By Kit-Bacon Gressitt / Excuse Me, I’m Writing
We sat in my living room on a Saturday morning, our laptops and manuscripts strewn across the well-worn upholstery with its patina of cat hair — three writers, women, mothers, wives. I’m not sure what the order should be there. It probably depends on our moods, being girls and all. (I hate that stuff. I should probably stop bringing it up. It just encourages the misogynists.)
Physically, we were in similar stages of age-induced decay. We struggled against aching joints, weight gain in awkward places, frequent urination, and the pain and itching of invasive idiocy — the nation’s intoxicant of choice. We took advantage of the small but friendly audience we provided one another to rail in harmony at recent examples.
First was the sympathetic mourner who had asked if the lost loved one had been “saved.” Would the answer determine the depth of the mourner’s sympathy, we wondered, the volume of her prayers, the amount of tuna casserole she’d drop off? “What is wrong with people?” we asked, and it was not rhetorical, but we did not have an answer.
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