My two-cents worth and then some. An online journal by LP Brown.

Browsing Category Friends and Lovers

To Have and To Hold—or Not

by on ·Friends and Lovers, General, Humor

I have an issue with words that seem inappropriate for a situation or a person. Take the word boyfriend. I don’t think a man older than thirty should be called a “boyfriend.”

Fellows, admit it, if you’re having a mid-life crisis in your fifties, if you’re in your sixties and your gait has gone from a swagger to a shuffle, or if you’re baby-stepping at three-quarter years from a hundred, you are too old, let me restate that – too mature, to be called a boyfriend. As I see it, the word boyfriend isn’t a good fit for a grown a** man.

My male companion and I have been together for over two decades, and I refuse to refer to him as my boyfriend. It also bothers me when I hear other women refer to a grown man as a boyfriend. As I understand it, the word has been used to describe a male suitor since the 19th century, and some folks will think I’m being silly, but something about the “boy” part of that word bothers me. Maybe it is because I am always mindful of history, and the prefix in “boyfriend” was once a derogatory insult. That’s just one of my quirks.

Nevertheless, I use more appropriate words for my main squeeze. I refer to him by any number of other affectionate terms: my SO (significant other), my Boo, or my long-time companion, except when I’m angry with him, then he is a PITA. I’ll leave it to readers to decipher the acronym. Choose any four words you like, but here are clues if decoding is too stressful for you: Clue 1 – PITA isn’t any more gender-specific than SO or Boo. It could apply to a male or female. Clue 2 – I’m not talking about bread. Final clue – think, the rear-end of a donkey. If you guessed what PITA stands for, then you must have used the term. LOL

While using the word boyfriend is awkward, I have no problem referring to my female buddies as girlfriends. We frequently refer to each other as girl or girlfriend. We’ll say, “Girl, guess what I bought today” or “Girlfriend, you’ve got to see the new Ibris Elba movie. That man is finer than gourmet wine.”

Back to discussing SOs, sometimes, when asked if I plan to remarry, I firmly reply No. No. And No. (Although hardly anyone who knows me asks anymore.). Once was enough. My Boo and I will merely ride this union until the wheels fall off or until death do us part (Um, that’s kind of an oxymoron, isn’t it?).

Just as I know more people who are dead than alive, I know more previously married people than couples still living together in wedded bliss. I’m not counting pairs who are unhappily married but remain together for convenience or to adhere to biblical laws, nor am I including those doing it the second time. For some married couples, the second time around is the charm. That’s all well and good—more power to you. But a second marriage is not on my wish list, my things to do before I kick the bucket list, or in my head.

Since I’ve long passed the age of young girls with a heart-shaped-eyes fantasy of marriage, I can now clearly see that union without rose-colored glasses and have a learned insight about marriage.

Looking back, I feel that traditional marriages were ill-fated from the start. (Let me be clear before anyone gets wind in their jaws.) I’m talking about back in the day. I’m not talking about the Millennials, Zs, and subsequent generations, who may never marry for whatever reasons, or they’ll choose to have an anything-goes, let it all hang out, boogie down the aisle half-naked, write your vows, or dispense with vows altogether, and do your own thing contemporary wedding.

As I was saying, sometimes I think marriages back in the day were predestined not to last. Why? You ask. I’ll tell you what I remember. (I know that right now, someone reading this probably wants to smear a piece of wedding cake in my face, but hear me out.)

The separation begins even before the bride walks down the aisle. The ushers greet guests at the church door as they arrive, ask if they are friends of the bride or groom, and then seats them on the appropriate side. That prepares friends and relatives to choose sides before the ink is dry on the license.

And how often is it that when the priest asks, “If anyone objects to this union, speak now or forever hold your peace,” does one of the bride’s exes (or one of the groom’s) bite their tongue to keep from shouting, “Hell yeah! I do.” That unanticipated outburst preceding the “I do” from the bride and groom renders everything null and void. (Side note: Although I invited him, my ex refused to come to my wedding because he told me he’d do just that if he did. And although he was as mild-mannered as Clark Kent, I believed him. Years later, after we reunited and discussed what might have been, he reminded me that he would have stopped the ceremony. Unfortunately, he died before I met my current Boo.)

Something occured on my wedding day that some would say was a bad omen.

It was June 8, 1968. My future husband was almost late for our wedding. He had caught an early train that morning and was traveling to D.C. from his hometown in New York on the day of our nuptials. I was at my parents’ house getting dressed. Other folks there, especially my Uncle Henry, were all hustling and bustling around, getting things ready for the small reception to follow the ceremony. It was very close to the time for us to be at the church, and no one had seen or heard from my betrothed. Everyone was wondering (some out loud) if he would make it to the church on time or if he decided to be a runaway groom.

His delayed arrival coincided with a brief episode in history. My fiancé just happened to be on the same train that was arriving from New York’s Penn Station to bring the body of Senator Bobby Kennedy to D.C.’s Union Station. Sadly, the senator had been slain at the Ambassador Hotel in Los Angeles, California, three days earlier, and his body was being brought to lie in state at the U.S. Capitol. [To read about that funeral train, click here.]

Unfortunately, (Did I say, unfortunately?) I meant to say, fortunately (LOL) for my groom and me, the train and the groom arrived on time, and the wedding went on as scheduled. We divorced two babies, and a few years later.

I’ve learned many things during my journey through life. Two are essential:  the road is easier to travel if one keeps a sense of humor, and stuff happens for better or worse, depending on how you receive it.

Epilogue:  When I married, a license cost $2.00. Today it cost $45. And a divorce still costs a small fortune.

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My Circle of Friends is Shrinking

by on ·Aging, Friends and Lovers, Friendships

A friend is one who overlooks your broken fence and admires the flowers in your garden. – Anonymous

 

My circle of friends is shrinking. I know I’m not alone. The same thing is happening to other folks in my age group. Nevertheless, I miss my friends.

Despite being extremely shy and introverted when I was a child, I was fortunate enough to acquire a few lifelong friends. My bond with former playmates and teenage pals persisted throughout our school years, after graduation, in early adulthood, into middle age, and in some instances, continues in our senior years. In those early days, we played together, partied together, and occasionally some of us worshiped together at the same church. Of course, sometimes it isn’t easy to maintain a friendship without frequent contact or interaction, but true friendships stand the test of time.

As we mature and our lifestyles and priorities change, we become more selective about who we consider our friends. Two decades ago, sites like Facebook, Friendster, and Twitter, came on the scene and expanded the word’s meaning; now, nearly anyone who lands on our social media page is called a friend. Despite the superficiality, I have formed some genuine friendships on social media.

I read where researchers say that we make nearly 400 friendships in a lifetime, but only about half a dozen will last. However, another study states that if a friendship lasts longer than seven years, it will likely last a lifetime. While I still feel blessed to have some lifelong friends, I’ve lost some of them through one circumstance or another.

Sometimes when I am relaxing in my recliner, I think about some of my longtime friends.

There was that warm Saturday afternoon in the summer of ’77 when Marcie and I were sitting on my living room sofa sipping beer (yes, I dabbled a bit back then). Forty-fives were spinning on the stereo, and I was consoling my despondent friend over the pending breakup of her marriage. (My own marriage had gone kaput five years earlier.) When Melba Moore began singing her hit Lean on Me, we pumped up the volume, oblivious to the neighbors. Near the end of that song, just before Melba belts out, “I’m gonna … make it, make it, make it, make it if you lean on me,” Marcie jumps up from her seat, throws her head and arms back, and mimicking Melba hits and holds that unforgettable high note that lasts for over 20 seconds. Marcie could sing as well as any professional songstress. It has been over ten years since my contact with Marcie, but that day when she and Melba brought down my house, so to speak, remains embedded in my memory.

In recent years, I’ve become more discerning in my choice of friends. I weed out drama queens and kings, egotists, arrogant jerks, and users – folks who only get in touch when they want something. Furthermore, as for making new friends, my attitude is iffy. At this stage of my life – if I do, I do, and if I don’t, I won’t fret over it. It’s not that I am not open to making friends; I just don’t go out of my way to do it.

Everybody knows that friendships sometimes turn into loving relationships, whether or not that was the intent. That’s what happened with me and LB back in the sixties. Soon after our accidental meeting, we bonded and established our favorite hangout places and songs, including The Marvelettes’ “When You’re Young and In Love” and The Blackbyrds, “Rock Creek Park.”

Sometimes on weekends or in the evenings after work, we would enjoy long rides cruising through the streets in his Ford Mustang while listening to Smooth Jazz or The Quiet Storm on the radio. Occasionally, he would arrive at my job on a warm day during my lunch break. I’d climb on the back of his motorcycle, put on the extra helmet, and hug his waist as he zig-zagged through downtown traffic, heading to our preferred fast-food place where he would buy our favorite gyro sandwiches. Then we’d find someplace to chow down and chat. Afterward, he’d whisk me back to my job and head back to his.

Initially, we were in a monogamous relationship, and then over the years, we each drifted to someone else. Nevertheless, our friendship persisted for 32 years. Those cherished memories of our times together live in my head and heart, like one day in the early days of our union when he took me past his mom’s house. She was preparing a delicious smelling, mouthwatering meal for her and LB’s father, her husband’s dinner. The aroma nearly lifted me off my feet. Our visit was short but as we were preparing to leave, LB went into the kitchen with his mom while I waited by the front door. They came out together and she handed me a dish of paella wrapped in foil. Later that evening when I was eating it alone at home, it was so tasty I wanted to lick the bowl. Whenever she prepared paella after that, she would occasionally send me a plate by LB. “Can’t come in right now,” he’d say, “but mama sent this for you.” He would hand it to me, and off he’d go. If there is such a thing as soulmates, he and I were that.

When LB came to visit me on April 28, 2001, for about 90 minutes, we laughed, talked, and reminisced about our old times together over lemonade. Then, four days later, at 53, my BFF suddenly died. Whenever I replay that last day in my mind, I don’t think it was happenstance. Instead, I believe that it was God’s plan for us to spend that time together because unbeknown to us, when we hugged, kissed, and said goodbye as we always did when parting, it was the last time. His final haunting words to me were, “I’ll call you on Monday.”

My circle of friends took a heartbreaking hit.

 

 

 

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