“Hi, Maga, it’s Abby.”
“Hello, Abby dear. Did you do anything interesting today?”
“I voted, went to work, and now I’m at my friends’ house. Did you vote today?”
“Vote?! No! Why didn’t anyone tell me?”
“Well, it’s just primaries. Maybe your state didn’t vote today.”
“No one told me.”
“Maybe you voted early?”
“No. I’m sure I did not.”
“Oh.”
“Where do you live?”
“Massachusetts.”
“What town?”
I told her the town.
“Oh, that’s right. How could I have forgotten that? Sometimes these things slip my mind.”
“That’s okay. I’ll be here to remind you when you do.”
“Yes, you always call on Tuesdays. I’m glad you have my phone number so we can communicate frequently.”
“Me too.”
“Did you do anything interesting today?”
I went through the whole routine again, except I wisely left out the part where I asked her if she voted. This time, I ended my story by telling her about my dinner and dining companions.
“We had the biggest, cheesiest, doughiest pizza. It was perfect. And with 9.5 of us here, there aren’t many leftovers.”
She didn’t ask what I meant by half a person nor did she ask why we were all together on this Tuesday night. She did comment on one thing, though. “I like pizza,” Maga said. “I don’t have it very often. I don’t know why.”
There are a lot of things I don’t understand and thinking too hard on them can often lead down a treacherous path of anxiety, self-doubt, and confusion. Wondering why Maga doesn’t eat more pizza sounds like a much safer (and frankly, more fun) path to walk down. Join me, won’t you?
Abigail Mumford 