Riding in the car Friday night and Saturday afternoon brought back all of these teenaged angst memories. We passed the Bridgewater Commons, where my ex-step-sister with one friends and I would hang out almost every other weekend. She would have to come up to my "room" -- it's in quotes because it only had half a wall and no door -- and convince me that going to the mall again would be different and fun. We went through the area of Scotch Plains where one of my first boyfriends lived. At one point we were headed up 22 toward the Somerville Circle, or what used to be the Somerville Circle -- they sort of changed it so it was more of an intersection than a circle because Jersey-ites don't know what to do with circles -- and Mom panicked that she was going the wrong way. "Mom," I said pointing to the left, "we're going the right way. Down there is where the Jon Bon-Jovi funeral home in Raritan used to be. We'll get to the circle soon." I hadn't been there since I was a young teenager; don't ask me how I remembered all that.
At one point we went past areas where "craziness" happened. From the night Uncle Joey was telling us "Pig-Woman" stories on the Duke property. His stories were so wild, that I didn't believe them at all. But my older step-sister was in tears and totally scared that Dad was going to stop the Chrysler Mini-van (white with wood panels on the sides, the granddad of minivans) and let her out. Or the time we pulled up to this T-Topped car and the guy in it had dark, almost black hair and a mustache and all of us (there were like five or six of us in the van) saying that it had to be my ex-step-mother's nephew. So we pulled up next to the car, only it wasn't her nephew, but someone who looked an awful like him. He turned and looked at us and we looked at him, shocked. My dad, thinking fast, pointed ahead at the light in front of him and asked, "Manville?" and the guy nodded at my father. My dad quick rolled up the window and we all cracked up hysterically.
We were there because mom and I were headed to my third cousin once removed's Bar-Mitzvah. I walked up to the Bar Mitzvah's boy's mom at the end and said, "There is one thing that can be said. Rosengartens know how to throw a party." It was amazing and yummy. Toward the end of the afternoon, I was sitting out on the balcony, overlooking the pool fountains, with a cup of tea resting on my knee and taking in the cool breezes without the wild pumping dance music inside.
I was wearing the dress I got for Rhiannon's wedding, years ago. I needed safety pins to hold part of it up so that I didn't flash my boobs all day. I accosted a poor Spanish speaking maid in the hotel for two sewing kits. Also that morning before the event, the elevator was out of service. I thought the grandfather of the Bar-Mitvah was going to lose it. His 92 year old mother couldn't take the stairs, so the hotel had to have men come up and carry her in her wheelchair down.
At the end of the night, when all was over, and I was sitting alone on the balcony, I got to thinking about how I feel like I'm so different from so many of the people at that party, many of whom were married with children. Many of whom work "important" jobs that reap the pay of "important" jobs. Many of whom dress in ways I would never.
Why is it that we play the comparison game wherever we go? Why is it that I so often hide the things that could get me recognition at such events. Like, "Oh, that's lovey, you work at JP Morgan and Chase in New York? You're one of the top guys there? That's great. I'm signing a book deal on Monday." But to play such trump cards and be in competition is just not my style. So I sit on my "secret" book deal and talk about how they're from Britain and how their son puts on his British accent to impress the girls, when really he has a truly thick New Jersey accent that the girl who really likes him will look past to his character.
So, at the end of the night I was sitting alone, enjoying the quiet, wondering what my life would be like if I even had someone in my life to invite as the other half of "Kimberly Beam and Guest." What would that even look like at this point? It's coming down to the idea of inviting people who are friends and only ever friends to such events, just to have someone else experience this thing I call family with me.
At one point we went past areas where "craziness" happened. From the night Uncle Joey was telling us "Pig-Woman" stories on the Duke property. His stories were so wild, that I didn't believe them at all. But my older step-sister was in tears and totally scared that Dad was going to stop the Chrysler Mini-van (white with wood panels on the sides, the granddad of minivans) and let her out. Or the time we pulled up to this T-Topped car and the guy in it had dark, almost black hair and a mustache and all of us (there were like five or six of us in the van) saying that it had to be my ex-step-mother's nephew. So we pulled up next to the car, only it wasn't her nephew, but someone who looked an awful like him. He turned and looked at us and we looked at him, shocked. My dad, thinking fast, pointed ahead at the light in front of him and asked, "Manville?" and the guy nodded at my father. My dad quick rolled up the window and we all cracked up hysterically.
We were there because mom and I were headed to my third cousin once removed's Bar-Mitzvah. I walked up to the Bar Mitzvah's boy's mom at the end and said, "There is one thing that can be said. Rosengartens know how to throw a party." It was amazing and yummy. Toward the end of the afternoon, I was sitting out on the balcony, overlooking the pool fountains, with a cup of tea resting on my knee and taking in the cool breezes without the wild pumping dance music inside.
I was wearing the dress I got for Rhiannon's wedding, years ago. I needed safety pins to hold part of it up so that I didn't flash my boobs all day. I accosted a poor Spanish speaking maid in the hotel for two sewing kits. Also that morning before the event, the elevator was out of service. I thought the grandfather of the Bar-Mitvah was going to lose it. His 92 year old mother couldn't take the stairs, so the hotel had to have men come up and carry her in her wheelchair down.
At the end of the night, when all was over, and I was sitting alone on the balcony, I got to thinking about how I feel like I'm so different from so many of the people at that party, many of whom were married with children. Many of whom work "important" jobs that reap the pay of "important" jobs. Many of whom dress in ways I would never.
Why is it that we play the comparison game wherever we go? Why is it that I so often hide the things that could get me recognition at such events. Like, "Oh, that's lovey, you work at JP Morgan and Chase in New York? You're one of the top guys there? That's great. I'm signing a book deal on Monday." But to play such trump cards and be in competition is just not my style. So I sit on my "secret" book deal and talk about how they're from Britain and how their son puts on his British accent to impress the girls, when really he has a truly thick New Jersey accent that the girl who really likes him will look past to his character.
So, at the end of the night I was sitting alone, enjoying the quiet, wondering what my life would be like if I even had someone in my life to invite as the other half of "Kimberly Beam and Guest." What would that even look like at this point? It's coming down to the idea of inviting people who are friends and only ever friends to such events, just to have someone else experience this thing I call family with me.
