What a great Sunday. Full of a few of my favorite things: I slept in for quite some time and woke up to a few of the best movies I love - The Philadelphia Story followed by Guess Who's Coming To Dinner? Just marvelous. My mom and I sat watching a handful of our favorite actors, Cary Grant, Katharine Hepburn, Jimmy Stewart, Spencer Tracy and Sidney Poitier. Cary Grant is just a dream, and Isabel Sanford (a.k.a. Wheezy from The Jeffersons) makes my day in Guess as Tillie, just slaying me with her witticisms and constant attitude. That movie is right up there, for me, with To Kill a Mockingbird, Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory and The Color Purple as one of the ones that no matter what, I will watch it whenever I catch it. Both The Philadelphia Story and Guess are just beautifully, wonderfully played; the dialogue in each is seamless strolling, and in some cases, skipping along imploring you to listen. It's not so much that I become enchanted as it is I'm just mesmerized by the subtle postures and lilts in conversations, the pauses - such as when in Guess, Mr. and Mrs. Prentice first see Joanna in the airport and realize their son's fiancee is lily white.
Actors don't seem to fill scenes in movies so easily these days. Simple things, like Matt and Christina (Spencer and Kate) moving about their homes. In movies there are marks to hit, and many times I watch movies thinking, oh, they must've put an "x" right there because so-and-so just got there and stopped like she was supposed to, but Katharine Hepburn makes it look so fantastically easy, pausing quite naturally to tie her shoe as her husband beckons her to hurry, or when she comes home, worried and stressed, and takes off her coat and scarf pausing to view the sunset and wonder about her family's future.
It was just a really fun afternoon filled with my mom and me. Just like old times, we'd settled into our spots on separate sofas, one of us headed into the kitchen to make a sandwich, provoking the other to gawk at the tasty morsel before going to make a sandwich of our own.
Then came the Super Bowl. Just in time we turned from Father of the Bride (the original with Spencer Tracy, also fantastic) to see Aretha and Aaron Neville sing the national anthem. I tell you every time I see Mr. Neville, I do the same thing: First I wonder if that mole has gotten any bigger, then I don't understand how in the world he sings with that falsetto, must be some tight pants, then I check for any sort of mesh shirting and lastly, I always express genuine surprise at the cross tattoo on his face, asking anyone who's around, "Is that a cross? Did he just get that? I've always noticed the mole, but that cross is new I think."
It was an okay version. No pre-cracked out Whitney, that's for sure. That still remains the most resounding sangin' of the national anthem ever, in my opinion, followed very closely by Mr. Marvin Gaye at the '83 NBA All-Star Game -- who else but Marvin Gaye could entice folk to make out during a national anthem? He laid down an easy, sensual beat and played that mess just too cool.
Then I watched the game, off and on, while my mom flipped channels to watch as much Paula Deen as possible. She decides the Seahawks are underdogs and so she roots for them the majority of the game, snickering whenever I slapped my leg in frustration at the Steelers' sputtering first-half offense. She puts up two triumphant arms when they scored that field goal, and thereafter made it a point to switch channels as much as possible once the Steelers scored and I told her to just go ahead and realize that it was over.
She is a good sport. Not a terrific fan of any sport, she's always indulged me whenever I wanted to watch. Every June, she'd sit with me as I watched Wimbledon. We both love the prestige of that event, and are both Anglophiles. She got up all early to watch Charles and Di marry, and together we watched Di's funeral from the wee hours, mourning like we were there on some sidewalk. Anyway, we watched football. She wanted to know why that one boy had his hair all out lookin' wild, and I told her that Troy Palomalu is wild on that field and told her to prepare to see that hair flying everywhere. Then she decided that Seattle should win because they all looked cleaner.
Classic. My mom always goes for people who look clean. She wasn't too keen on Big Ben's facial spread, although the Bus got favorable reviews for keeping his nice and trim. The Seahawks still looked "nicer."
Then came the Stones. Neither of us was convinced by that performance that we'd ever pay $300 to see them live, we just couldn't figure out what all the excitement was about. We kept wondering what the appeal was in just watching like 3 guys just sort of wandering around the stage, and chalked it all up to the allure of wondering if they were drunk or high or both. Kinda like, you wanted to know what Dean Martin had in that glass - was it really apple juice? Was he really acting drunk?
He might've been, but that Keith Richards has been high for at least 40 years straight and he looks it, my mom thought out loud. And who was that black guy up there, actin' like he was too cool? My mom goes, I know he ain't in the group. He looks sober. I just wanted to hand Mick part of my sandwich. He is so skinny, skippin' like a tease around the stage. I kept trying to imagine how skinny he is, and finally my mom was like, the only way we'd have a really good idea is if you put him next to Aretha. We laughed heartily at that.
I watched them and wondered still what it'd be like to see them live, and then I tried to imagine what it must feel like to be doing the same thing 40 years later. They say being a rock star's the best gig ever, and I believed it as I watched Mick skip around those lips with the same energy his youngest son probably has.
You know what's coming ... as I wondered what it felt like to be doing what you love, getting paid for it and being able to look back over 40 years and not regret that you'd done it, I naturally looked at myself and asked, what must I do right now to insure that 40 years from now I can be somewhere skipping. Of course, the way my bones are creakin' now, I doubt I'll actually be skipping physically, but I'd settle for some stones hopping their way across a nice pond ...
The second half started and I found myself just in the game, excited about that drive and when fast Willie Parker stretched out for that 75-yd. touchdown I wondered what the players felt like. Then I figured that I was doing too much wondering, but I thought about how exciting that must be anyway - to be at the pinnacle of your sport and to be going for it.
What am I going for? Sleeping past 8 a.m. Whoop.
As the Steelers pulled out a victory, I began chatting with Lisa and found myself on some rant about wanting to see Europe, really, really bad. I don't know how many people I've told that I'm going, but I do know that nearly 10 years later, I still haven't made it and that is depressing. While talking, it just dawned on me that I had already become one of those people, no different than the poor soul you wondered about that got knocked up shortly after high school ... she's sittin' on her couch somewhere now, too, wondering what the hell happened and how 10 years zipped by so quickly.
I was just watching Grey's Anatomy and Izzie and George were sitting on the floor of the hospital sulking about how they're not doers; they were watchers. Nice timing. I just spent a whole day watching and wondering, and it was a good day so I'm not asking for a redo, but I'm no doer, either; at least not at this particular moment in time.
I do know that at some point today my mom looked at me like I had lost my mind when I yelled out loud - really loud - when Randle El tossed that purty pass to Hines Ward. Touchdown baby. My mom was like, you look like you need to be somewhere with a beer. We laughed at that, and I told her that that'd be the case soon enough, and I thanked her in advance for the endorsement.
I got an e-mail from an old co-worker who asked if I was still in PR once she realized I was no longer in NYC. This combined with today's good day of watchin' reminded me that I'd managed to become one of those people who'd gotten swept away by things happening to them ... so much so that they'd forgotten about their intentions and dreams of making things happen. It's then I recalled my plan (I used to always have me a plan of some sort) - major in PR and then go into the sports industry, thereby combining natural inclinations with solid skills. I don't know where or when I decided I'd not stick to that plan, but I realized tonight that'd been flat out abandoned, and then I remembered my rationale that any experience is better than none and I felt a bit better, but still, I'd lost sight of the plan. Bad Danita.
This hiatus has been a blessing. Of course, it's had its curses, but what I view as curses - loss of fledgling social life, cracked career path - are my purely selfish views, and I've always been a bit selfish, particularly whenever my mom was involved, always believing that as her youngest, and because she always told me so, that I was entitled. I know better now.
Still, I have to start somewhere, where the dreams etch themselves into reality. I made Lisa a mini-promise that by 30, which unfortunately, is not that far away anymore, we'd have returned to England and will have added Ireland to the plot, too. She agreed that financing has to become a priority. The danger in us agreeing on that point is that I think we're both those sorts of people who, while swearing we'd not become the sort of people who'd turn into their parents for whatever (valid) reasons we'd never want to be them, are right, smack on the fine line that separates us from them.
We are both creatures of habit, so it's quite easy for us to become glued to the routine of work, paydays, living for the weekend and catching up eventually. We are creatures of comfort and instant gratification. Why save that money when it'd be much nicer to settle on a 6-pack, a couple of good DVDs/CDs and just chill out in my room? Europe has all that history that'll keep on waiting for me to explore it, so one day will be the day when I get there ...
Midway through our conversation, I remarked that "When I think about how fast these 10 years went by, I can only imagine being 36 and saying the same shit? Cannot be the case." To this, Lisa inserted a "woh" and a "no m'am."
Seriously. But what I saw and felt today in all my watching is that it could and very well will be the case unless I just up and change it. How? Watching is fine and lovely, but I will never be satisfied with myself because I will always hate myself for not doing the things I want to do, and in this life, I don't think I'll ever be able to live with that, so I won't.
I think I'm finally getting to the point where, once again, the fear of one day waking up to myself and hating me is starting to outweigh all my present excuses for not doing the things that I should - saving more money, even if it's just to buy the things that I really, really want (i.e., travel expenses), exercising consistently, seeing about the people that I actually care about.
So, Lisa, by the time I turn 30 you best be ready to fly, because I'm going to go with (prefarably) or without you. There are ales and lagers you've got to become addicted to, despite your apprehensions about tasting such things.
I've also realized that I need goals and boundaries, people. So Taylor, if you say we're going wherever it is that we're going, ballpark me some figures and a timeframe - you're an engineer and good with numbers and planning and such - and I need your help to get me off my duff. Intimidate me or something ;) This type thing I need help with, because let's face it, I've owned up to the fact that I'm too close to becoming the engine that never could, and I really, really don't want to be that person who in some way or another was not the person they could've been ... there's promise in could I think. (Should implies I just went wrong and would makes me think I was afraid of something ...)
Anyway, enough of that for tonight. Just my mind still wondering, but also turning to get back to me, back to the dreams and back to life ...
Of course, now it's well after midnight, and my alarm is set for 6:45 a.m. because there are therapy sessions to attend and other appointments to make, so I'll dream away in my dreams and tomorrow will wake to go back to reality ...