“JIIIILLLIIAAAN!” I heard as I maniacally tried to clean the house for a showing. I slowly made my way down the stairs, dreading what I’d find: my adorable mother standing helplessly in a deep puddle of vegetable oil that had slipped out of her hand while she was making grilled cheese sandwiches for the children.
Completely depleted from my night out, I wasn’t amused, but I got down on my knees to help her attack the oil spill. “The floors will be beautiful when we’re finished,” she sang out in her still very strong British accent, her glasses, sweater and hair dripping with oil. We crawled in circles giggling, our bottoms knocking against each other as we soaked up the oil with endless rolls of paper towels. It’s truly difficult to stay angry at the tree my apple fell from.
The night before, my oldest sister, Melanie, and I went to see The King’s Speech, a spectacular film presented by Aspen Film’s Academy Screenings. Melanie, one of my favorite partners in crime, was feeling quite ill, but we had a full evening ahead, and she was determined not to let a headache take her down. I insisted on taking her home so she could rest for her long trip back to Boston the next day with her children, and she finally relented.
On the way home, I stopped at the market to get her coconut water with electrolytes, but she gagged at the thought of what her granola sister had bought her. “It’s not fair,” she moaned, knocking back her migraine pills. We had so been looking forward to our night out, jumping up and down on the dance floor at Belly Up and acting like we were twenty, as we always do when we’re together. I was also hoping to introduce her to some of my eligible Aspen friends.
The second we got into the house she was herself again, the pills bandaging her pain. Her green cat eyes flashed as she announced she was fine enough to go out. “Oh no you’re not,” I said, pointing to her bed. She slumped off like a scolded child, and Baddy and I drove back up to town.
On the way, we talked about my decision not to write about how the local paper was pouring salt on my wound, once again, with new developments in the Madoff fiasco. “I refuse to fuel the tabloids with my anger and disappointment,” I told him, and he agreed, happy that as much as I write about our family life, I never reveal anything too private.
We had dinner and went to the concert, and as I stood there listening to G. Love rock it out with Aspen’s local celebrity John Oates, the tears began to flow. Even in my heightened, tequila-induced emotional state, I recognized that my pain wasn’t only about missing a night out with my sister before she left, or about my fears of what’s to come. More importantly, and more resoundingly, I felt a deep pain for the people out there who can’t escape their fears and aren’t well enough to seek help.
Just recently, I went to a friend’s holiday gathering for her two sons and all their friends. Moving together like one giant amoeba, the boys traipsed in and out of the house playing Wii and then suddenly jumping and rolling over the furniture in a massive sword fight while we talked about the holidays and life.
Sipping our margaritas, the fresh lime juice and tequila coating our brains and easing our holiday angst, she asked, “Is Wade holding up this holiday season?” as a football whizzed past my already frazzled hair. “I would tell you if I knew,” I responded. “This is that time of year when some don’t make it,” she said matter-of-factly. I finished my drink wishing I could somehow help others through my writing.
“The best we can do is try to live in the moment and appreciate everybody in our lives,” I said.
I believe that to be one of my most beautiful assets: the ability to live in the moment, never obsessing over the weight of the future. But people often put me in my place by shattering my naive point of view, pointing out that it’s easy to live in the moment when you grow up not needing to think about the future.
With our little ones clinging to our legs and our wallets depleted from holiday shopping, we clinked our glasses. “Cheers to the holidays,” we sang in unison, and slowly made our way out the door.
In this new year, my number-one resolution is to heed the words of Kahlil Gibran: “You give but little when you give of your possessions. It is when you give of yourself that you truly give.” I will try to give more of myself this year, through my writing and my actions. And for today, tonight and the next night, I will live it up. Wishing you a healthy, happy New Year’s Eve!
