I love a good story. Even more, I love re-telling the story and collecting reactions. My favorites are those that have an “OMG” or “can you believe it” factor. I prefer a happy ending but will never shy from the truth. When I hear a great story for the first time, I immediately repeat it in my head, knowing that I will share it some time, somewhere. That is how this blog came to be: telling our story which other people seemed to be interested in hearing. There are times that my (our) story is either too big, too small, too scary, too boring or too private to share. But I still love to tell a story.
Here’s one I heard just over a year ago, but love it as much now as I did the first time I heard it.
I used to work (until she left – insert sad face here) with a very cool lady whom I will call O. She is eighteen years my senior and from (what I thought was) a different world. She’d worked for many years at an ultra Waspy prep school which never saw the likes of someone like me. I knew that her children were grown, she was a grandmother and she always adorned the t-shirts we wear to work with a pretty scarf tied neatly at her throat. I curbed my sailor’s mouth around her (need not have done that, I learned) and thought she was a lovely lady who had been married for eons and been living a nice, albeit unscandalous life. Well…I was wrong. Turns out that she had not only divorced her husband of forty years but had then gone on to marry her college sweetheart. But wait…there’s more! Her former husband not only divorced her, but then he married his college sweetheart! And, just to make things more interesting, they all get along famously.
As she told me and watched, not for the first time, I am sure, my reaction of shock, she smiled and said, “Yep, you can’t make this shit up.”
Everybody has a story.
And another all time favorite:
A friend whose children were, at the time, probably somewhere around nine and eleven were all sitting in the bleachers at a Red Sox game. There was a lull in the action and the nine-year old asked a question she’d been asking for a few weeks prior: “Where do babies come from?” The mom, who had been waiting for just the right time to answer the question, decided that then was as good a time as any. Seated between her two children, the older of which already knew the answer, she proceeded to (artfully, I am sure) answer her daughter’s query. The conversation lasted a few moments and the mom dropped her shoulders, relieved that it was over. A beat later, her son, all eleven years of him, leaned across his mother, looked at his sister and said, “Now ask her what a blow job is.” Simultaneously horrified and amused, the mother shared it with me…ten years ago.
Everybody has a story.
I have been negligent in keeping y’all up with my story. I have gotten innumerable texts, emails and messages asking if I am okay or is my silence something to be concerned about. Yes, I am fine and no, my lack of writing is nothing more than that – a lack of writing. I’ve been asked how Jess is doing. She, too, is doing fine. As fine as any human being can be, that is, while in the throes of puberty, middle school, divorcing parents and navigating the transgender waters. Ours, like everyone else’s, is a story that is unfolding each day. There are days that come and go without incident. Others, not so much. There are times that I would rather tell you the story of my friend O or that of my friend and the blow job. Telling those stories (which are often more interesting than mine) is joyful and, frankly, sometimes easier. I gather them up and try to find the time to share them with you.
I hope you will allow me that indulgence…to tell a story, which might not always be my own.
Because, you know what? : Everybody has a story.
 Transgender, anyone?
*Does anyone else have the urge to continue this title with:…”of a lovely lady?”