Awkward

Bossman told me to shut the door to his office and have a seat. "The good news is...this is about the time every year when we hand out bonuses."

He handed me an envelope with a post-it note on the front indicating a monetary number that I assumed to be the amount of the check enclosed. The number was so much higher than I expected, so much higher than I deserved after my less-than-stellar review. I could buy roughly 400 pedicures with that number, the thought occurred to me.

"So what is the bad news?" I asked.

"Oh, no, sorry, that's all the news there is," he said.

Because I am more awkward than the entire cast of "The Office" - both the British and the American versions combined - I started to blush. And because my instincts when I blush are to divert! Divert attention from self immediately! I said to Bossman as he pushed the envelope across his desk to me, "Ah, okay, so I have a logistical question...."

"A logistical question? Okay," said Bossman.

"Um, do you know how to make a legend in Excel?"

I am so awkward. I should really go try to meet a troll under a bridge and see if he's up for early retirement.

Hahvid Squayah

Harvard Square is the quintessence of the holidays in Metro Boston. Across the river, the Frog Pond-turned-ice skating rink is a good time. Also, Faneuil Hall was where I spent a couple of fond holidays tucking the unwieldy mannequins of ATay into cashmere sweaters in the space of a window shaft as wide as your box of Chex Party Mix. But Harvard Square is where I want to be when tossing up tinsel. Every major intersection is lit with ramparts of pretty light designs that kind of look like Matisse ballerinas, but with scarves. I don't know what a rampart is, nor do I know if scarf, plural is really spelled that way. What I do know is that the Harvard Square Holiday Decorations committee does it right. The storefronts are all bright windows of tea sets and Cross Pens and bath bombs, arranged elegantly, like I imagine Piccadilly Square to look at this time of year. That's it. Harvard Square is everything that the U.S. has on consumerism and everything that Europe has on simple charms. I love it! I love it I love it I never ever ever want to move from it.

***

On my way to class at Harvard Square last evening, I was mid-way through the crosswalk on foot and I saw SUV Cell Phone Guy not paying attention to where he was turning. Because the only thing worse than SUV Guy is SUV Guy Dialing While Driving, I raised my arm in indignation as he attempted to barrel through the crosswalk that I was clearly traversing. Only problem was, as I raised my arm, I realized that I did not have my fingers all the way inserted into the glove, so my raised arm looked more like I was playing puppeteer, and the puppet was Foghorn Leghorn. He probably thought that was my lame attempt to give him the bird. He honked. I darted across the street and didn't look back, even though I was thinking IT'S CALLED I'M EIGHT MONTHS PREGNANT AND I HAVE THE RIGHT OF WAY, FOGHORN!! He honked again. I hope he enjoyed that manly feel he got at honking at an eight month pregnant woman waddling through the crosswalk. I hope the person on the other end of his cellphone call applauded him for honking at a pedestrian with a bowling ball belly and the right of way.

I love Harvard Square during the holidays.

***

I was eating dinner before class at Harvard Square last night. A group of graddy types were all angling for the table I was just getting up from and Short Asian Chick looks at me squinty-eyed. She comes over, "Hey, we met at Brian and Stephen's this weekend!" She extends her hand, "I'm Melissa." I have no idea who this person is, but I am trying to remember the weekend and if it involved anything at a Brian or a Stephen's house. The group of graddies is watching this awkward exchange go down. I shake my head, smiling, "I'm sorry, I don't think so...but nice to meet you Melissa." I love Harvard Square during the holidays.

Scanning the Horizon

I don't think much about the aged, my fears about growing old, or the possibility of my own mother becoming a dazed, afghan-swaddled elder in an assisted living facility. I know these thoughts preoccupy some, but I either don't allow myself to obsess about the long-term or I am frightfully optimistic about the health my family and I will enjoy as we grow old.

I haven't spoken to my Nana in two years. The last phone conversation, she confessed that she cried the whole day when she did not feel well enough to come to our wedding. I was not bitter, I expected that she would not feel well enough. She was eighty-nine years-old at the time. It was a tall order.

I typically imagine that I will leave this life before John. I imagine my death will be swift, freakishly swift. I imagine that I may even see my quickly waning life flash before me and think, "But I just bought new moisturizer! On sale! Wait! I can't die yet!"

My sister and brother have spoken to my Nana often over the past two years. My brother visits her and even looks forward to the prospect that she will come to live at the nursing home where he works. My sister has had long visits with Nana, and can quote back to you all of the hilarious sound-bytes she downloads from their chats.

Last night, John was tucking me in (he has a cold and is sleeping downstairs) and a sudden rush of fear washed over me. What if this is the last time he tucks me in like this? What if one day, I go all "The Notebook" on him and he is resigned to tucking in his bride who thinks he is a nice male nurse? Every night that he gets paged to the hospital, I say a prayer that no tragedy will befall him on his midnight drive there and early morning drive home.

My Nana does not know her sons. My uncle Bob, her first son, visited her recently, and she told him, "I haven't seen you since I moved to Cleveland!" I don't know how she intuits to turn on a light when it is dark in her apartment, and that in order to do so, she must first flick the switch. If she doesn't know her own sons, how does she know what a light switch is?

I spend a lot of my time letting John know that I can do it myself. I am a broken record of, "Ehhh, I don't need HELP." Someday, I may miss him. Someday, I may long to pull close to me the arms that I pushed away. Someday, I may not be able to help myself. Someday, I may not know what a light switch is.