And God did declareth thus: unto thee there shall be given great pains; yea, thou shalt have the soreness of throat, as well as achiness of limbs, and thou shalt whine and call all of thine friends and family to update them on thine escalating fevers, but no one shalt care very much, as fevers are not all that interesting.
This is what happens when you complain about your poor child’s sickness—you get smitten by the Lord. I’m not all that religious, but I know a good smiting when I see it.
Today—healthy at last!—we bounded, skipping and singing and tossing Cheerios to the wind, all the way to our music class, our artsy funky look-how-New-Yorky music class that’s held in the far hipper neighborhood of Fort Greene. This was the first time I didn’t go with my friend S., as we managed to infect both S. and her daughter with our plague. So I was thinking, hey, maybe for once I’d socialize with some of the strangers in our little song-circle; maybe I’d make a new friend in some hipster-mama Fort Greener. (I think the fact that I just referred to someone from Fort Greene as a “Fort Greener” makes me so unhip that I will never be invited to any of their sex parties.) (They have sex parties, right? The hipsters? Someone’s gotta be having them.) (Not that I would go to one, even if I was invited. Hi, Dad!) But by the time I got there I was sweaty and shaky, suffering some residual badness from the death-virus that only recently finished ravaging my innards, and Henry was caterwauling because the precious Cheerios had disappeared (see above, re: Cheerios, tossing of). And all the mothers were already in their circle, all talking with each other and laughing and gesturing with their clean-shirted arms, and I realized that they all probably were disgusted by my presence, and anyway, I was not in any kind of shape to socialize. So Henry and I sat down and kept to ourselves until it was time for us to sing songs about hailing cabs and hugging homeless people. The one father who goes to the class made a late entrance and sat next to me, and although his cute, large-headed child was engaging with my equally cute and somewhat equally large-headed child, I could not for the life of me catch his eye to say something that I wanted to say, which was, “Your kid’s head is bigger than my kid’s head! What do you know!” Which would not have been a good or clever thing to say, but I really wanted to say it, because his head! Was so! Big! But this father was too handsome to talk with me, so instead he chatted with a gorgeous woman to his right. Here’s what I’m pretty sure they were saying:
Handsome father: You know, I find it a burden to be so handsome, when I am also so hip.
Gorgeous mother: I know exactly what you mean. As you may have noticed, I’m breathtaking.
GM: It’s good, though. I do like being pretty.
[They laugh and nod.]
GM: [whispering] That woman sitting next to you? With the sweaty pits and nervous laugh? She’s not that gorgeous.
HF: [shakes head sadly.] I’m afraid not.
GM: You know what we should do? Judge her.
HF: Hey, I was already judging her, when you said that! I was judging her, right then!
GM: You don’t say! Would you like to come to my sex party?