My sleep pattern has gone awry and I find myself getting to bed about 2 a.m.. While I am fuzting away at the computer, my mind is buzzing and I remember old slights and humiliations and wish I could relive them and use my later life smarts to “show them”. There was the yuppie college guy who thought he had to say something about what I was wearing at my boss’s party. “What is that thing” he said, pointing to my felt skirt that I thought was rather smart. He thought he had to make a remark so I should feel included because they had just finished fawning over a yuppie female, tall and lovely, the star of the evening. I’d smile, lean in and whisper into his ear “Didn’t mommy tell you to shut up if you can’t be graceful?” Or, I’d revert to my street side, and say, “I’m sorry. I can’t be seen talking to someone who’s full of shit.”
My boss, a Cornell hotel school grad, often hosted events where he included senior students from his alma mater. They were rich and snobby. I didn’t have designs on any of them but they acted as if I did. We’re talking 1952. Anyway, these, and married guys, and mob wannabes, were the shabby lot I picked my way through, so I moved to New York and met Jay and from the day we met, we were never apart until he died 36 years later. It was hello, let’s get married.