I keep longing for normal, like I’m saving up rewards points. Dave says, “Why waste time on normal, what I want is extraordinary.”
He’s probably right, but the normal I long for will feel extraordinary. I know it. I can’t articulate the feeling, but I know it will be tangible and complete.
Maybe it’s what my mom meant when she’d say, “I got nothing to do today, and that’s exactly how I like it.” I used to get angry at her, willfully wasting her life. But maybe she was just looking for normal. Maybe she thought if she got all the actual living stuff out of the way, normal would seep in, like fog across a bridge.
In my mind, here’s what a normal weekend looks like: Friday night is a movie at the neighborhood cinema. Perhaps a bite afterward. Saturday is errands and small home repairs – cute ones, perhaps requiring dungarees or a bandanna. Then it’s a leisurely dinner with friends. Sunday is a walk to the park, reading on the couch, and cooking a big pot of soup for the week. Don’t tell me how Saturdays are the worst traffic days to run errands, and all the pit bulls are loose on Sundays. This is my ideal. Week after week, when I’m in the middle of doing something I absolutely did not plan for, I think, okay, scrap this. Next time will be normal. Must purchase dungarees.
This weekend was going to be It. Our huge freelance project just wrapped, so we didn’t need to work through Saturday to catch up. No house emergencies, no big plans. We were set. Friday I figured we’d either see “The Descendents” or “The Artist” at the Davis. I warned Dave to be ready. But first I had to go to the hospital because the Katharine Hepburn of Horner Park is ill. So I went there and had my heart broken by the new set of indignities life is hoisting on this most fragile of survivors. Then I stopped at Harvestime for groceries—the clock was ticking but the store was right on the way.
I got home just in time to meet Louella and give her a quick lesson on how to work the Roku and not lock herself out. She’d come to town on Thursday with her ailing dog Lancelot. The downstate vet said this handsome and debonair creature could go at any minute, he has unspecified heart problems and probable cancer in addition to the stomach ailment that had brought him in. “Be prepared, he doesn’t have much time.” Another friend had invited her to come and stay so Lancelot could say goodbye to all his Chicago friends and so they didn’t have to deal with all the stairs at Lancelot’s castle.
But when I stopped there on Thursday Louella was panicking because Lancelot had peed on the rug and her host was upset. She was steam-cleaning an already clean spot for the fifth time, like Mrs. Macbeth, while Lancelot lay very quiet, with that absent look dogs have when they’re close to the end or just temporarily sick. You never know. When I got home Dave said, “They should come here.” We already had Miss Hepburn’s dog Zoe, but she’s not the bullying type, and Django loves Lancelot, so here they were, setting up on a big waterproof sheet covered by blankets and pillows. Lancelot was looking a little better, and Zoe and Django were gentle with him.
We didn’t get to the Davis in time for the early movie, so we had dinner instead, and gelato at Paciugo. Saturday we ran errands, taking Zoe to the groomer, returning a Christmas present, and letting a Vitamix rep at Merz tell us why we might need a five hundred-dollar blender. We don’t, but I got a free mini-smoothie. Dinner was appropriately leisurely with Xeena and Buck at Fin. Then we all headed back and had drinks with Louella and Lancelot, who was now walking a bit, wagging his tail, and eating small morsels.
After Xeena and Buck went home, I did what I always do at the end of the night: gathered up any random cups and glasses to load in the dishwasher before Dave ran it. I pointed to a small blue glass on the coffee table and asked Louella, “Is that yours?”
“Oh yes,” she quickly grabbed it, “I was just going to put it in the dishwasher like you said.”
“No, no, I didn’t know if you were still using it, or if it was Buck’s…” Too late, she’d already rushed it to the kitchen. I suddenly felt like some maniacal hausfrau who must have everything perfect at all times. I tried to mitigate. “Did you want a new glass?” I offered.
“No thanks, I’m good.”
“That glass is so small for water,” I said lamely. I whispered to Dave, “Do you think she thought I was trying to take her glass away?”
He shrugged, like “Why worry about it?”
“I don’t want her to think…” that I’m abnormal. But I am. Because I have this picture of normal, and it includes everything being back in place at the end of the day, as if the humans were never here. Normal means absent, I realize. Fitting so well into the groove that you can’t be seen or heard. Longing for normal is like starving myself to fit into a fabulous dress I have no occasion to wear. I still long for it, but I’m trying to recover.
16 thoughts on “Longing for normal”
You may not be normal. But you are brilliant. And in my book, that IS extraordinary. xoxo
This is lovely, MT.
Thank you, Aaron!
What is normal anymore? Things in our lives change so dramatically that normal at 20 isn’t normal at 30 and don’t get me started on the normality at age 40…or my now 45. I am trying to think of a normal weekend of mine when I was 22. It always involved friends. I guess I still have that…Thank God! And thanks MT for letting me think of that. I loved this piece.
So true, Johnnie. Thanks for reading.
I think your “idea” of normal, and what normal is for you are different. You and Dave are two very generous and kind hearted people who are there for the people (and pups) in their lives. This is your normal – giving of yourselves the way that you do. As for having things back in their place at the end of the day – no dishes in the sink – good enough.
I think if you actually achieved your goal of normalcy, you’d be bored. Normalcy is stagnation if you ask me. I strive to be abnormal.
Actually, on second thought, I actually find myself craving normalcy too. I guess I don’t completely buy my own philosophy.
Right on Chuck!
That makes me feel better. Though I still don’t understand the longing. I know it’s stupid, and yet I keep doing it.
It’s strange, but something about the way our culture works seems to instill this desire to always have something more, or something that we don’t have. The really interesting part is, many times the things we’ve wanted for so long don’t really turn out to be what we thought they’d be once we finally have them. No amount of rationalizing this seems to stem the desire either.
So true. Maybe we just need fewer words. So we have less to desire.
As we share the same demographic, including the canine connection, I’d say that other then the $500 blender and trips to visit ailing motion picture stars the whole weekend sounds very normal to me.
I’m happy to learn you’re a dog person. But now I need a picture.
Sent you one via FB.