Over the weekend, something began to stink really badly in the fridge. If you opened the door to get some milk or juice, the bad smell would linger in the kitchen for about ten minutes. Now, one could deal with the mysterious stinky smell by pulling everything out of the fridge, opening containers, and doing the sniff test until the evil object was found. I chose to deal with the mysterious stink problem by refraining from opening the fridge all together.
While that approach worked on a weekend with lots of activities, where meals were scrounged from grandparents and the mall, I will move on to the third approach. I'm just going to throw away everything in the fridge and start from scratch.
On Saturday, I couldn't deal with the mysterious stink, because one of Steve's old friends from Cleveland got married in Westchester.
Most days, my hair is large and curly. I'm in jeans with specks of white paint. I'm wearing five year old eye glasses. But I know how to clean up, Jersey-style, when necessary. So, I spent two hours straightening my hair. I strapped on some fake boobs and zipped myself into a black dress. I hobbled around the house in ridiculous shoes at 8am yelling at Jonah to get his soccer gear together and at Ian to put on long pants, not shorts. We dropped them off at my mom's and drove through the little towns along the side of the Hudson River up to the wedding.
I had a lovely time. I'm at that sweet spot in life where I'm old enough to appreciate the rituals of weddings, but young enough to not complain about the volume of the band. Steve saw some old friends. We toasted the happy couple and loaded up on champagne.
On Sunday, I couldn't deal with the mysterious stink, because after church, we went to another soccer game for Jonah. Jonah's coach didn't play him in the second half of the game. Afterwards, there were much tears in the backseat of the car. We drove a defeated 12-year old to the mall to buy a tie and a suit jacket for next week's Bar Mitzvah. We spent too much money on his outfit, because when he's feeling like that, I end up spoiling him.
Jonah's friends are starting to turn thirteen, so we have entered Bar Mitzvah season. The suits and the dresses have been sent to the dry cleaners. The fake boobs are ready. Steve and I will decide who will be the designated driver.
I'm not sure why I have become such a lover of these events. I really hate spending two hours straightening my hair. My toes still hate me from the ridiculous shoes. I suppose it's the opportunity to see old friends. Has it really been that long since we saw each other last? Your kids are NOT about to go to college? Get out! We look exactly the same, right? Haven't aged a day. It's a chance to regress and remember who we were, before we attended soccer games and church regularly. There's the sweetness of watching life unfold. Of dancing with my husband, even if he's such a white boy dancer, and realizing that we've been together for sixteen years now.
These events remind us that life isn't about the mysterious stink in the fridge. That can wait. It's about old friends linking arms for photographs, flower girls twirling their skirts on the dance floor, vivid flashbacks of our own wedding, and the passage of time.