When I Had My First Hysterectomy...

I know I’m at the right place because the man wearing espadrilles has a 1x1 inch patch of hair on his chin and a few of the tiny women are wearing form fitting skirts and high heels that extend to a point about three inches from their toes.  At the entrance to the art exhibit, there’s an awesome picture of the front of an old fashion propeller plane that spans at least eighteen feet.  I think it would look cool in my house—that we’re selling soon—that I couldn’t ever afford. Still, it would look cool on any wall that could squeeze it in.  This reminds me of the art that I almost purchased for said home the five days before Christmas and one day before I got the breakup email.  I’m glad I don’t have to pack that monstrosity for my inevitable 1000 sq. ft peer-and-beam rental. But, I’m not talking or thinking about her tonight.  I’m with my buddy from camp and we’re both adults now, so I’m going to pretend to be one.

I’m standing behind Velma—who got her nickname at camp when we were on kitchen staff and decided to make Scooby Snacks that we would consume before, during, and after some midnight prank—when a foreign enough thought begins to surge from behind my head that I take notice.  It’s rising and curving over my brain hemispheres and then bamn!, it lands above my eyes.  It makes me want to reach out and hug Velma.  She’s not a lesbian and I’m not a switch hitter, but I’m taken by the familiarity of this old friend and the gratitude that we’ve kept the same camp spirit—a desire for fantasy and the realism of practicality.   It won’t surprise you that I only initiate hugs with friends who have multiple-decade familiarity.   Sitting here now, I realize that I have known Velma for multiple decades and therefore, it would have been perfectly fine for me to reach out, pull her in and squeeze her torso.  But the gravitational pull would have come from behind, and she might have been alarmed since we haven’t seen each other in twenty five years.  Besides all that, we were in a room full of her peers and being pretend adults.   Luckily, about that time, the art exhibit began, and they corralled ~50 people—artists— from the atrium to the main exhibit area. 

We stand there for an introduction and then they corral us back into the atrium. The first exhibit that we discussed was probably titled “Grass.”  The artist steps up to 12x12 foot plot of poured concrete that has not-especially-exotic Beaumont Bermuda growing out of it.

            “This piece represents the lot under our home…” he explains.

“I don’t get this stuff,” I think and immediately begin to channel Bill Murray who comments on the pieces that “we” can’t interpret or fully appreciate without an artists’ tutelage. 

Velma works in this field and got us past security with a wave where we luckily bumped into a free wine bar.  When the crowd moved back into the main room, I swam upstream toward the wine bar for a refill and to grab Ritz crackers off of the “food” table.  On my heels was an artist, who had a bit of a German accent—, let’s call her Greta.  We had a quick burst of exchanges about our farcical reality, and then she leaned on the “wine bar” which was on casters and slid on her butt, and then she bounced up, and we meandered back into the main exhibit where we see the crowd has moved past a total 6 exhibits and there are about 26 more to go. 

I passed a cast iron tree that was growing out of the middle of an Egyptian-like gondola.  On the wall to the right was a bustier and man’s suit that were fixed stiff with plaster and then covered in fake $100 bills. Finally, I can hear the current artist.

                “My art has always been reflective of the state [of life] I’m in.  When I went through my first menopause…”

                “My god! There’s more than one?” All of the voices unified in terror and gasped an audible gasp.

                “I began to create works of female reproductive organs,” She’s standing next to something that looks like a female and a male silhouette except that he is headless and leaning his shoulder on her shoulder.  “I began to cast ovaries and the Fallopian tube systems.”

I look up and all of the men are staring at their feet.  Velma has moved to the last “room” of the exhibit and is signaling that I meet her near the exit.  I was game to stay, but the Ritz crackers weren’t soaking up the wine. Besides, I wanted to hang with Velma and talk about stupid stuff we did as camp staff.

               

It’s been a long road back to Texas.  I left with Ex#2 a decade ago.  Now, when I get to hug old friends there are parts of my brain that perk up light Christmas lights.  While I was standing behind Velma and feeling the surge to hug her, I realized that I don’t ever think that kind of thought anymore.  Maybe it’s because I have too many ‘-ishes’ along my double helixes: English, Danish, Finnish, etc.  I try to think about the last time I wanted to hug someone and can’t—oh yeah, it was Dim Sum during our California trip.  But, as an adult who’s safely buffered in routines and who’s experienced 8 out-of-town/out-of-state moves during the past decade, I never seem to have that rising surge from the back of the brain. 

Love Heroine is a hugger and so is Dim Sum’s husband.  MacTiger would let me hug him. They’re good huggers but they’re males and that’s not going to give me enough hugging to get me through the rest of my years.  I’ve got to figure out how to become a hugger.  This could be a first step, demonstrating a new initiative that will lead to a different type of love.  I’m good with that plan.  Ex#2 and I hugged a lot.  I remember how it felt natural and good, but I don’t think her new girl would like for me to fly to ATL for a refresher on hugging principles. 

It seems like I need to change the entrance fee.  Multiple decades is way too high a price.  I need to lower it lower than I’ve-known-you-for-a-decade-so-I-can-hug-you rate.  I need to be brave and hug someone who I haven’t seen in a decade, and hug someone who I’ve always wanted to hug, and hug someone who helps others, and hug someone who is standing alone, and hug someone who is standing on grass or near grass that’s planted in poured concrete and growing in an art museum, and hug anyone who is breathing.  I will practice that at Austin Pride today, “).