More than meets the non-mourning eye
When my husband commented on how no one did much to dress up for Halloween at work yesterday, I said “Hey, I did!” I had dug into the back of my closet looking for my orange Halloween t-shirt with the black sequined bat that I wear once a year, like clockwork. He said “Yeah, but it’s just a t-shirt.”
Ah, but it wasn’t, and I explained that there was a lot of symbolism and progress in that orange t-shirt. First of all, it was evidence that I had enough desire to participate in something that I actually went looking for the shirt. That hasn’t been the case for some time. I’ve basically done what I had to do, and anything extra was right out. It showed that I actually was present in the current moment enough to know that it was Halloween instead of being totally lost in the past, and distracted by my lost future, as I have been most of the time lately. It was a return to a tradition, a smallish normalcy that any other year I would’ve engaged in without a thought. And what’s more, and probably most significant, it was completely frivolous: it was a t-shirt with a bat on it, on a holiday that is right up there with St. Patrick’s Day in terms of my emotional and sartorial involvement.
I have very little patience lately for the frivolous, the petty, which from my new point of view covers just about every damn thing. I mean, how can you compete with Death? “I have an ingrown toenail.” Oh really? Because my sweetheart died and left me a quivering wreck. “My marriage is on the rocks.” Oh really? Because my sweetheart died—at least YOU get to decide whether you get to keep your love. “I had to call in sick because I was up all night and morning with the baby.” Oh really? Did I mention my sweetheart died? You chose to have that baby; I didn’t choose to lose A. And on and on it goes. Death trumps all.
And those are relatively important things in people’s lives—even the ingrown toenail; those hurt like a bitch, and pain is always worth a little sympathy. But woe to the person who wants to whine to me about some imagined slight or another completely predictable stupidity at work. I stare at them like they are bugs and think “Seriously? Are you really taking up my time with this bullshit? MY SWEETHEART DIED… and YOU’RE still here, talking about crap that wasn’t important to me 6 months ago, but now doesn’t even earn a blip on my radar??? Go away before I hurt you.”
It’s a pretty cold perspective to take, but I would wager that every single one of us who’s lost someone has held it, and still does now and again. You don’t notice the cold yourself, as the pain gives off so much heat.
So for me to go to work in a Halloween t-shirt, hell, to WANT to go to work in a Halloween t-shirt, is huge. It means some of the old me is starting to come back, the part that delights in whimsy and enjoys traditions, even if they’re small and silly. Indeed, the small and silly ones are the best ones.
You know, everyone wants you to feel better, to make progress, and then when you do, it’s “just a t-shirt.” I have worked so hard, cried so hard, hurt so much on my way to this point, and although I am under no illusions that I don’t have more of that in store for me, I’m here. Today. I want a fucking parade.