Judgment

by tess

Brenda Breedlove is the only born and bred Floridian (aka cracker) that I know. She’s one of those people who has never lived more than 10 miles away from her birthplace. IF she has ever been out of state, it was probably Junior year when her high school softball team reached Regionals and they took a bus over the state line into Georgia.

Now her life is consumed with her husband’s softball and fantasy football leagues which require an inordinate amount of her time. Whatever’s left is divided among her three daughters. While not necessarily a blight on society, the vapid trio will add a certain vague “blondeness” to their junior high cheer squads prior to appearances on MTV’s 16 & Pregnant.

Brenda’s reached that point in her life when her waist-length hair reveals a depressed clinging to the rosy days of yesteryear. It languishes listlessly from the center part she’s worn for 35 years, a jagged curtain begging desperately for a good trim if not a mature style.

For reasons known only unto her, Brenda blathered endlessly to me about graduation gifts for her daughter. In Florida children who manage to scale the unfathomable hurdle of sixth grade receive graduation gifts and parties. I guess it’s a consolation prize for the few local girls who don’t get either a quinceanera blowout or bat mitzvah celebration.

Mistaking me for someone who cares, Brenda asked me what to buy the kid. The sum total of my knowledge about 12 year old girls is that they probably want boobs. Or a date with one of the Jonai, Zac, or P-Ratz. Or all of the above.

Summoning my very best Ebenezer Scrooge, I reminded her: “I don’t have any kids so I don’t really know what’s up with them.”

“But what do your friends do about the gifts?”

Incapable of admitting to a woman who has many dear, life-long friends that I have none: “None of my friends have kids.”

And it’s true. Sort of. If I had friends, they certainly wouldn’t have children. Or at least those children would be adults rather than mindless revenants stumbling around in the haze of pre-pubescence. Only my parents’ sheer grit and steely determination salvaged my own adolescence. Razor-sharp fork tines to my eyes would be preferable to experiencing those years through a mother’s suffering.

And I meant “None of my friends have kids” not only in the God-isn’t-this-freaking-conversation-over-yet kind of way, but also (I’m ashamed to admit) in an I-belong-to-a-secret-society-of-women-who-have-better-things-to-do-than-procreate kind of way.

And my own arrogance forced me to reflect.

Clearly the choices I have made are neither better nor worse than Brenda’s. She elected to marry her high school sweetheart and squeeze out a few mouth-breathers. I doubt that she ever considered leaving the neighborhood she grew up in. And there’s value in that. The kids are close to their grand-parents and they enjoy a small town everybody-knows-each-other’s-business safety. Brenda’s husband still plays poker with his high school buds and Brenda goes to “girls’ night out” with friends she’s known for 30 years. There’s a sweet simplicity to that and I’ll admit that a small part of me yearns for it.

I’ve lived for a number of years in each of 7 states. And with each move I’ve separated thoroughly from friends and foes alike. Yes, I’ve met lots of interesting people but I’ve also left them all in my dust. The result being that I have no long-term connection to anyone.

It can be liberating that acquaintances don’t know your history, can’t reference former lovers, or snicker about past mistakes. But there’s something to be said for living next door to the first girl you snuck a smoke with. Or observing the swaggering teenage sons of the first boy you loved. Or getting highlights from the girl who once helped dye your hair blue.

I have few regrets about the choices I’ve made. And, happily, I bet Brenda feels the same way. At each crossroads, we choose our own paths. That’s the easy part. The tough part is moving forward in peace without judging ourselves or our peers too harshly.