“I wasn’t going to say anything, but…”

I rolled out of bed at my parents’ house yesterday morning, stood up, and promptly heard *snap*. I squinted down in dismay at the (blurry) sight of my glasses beneath my freshly tattooed right foot, in two pieces with the break right across the nosepiece. As any glasses wearing person knows, this is really an irreparable break – my dad the engineer once explained it had something to do with torsion vs. tension, and this is why it can’t be fixed with superglue…whatever, all I know is, I have a gorgeous rose on my foot and I CAN’T SEE IT…not to mention there was the little issue of not being able to drive home without them! Fortunately however, I was in the big city, and so I was able to get an optometrist appointment within the hour, and glasses shortly thereafter. Had I been at home in Small College Town, I would’ve been screwed, with no eye doctor appointments on the weekends, no “glasses in one hour” places, and no way to drive to a bigger city that has these things!

(I had to borrow the money for the specs from my mom, since I had spent all mine on this lovely rose on my foot, but I will pay her back next week – yes, I am a LOSER.)

I think I tried on every pair of plastic frames in the store, with the saleslady standing behind me oohing and aahing every time I tried on a pair that was marked $119.99 and displaying decidedly less enthusiasm as I tried on the ones marked $69.99. Eventually, I settled on some in the middle of the price road, and was able to get a free pair of prescription sunglasses, too. I was talking with her, and I told her I was glad I hadn’t chosen the last pair I tried on, though I had been considering them – they were dark purple with turquoise highlights and little rhinestones, and she had been pushing them as young! and FRESH! but all I kept thinking was that they were the kind of glasses I will be able to get away with when I am 80, but not now. She then told me that she was glad I hadn’t picked them, too, that she hadn’t wanted to say anything, but the ones I ended up with were far more flattering. I looked at her strangely, wondering why she was selling them so hard only to tell me that “she hadn’t wanted to say anything.”

As I walked around the mall, waiting for my glasses to be ready, I mused on the tattoo experience of the night before. My sister and I went to hang out with my best friend. It was my 5th wedding anniversary, and I had been a mess all day. I would be saying something, and tears would just spontaneously well up. My mom took The Princess, my sister, and me out to dinner, and I spent the whole meal staring into space. Even after my mom took The Princess home and my sister and I headed to my friend’s, they talked and caught up on their lives since they had been in my wedding 5 years ago, while I nursed a beer and was silent for the most part. I had been talking about a tattoo, but I think they were both mildly shocked when I stood up and said, “okay, lets go.” I had the drawing of the rose (it’s the logo from Depeche Mode’s 1990 album Violator), and I knew it was going somewhere on my right foot or leg. I envisioned it rather large, actually with the flower near my toes and the stem winding it’s way up my ankle, and my friend said, “all right then, whatever you want!” When the artist looked at the drawing, he shrunk it down and placed it middle and center on my foot, and it was just perfect. While I did a happy dance afterward and said that it looked SO MUCH BETTER than I had imagined, my friend said, “Yeah, I didn’t want to say anything when you showed me how big you wanted it, but this is much better!”

My final weekend experience with the ubiquitous “I wasn’t going to say anything, but…” was when I mentioned to my mom that I have just about made up my mind to go ahead and file for the divorce using an attorney, so that if it becomes ugly, it will be on my terms. I am considering this because, it has recently become clear to me that, with the extent of The Princess’s legal problems, my ex could conceivably say that he doesn’t want his son living in the same house with her, which would really throw a monkey wrench in my plans to move in with them. This hasn’t happened yet, but it COULD. And my mom said, “Yeah, your father and I were talking about that…we didn’t want to say anything to you, but you need face the reality that if he (the ex) wants to raise a big enough stink, it could cause you problems.”

What the hell???! Why is everyone so afraid to tell me what they think I should do? Is this a reaction to ME, or a bigger societal problem akin to not wanting to tell someone how to discipline their children or run things in their home?

Ok people, this is an open invitation: obviously, I have proven myself to be incapable of making wise decisions. Obviously, I DO need to be told what to do. Yes, I am well aware that sharing your wisdom with me used to make me fly off the handle, but I am here to tell you, that is NO LONGER the case. If you think you know better than me about a given situation, please tell me. I promise to listen. Really! I still can’t promise I will do what you think is the right thing, but I WILL listen.

“Mother, can’t you see I’ve got to live my life the way I feel is right for me…might not be right for you, but it’s right for me…”    -Sarah McLachlan