(Diary of a 60-year-old Spinster)
28th February,
Tomorrow is my daughter’s wedding. At least she has had something for her life. Guess I have not been a model mother. Well, never won even a motherhood award leave alone Mother of the Day Award.
To the best of my ignorant knowledge I’ve prepared her for the evil day. She has just left for the hen party to cleanse herself of the sins of singlehood in readiness for the life imprisonment tomorrow.
My usual lullaby crooner, whiskey, is doing nothing but bring my past reeling back to me. My college days, the parties and the drinking, the guy who took the drinking and my weekends with the girls away because I was always with him drinking whatever his body secreted. The shenanigans that ended up producing Shannon and the detonation of the relationship blowing everything to smithereens, his walking out on me and severing all connection even for his daughter because I refused to abort.
Then my job as an insurance sales lady. I was a productive employee because my performance never dropped to attract the manager’s attention because I used more than what they teach at sales and marketing schools. The clients were my many boyfriends who were a constant changing face in my house confusing Shannon, a series and a progression with the younger and nicer ones coming first, and the older ones coming later when my body began to thicken and skin wrinkle. I had not wanted to be with them, most of them not my type, or as attractive. Miss Independence had made me feel sloth acquiescence: I was having this ‘I’m-a-bachelorette’ thingy and in control of my life where Shannon was my world.
I gave Shannon everything she wanted, and needed, but a father figure. I was her mom and dad, and when I grew up I quit selling policies, and my body as bonus, invested my life’s gains in real estate and built myself a cold home. Everything stopped mattering but my lovely daughter.
The landscape behind me – the past, places and people – are dead and long gone.
Shannon is getting married tomorrow. I’ve done what I could for her. She has made rules for herself, and he has agreed to abide by them. Love, such a blind thing. She thinks rules aren’t broken. Marriage is just a time bomb waiting to explode.
Sixty years and a daughter who didn’t see a role model in her mother is quite a feat. I’ve seen it all, and tomorrow shall see more – my daughter’s incarceration. I hope I shall be around for her when the mansion of her delusion would be blown apart, but I don’t wish it.
Now I think the whiskey has come around to doing what I intended it to.
Sweat dreams!
Copyright ©Vincent de Paul, 2013.
