I’m in a bitchy mood.
I just saw my late friend Nan’s husband on the avenue producing the same haunted question every time I see him.
Why her and not him?
I know that’s not nice, but you do have to wonder why the angels leave and the shits remain.
Years ago, when I was a fitness trainer, I taught a lovely man I’ll call Bob Gold. I saw him once a week without fail to help him with his bad back.
Such a gentleman, tall…stately with fluffy white hair, and a wife you’d like to put through a window.
A life long smoker finally catching up with him, he got emphysema, dying in his mid 60s.
I was no longer in his life then, having no idea he had passed. But every year in May, without fail, sent him a birthday card.
One day, his wife, sauntering down the street in her ubiquitous Chanel suit and double-strand of pearls, came toward me. “Hi Mrs. Gold, how are you?” I said, in my best Connecticut voice, “and how’s Mr. Gold?”
“Dead…two years now.”
“Excuse me?” I said, more than a little floored. “But I just sent him a birthday card.”
She looked at me with such disdain without even answering, rudely walking away.
You would think she or one of her kids could have dropped me a note to say…our father died. This witch of a woman who really was so the opposite of this kind, well-mannered man, casually severed me with her oblivious chill.
Of course, it’s what I like to refer to as…help syndrome. Why would anyone bother to inform someone so menial we paid some passing service to.
This came to mind when I saw Nan’s husband on his way to the gym.
Nan was a sweet, warm human being. Her husband, on the other hand, would kill you for a parking space.
Why does God take the better halves of these lopsided relationships? I’m not exercising my lapsed Catholicism by any means, but I do pose the question.
Let’s hope wherever the good land, it’s equal to a 5-star hotel with unlimited amenities including a well-stocked mini bar, to make up for checking out early…at the very least.