An Old Soul

     I don’t know how it happens, but once in a while there is a young person born with an old soul.  A person whose life experience could not possibly have imparted the wisdom and deep understanding that seems to emanate from a weary, wounded heart mystically carried from another time.  A person whose tastes and preferences are nothing short of antithetical for the present time.  I identify with those people, and for some reason, I am one of those people.  I’ve never fit in with my peers.  As a child, I was more interested in how escrow worked than I was in petty, puerile endeavors like naptime.  I completed two grades in one year so I could graduate high school at age 16, and old people were always attracted to me since I made jokes about “straighten up and fly right”.  The Yankee told me if he believed in reincarnation, he would swear I was once a sailor’s lover from World War II.  My cousin, Fran, told me I belong to another place and time.  And then there’s my friend, Georgia. 

      Georgia and her husband, Tip, are dear friends to The Yankee and me.  They are frequent guests at my dinner parties and we e-mail each other often.  Tip and The Yankee talk about their military stories while Georgia and I talk about Tip and The Yankee.  We are kindred spirits and are alike in every way. 

      Until they say the words, “our grandchildren”. 

      You see, Tip and Georgia are older than my parents.  We have so much in common and enjoy each other’s company that we tend to forget our age differences until words like “grandchildren”, “retirement”, and “40th anniversary” enter the conversation.  I suppose part of the attraction lies in the fact that Georgia is also an old soul.  We converse on a level that erases most age restrictions and our mutual love for black and white movies from Hollywood’s golden era gives us plenty to discuss.  Georgia is about as pragmatic as they come and often shocks me with her sweet, Southern candor.  I remember once mentioning our age difference and her unexpected response was, “Well, Bertha darlin’, y’all need to find you some younger friends.  Tip and I are gonna die one of these days.”  It was a morbid thought, but I couldn’t keep from laughing.  I’m an old soul and there’s nothing I can do about it.

     How are some people “old souls” while others are “young at heart”?  How is it that the young at heart are still skydiving at 90 while the old souls are feeling middle aged at 25?  It’s an odd phenomenon, but it happens often enough that the average Joe knows exactly what you mean when you say, “old soul” or “young at heart”.  I’ve always known to a degree that I was an old soul, but nothing solidified that fact more than when I started a Twitter account.  After I learned some of the basics, I started thinking of people I might like to “follow”.  And that’s when I discovered:

      Almost all of my heroes are dead.

      As I sat at my computer, fingers hovering over the keyboard, the shock of my realization hit me like a stinging slap.  Katharine Hepburn doesn’t have a Twitter account.  Cary Grant doesn’t have a Twitter account.  Neither do Bea Arthur, Phyllis A. Whitney, or Jimmy Stewart.  Oh good golly, they’re all dead!  It may sound odd that the realization had to hit me like that, but I never really thought of my heroes as no longer with us.  Their genius lives on in the brilliant works they left for us to savor, so they always feel close at hand.  As this fact started sinking in, I had to pull myself into the twenty-first century and start finding new heroes. 

      I shared my shocking discovery with Georgia.  She gasped and nodded in understanding as Tip laughed at the both of us.  “Georgia gets our granddaughter to watch those old movies with her.”  Granddaughter.  So Georgia really is older than my mother.  But, no matter.  Our souls are timeless … “timelessly old”, as Tip would say.  Regardless of our physical age difference, we have much in common.  We still laugh at the same jokes, still admire the same brilliant actors and authors, still enjoy a good dark chocolate complimented by a superb red wine.  I wouldn’t have it any other way. 

      That’s what happens with “old” friends.

© Bertha Grizzly 2011.  All Rights Reserved.  No duplication or distribution.

Rom-Com Bomb

     I recently had a day off from my day job.  One of those rare, jewel-encrusted, splendiferous days that makes living seem worth while again.  I sent Buttercup off to school, shuffled The Yankee out the door to work, and surveyed my surroundings.  My house was reasonably clean, the laundry was basically done thanks to a laundry marathon over the weekend, and there were no real errands to run.  I had the day all to myself and I was so thrilled, I did a happy dance in the kitchen.  After creating a gourmet 6-cheese and pancetta macaroni and cheese for a late breakfast/early lunch, I was off to watch some of those romantic comedies I’d been saving up for a time when I was alone.  Most rom-coms take place on Planet Earth so that assures me The Yankee will never be caught dead watching one.  I’ve seen my share, but this was going to be a marathon of all the ones my girlfriends keep telling me I just have to see.  I settle down with my killer macaroni and get on with my marathon and day of relaxation. 

      Boy, oh boy, did I learn a lot about relationships.

      First of all, rom-coms are fairy tales for adults.  The characters are the envy of the audience: their problems are light, their relatives are endearingly nutty, their friends are enduringly loyal, and their “messy hair” still manages to look sexy.  Somehow, even single secretaries make enough money to afford a swanky apartment and trips to the local pub every weekend.  The “chubby” friends are a size 10 and that annoying guy who just can’t get the hint would be the envy of most average women. 

      Secondly, I learned that there are three different types of romantic movies: the ones that have a happy, albeit predictable, ending; the ones that have a surprise twist at the end but it works out anyway; and the ones that really have no ending at all.  This last category is the one I hate the most.  I came to watch a story.  A story has a beginning, a middle, and an end.  Running out of ideas does not qualify as an ending.  Forgetting to turn in the last few pages of the script does not immediately qualify it as a “cutting-edge drama”.  You were paid to write a story and you are making me do half the work by writing my own ending?  Shoddy writing, my friend, shoddy writing. 

      Thirdly, the men in these movies are not from this planet, I am sure of it.  The instant I heard a man say, “I was insensitive to your feelings.  I didn’t consider you in my reaction.  You are the most amazing woman on earth and I don’t deserve you”, I would be looking around for a hidden camera or a space pod.  I think I would just speak quietly through my teeth and a fake smile, “Ih ve are veing vatched, just vlink your eyes a hew tines.”  (Admit it.  You said that through your teeth with a pasted-on, toothy grin.) 

      The last thing I learned is that no one, and I mean no one, ever eats.  Even in restaurants they order a bottle of champagne, barely get the glass to their lips with something “unexpected” happens and they have to leave.  I realize it is difficult to allow for chewing, swallowing, and savoring when under a movie’s strict time constraints, but come on!  Real people eat.  I know that would come as a shock to most of Hollywood, given the requisite “Three C’s” diet of coconut water, cardio, and colonics, but someone really should send these directors a picture of normal people seated around a dinner table with food they cooked for themselves. 

      I finished my movie marathon, washed the 6-cheese pancetta macaroni and cheese pan and started working on a dinner devoid of champagne, coconut water, or drama.  The Yankee would be home before too long, Buttercup bouncing at his heels, and they would be looking for food.  I set out the ingredients for mushroom smothered steak and sautéed collard greens, knowing it’s a family favorite.  I look around my house, my kitchen, my decidedly non-sexy bedroom and smile.  I guess in a way my life is a rom-com.  My hair never looks sexy when I wake up, I never have enough money for trips to the pub every weekend, I am the chubby friend.  On the other hand, my relatives are endearingly nutty, my friends are enduringly loyal, and whether or not The Yankee is from planet earth is still undecided. 

      I hear the car in the driveway as I set the table and light a few candles.  My life is a romantic comedy.  And this is one ending I don’t mind writing.

 

© Bertha Grizzly 2011.  All Rights Reserved.  No duplication or distribution.