive and I feared the worst—perhaps tartan or Celtic green to honor Patrick’s Irish roots, or gothic chic since Lauren does love red. She has always loved red. Her school lunchbox was red (with Yogi Bear and Boo Boo on the lid), and she always wore a pair of red Dorothy shoes, crying for days when mother finally put them in the Vinnies box. They did not stay there, and Lauren wore them until they fell apart on her feet. She even wore them with a white dress and veil at her confirmation. It was a scandal, and I was mortified that mother would allow such behavior when she had forbidden me years earlier from wearing white vinyl boots at my confirmation. In retaliation, I had removed my white veil and tied it around my waist. I did a few pirouettes to impress my fellow confirmees then promptly refitted the veil to my head at the last minute out of fear, and this is how I came to be in the group photo with disheveled hair and a veil band skewed off-center. That taught mother a lesson.

  So no one was more surprised than me come that October wedding day when Lauren unveiled the four bridal dresses she had designed and made with her own hands. They were all different, but similar, and matched our individual personalities. There was red of course, but it was shockingly tasteful in a Japanese-inspired silk fabric with a red background and beautiful white cherry blossoms. Lauren’s dress was plain, full-length, pure Dupion white silk with a wide Obi-like waistband in the red, cherry-blossom fabric. My two-piece came with a fitted, boned bodice of white Dupion silk and a simple, floor-length black skirt, which Lauren said she would trim to cocktail length afterwards so that I could wear it again, and I would, if I ever went anywhere to wear it. Jessie was also in a two-piece. Her top half was a plain white sleeveless bodice with a pencil skirt in the cherry blossom fabric. Amelie was in all white with a sleeveless bodice and full skirt with inverted pleats and a red cherry-blossom sash. I am pleased to also say that the groom and his sole accomplice were in plain black and white and absent any sign of red, cherry-blossom bow ties, handkerchiefs, cummerbunds or anything else similarly tacky. We looked stunning as a troupe, if I do say so myself.

  It was a beautiful wedding, although somewhat traditional with a church ceremony. Oscar and Violet were there (with their respective parents) and stole a lot of the limelight with their cute coded conversation and cooing. I expect Oscar was telling Violet about The Happy Prince, which I had read to him several times now. They did look adorable together and I wondered if they would remain friends forever.

  The reception was at the Willows and there was not a single flower in sight, and no red other than what was in the bridal entourage, and any guests so inclined. The reception marquee was Zen-like with black wooden chairs, white tablecloths, white candles and tall, black curly twigs in vases in the centre.

  The best man, Andrew, was an old friend of Patrick’s, and I mean old in age and duration, and still single at fifty because he had considered the priesthood for the longest while in a rather extraordinary bout of indecisiveness. He was a registered psychologist and worked as a counselor, specifically with troubled teens, which was admirable. For some strange reason, he figured that since we were both single, we should form a couple. At least he was used to sharing his wine.

  I am single again after three months with Zach for good reason, several in fact, mostly menial. First, the Spanish term had ended then, with the wedding on approach, the age difference became insurmountable for try as I might, I could not visualize the introduction of Zach to mother and Shannon. At some stage in any future, his real age would reveal itself, and while an older woman with a sense of joie de vivre would take pride in such an accomplishment, I was not one of them; Amber is—she would know how to parade Zach in a most ostentatious way to her credit.

  There was also the matter of how to spend my free time. I was into relaxation while Zach was into action, but at least I proved that I could keep a man interested albeit for just a few months, and he was only just a man.

  In the end though, it was my Ben who brought me to realize that there was no point to the relationship for although my annual melancholy on the day of his passing might seem destructive to an objective observer, it results in some clarity for me—I know what I do not want.

  I am not one for public speaking and so my wedding speech was a traumatic time for me, especially since I had to follow Andrew who had much to say about Patrick, all glowing, with mildly humorous anecdotes that were not at all crass or inappropriate, given his background I guess. I had little to say about Lauren for most of my anecdotes were personal, for our family only, and I did not want to share any of it. And I did not want to tell tales or make jokes, or be emotional about how wonderful she is, and how much I love her, because I could not do any of it without tears, and that would ruin everything, eye makeup included. I kept it simple and true: Patrick was perfect for her; they would be very happy together; Amelie and Jesse are a great addition to our family; Lauren looked beautiful; her designs were surprisingly lovely and I was proud to be wearing her brand name. That was it—a mere few minutes of shaking, sweating and trying to manage my cracking voice; so much anxiety for so little effort. Lauren smiled when I sat down, clearly appreciating the sentiment, and all that I did not say and how hard it was for me to say anything at all.

  That was the worst of the day until the cake dissection. Apparently, it is the role of bridesmaids, of any age or level of maturity (which are not necessarily the same), to wander amongst the guests disbursing mini pieces of wedding cake, delivered on silver trays or worse, in baskets like Little Red Riding Hood. This of course warrants another chapter in my ‘anti-wedding ritual’ book. Fortunately, Amelie and Jesse were more than happy with the task and I left them to it while I continued to avoid Andrew and Rufus, a younger brother of Patrick (one of six boys) who was newly single. While it did not surprise me that Patrick considered me eligible and wanted to marry me off to a friend or sibling, it was surprising that my baby sister, who knows me best, thought I might be interested in her non-gay designer friend, Tyler. Somehow (thanks to the interfering of others) I had my own conga line in progress although, from me, there was no 1-2-3 kick.

  It is an unpleasant fact that married couples cannot accept singles or leave them in peace. The happily marrieds believe singles are tragic and are therefore compelled to find them a partner, any partner it seems. The miserable marrieds believe singles should suffer as they do, and are similarly compelled to end their free reign with any other single they know, compatibility issues aside. In hindsight, I should have braved the introduction of Zach to mother and Shannon for that seemed harmless now, and less of a burden than being Mace-pleasant to Andrew, Rufus and Tyler, for the sake of the day.

  I was enjoying a quiet break away from my unsuitable suitors, relaxed at a table with Kimba, Kenneth, mother and dad, when Shannon waltzed over, literally. She helped herself to my tray of wedding cake, yet undelivered, cut into slices that would not sustain a figurine let alone a human, and certainly not Shannon who devoured six pieces before declaring, “Yummy”. This irritated me—not that she ate my cake, but that she said, “Yummy”. I would have expected tasty or delicious from a forty-three year old; ‘yummy’ is only suitable for a child of four or younger. At least she did not do a fake rub of her stomach (tummy) in a clockwise rotation, as anticipated. Worst was to come.

  Shannon took the stage for a song, Roberta Flack’s, The First Time Ever I Saw Your Face, which is a hauntingly beautiful song, but I feared I was about to be just haunted. At least it was late and wine and champagne had flowed freely all night. Unfortunately, or fortunately, I was not ab
le to focus on the song to critique it because the bridal waltz was in progress and my counterpart had sought me out like a heat-seeking missile.

  The song went on forever and I suspect Shannon repeated a couple of verses to extend my anguish, but at least we were joined on the dance floor by mother and dad (only briefly though), Jason and Stephanie, David and Gabby, Kimba and Kenneth and Toddy with Cristin (since Shannon was on stage bearing down on all of us). Mother sat down when I wanted to. In a time past, she would have been circling the floorboards with dad all night, but she was weary now and her once upright poise was curled over. Even from a distance, her physical destruction was obvious. She seemed happy though, to observe with dad from the sidelines. Dad held her hand and together they smiled and watched their children with new loves and new futures, except for me, so I felt obliged to endure the suffocating sweaty grip of Andrew for the sake of the visual picture it captured for prosperity. I should have stayed with Zach—at least being close to him on a dance floor would have been comfortable.

  There was one more ritual to go—the defacement of the bridal car. This rates quite highly on my list of foolish wedding rituals especially since we all know better, post-Live Earth, about wasting valuable resources. A time will come when one will wish they had that spare roll of toilet paper they once wasted on a car, and it served the vandals right that they fell for a new strategy of ‘wedding car decoy’. Lauren and Patrick drove away in a shiny, black chauffeured sedan that pulled up within minutes of Patrick making the call. Mother and dad drove off shortly afterwards in their foam and paper covered Honda with aluminium cans rattling behind them, and this, I must concede, was the highlight of the night.

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  IT WAS my first day back at the gym and I was rearing to go with a spring skip in my new running shoes. As usual, I began with abundant enthusiasm unrestrained by wisdom or caution even though I had been six months in hibernation and experience tells me that this approach to exercise is a mistake. But you cannot defeat enthusiasm with experience—life does not work that way.

  Rachel would be ready the following morning when I would lug my aching body around like a Sumo wrestler crying out in pain with the slightest movement. She would not have to buy my lunch though because in these months, the daylight savings months, I take a supply of low-fat goodies to work, although Rachel does have to fetch it for me from the tea room fridge.

  Unfortunately, my return to the gym was marred by an encounter with Cam the PT who felt obliged to mention the obvious—he had not seen me in a while. Then he made a point of correcting my form on the bicep curl, as if I had asked for his advice, and used this as an opportunity to propose more training sessions. “Sure,” I said. “I’ll certainly consider it.” Not in your life, I thought. Now ping off and leave me alone.

  All I needed for a complete ruin of my first night of daylight savings and gym was to see Rudy, and of course, I did. I did not want to see Rudy for several reasons: firstly, because he is a conman; secondly, because I was rather frumpish given the winter hiatus despite three months of adventure activities with Zach, which proves you cannot lose body fat with sex and outdoor pursuits. Thirdly, he would know by now, thanks to Amber, that I had failed at another relationship. And finally, simply because he is Rudy and I did not want to see him, ever. His particular cheeriness is most irritating as I know it is rooted in evil.

  “How was your sister’s wedding?” he asked.

  I stared at him confused, wondering how he could know of Lauren’s nuptials. “Oh, Amber,” I said with scorn. “It was great, thanks.”

  “Pass on my congratulations,” he replied. “I like Lauren a lot.”

  I glanced up at him from the leg press with a ‘you must be kidding’ look. I would not pass on his good wishes thereby reminding everyone of his existence and my error in judgment.

  “How is your mother?” he asked. “I was going to visit her with Amber and Jake, but then I wasn’t sure if I should or not.”

  “She’s fine,” I said. Amber introduced Jake to mother? Great, I thought. I’ll never hear the end of it.

  “Well say hello to her from me,” he said with a maddening smile, and with a hand rested on my shoulder that seemed to linger.

  “Sure,” I said. “I’ll tell her.” I pushed at the metal weight to signify the end of the conversation. It did not move, but at least Rudy did, albeit with one of those annoying smiles on a naturally smug face.

  We all gathered at home that first Saturday night of daylight savings, to celebrate Lauren and Patrick who had returned from their honeymoon. I do not recall a previous commemorative event of this nature, when I married Ben or when Shannon married Toady, when David married Gabby or when Jason married Alexis the cow. It seemed any reason justified yet another family gathering these days. If I had a man to introduce, like Zach, I could test the foundations of this new tradition, but it was much easier to assume it arose because Lauren will always be the baby and no prior convention or rules have ever applied to her. Perhaps also mother and dad needed more gatherings now since they had just parted, at last, with their youngest hatchling although Lauren had lost her soft, first plumage many, many years ago.

  It did not matter, for it was a beautiful day with clear skies and long hours of daylight. I was even looking forward to the gathering, assuming there were no songs to be belted out by Shannon or any other blots on such a blue-sky occasion.

  I had also had a great week at the office, apart from some debilitating exercise-induced soreness. Thomas had completed his anger management program and we were able to remove the lock from his door, which HR knew nothing about. Thomas had not complained about it either for he had reason to believe it was an Order from HR, because that is what I told him. It seems he has come to terms with my absence from that critical board meeting and supposed betrayal as he no longer sends me detailed emails with stories and photos of the great betrayers in world history and in movies, which I enjoyed even though that was not the point of the exercise. I learned much about Judas who betrayed Jesus, Linda Trip who betrayed her friend Monica Lewinsky and all over a little blue dress. Marcus Junius Brutus betrayed his friend Caesar, taking a leading role in the conspiracy to assassinate the Roman leader. I learned about Poland, the country betrayed by western allies who did little to prevent it from falling under communist influence and control. Then there was Anne Frank who was betrayed by someone unknown while in hiding at The Secret Annex in Amsterdam during the Second World War. She was sent to the concentration camps to die. Lando Calrissian betrayed his old friend Han Solo (Harrison Ford) in The Empire Strikes Back, handing him over to the bounty hunter, Boba Fett. Thanks to Thomas, I learned a lot about how to stick it to someone and while I enjoyed the lessons, and now miss them, I do not plan to cross Thomas again just to have them reinstated, unless it involved relocation to another office on another floor, and witness protection program.

  If I achieved nothing else the entire year, which seemed likely, I had at least succeeded in my mission to stamp out ‘at the end of the day’, which, when spoken around the office now, brings forth bouts of mirth or condemnation, and corrections when made in the written form. I am not sure how much credit I can genuinely take for this mammoth achievement, other than being the instigator, for the movement gained notoriety, and therefore momentum, when an email (from an external source) circulated throughout the company. It read:

  ‘At the end of the day’ is an overused cliché that only people with limited vocabulary and imagination use. If you mean to say, “in conclusion,” or “ultimately,” or “in summary,” then say it! Instead of six words, use one or two – that would make life more pleasant for everyone if they did not have to hear your voice for an extra two seconds, unnecessarily. If you are one of these people, the abusers who spit out “at the end of the day”, ad nauseum, then please cease and desist!

  Admittedly, yes, I did write the script, but I did not send the email as obviously that would be too obvious and career limi
ting. I am however grateful to my accomplice, the CEO’s secretary who created the fictitious email account and copied our internal email addresses into it. I was the prime suspect naturally, because the email sounded like me, and because I like email communications, but I managed to convince everyone, with little difficulty, that I was not sharp enough to think of such a ploy let alone take the time and effort to bring it into effect—I am better known as a woman of much talk and little action. I did however offer my endorsement and support for the message and its circulation, and congratulated the doer on initiative and outcome.

  After two weeks on Orpheus Island in the Great Barrier Reef, Lauren and Patrick were even more relaxed than usual, and tanned. Shannon wasted no time in asking a predictably foolish question—when should we expect babies; this of a fifty-year-old man with two children and a thirty-six-year old woman. Lauren said she had two daughters (Amelie and Jesse) and was not planning any more to which Shannon, know-it-all, replied in a juvenile way, that Lauren would change her mind because this is what happens when normal people settle into married life. Shannon shot me a sideways glance, as if this statement was supposed to affect me in some way, and so I decided to break with my resolve to forgo the merlot for pretence (mother’s benefit) and my daylight-savings-time health fanaticism, which is only temporary anyway. Lauren attempted to correct Shannon, but as always, this was a waste of time for in Shannon’s mind, a woman is nothing without children of her own, and like the marrieds, cannot bear to see one of us free, just as Oscar says, “Selfishness is not living as one wishes to live; it is asking others to live as one wishes to live.”

  Mother was looking tired but happy. Gabby and Stephanie had stepped up as apprentice hosties to Shannon allowing mother more time on the back deck with the rest of us. So much had changed. Mother had Oscar on her lap who was content to sit quietly with his new plush turtle souvenir from Patrick and Lauren. Soon enough he would be running riot in the backyard with the rest of the hooligans, but he would still be my favored nephew because he was cute and smart with a brilliant name, and my godchild.