“Delia took Gabby for the weekend. She was two at the time. It was such a nice respite, getting to go to Florida for a long weekend. Now, keep in mind, I was a single parent from day one, so I didn’t have the time to run every day back then, and I nursed for a long time, so the baby weight was slow to come off. I worked as a librarian part-time and ran the blog and took care of Gabbs ... I was strapped for time.”
“You had too much on your plate. You didn’t have time to make the blog what it needed to be.”
“I guess. Anyway, I went to Florida, and there was this chic party, poolside, put on by some appliance company. I wore a new maxi dress, trying to fit in—you probably don’t even know what that is. It doesn’t matter. I was trying to mingle and meet other bloggers. Of course, the popular crowd stood out like a big bright shiny diamond ring, and I was desperate to rub shoulders with them. I don’t know why. It’s not really like me. Who cares now?”
“I do,” I told her, squeezing her hand.
“Well, they had zero interest in me. Basically, they pretended not to see me when I introduced myself, and when I walked away, they whispered all about me. How I looked awful, fat, still carrying baby weight, no one would want to see my pictures.”
“Shit,” I say. “That’s ridiculous. Wow, women are mean.”
“How do you know?” she asks, pulling her fingers away from mine.
“I have a sister, remember?”
“Right. Well, it’s a closed subject now. I stayed for one more day and came home early, took my blog down, and got back to my life.”
“It doesn’t mean you can’t start over.”
“Eh,” was all she mumbled.
“Let’s talk about New Year’s. It’s way more interesting.”
And we did.
The whole time, I felt bittersweet. A sense of relief had settled in my bones over telling her the truth about Andrea, but how could I not feel bad her blogging dreams were quashed?
Dear Petunia Pickles,
Lordy, Lordy, look who’s FORTY! If it isn’t Pretty Petunia (aka Nicola Bella).
I’m so happy you traveled extensively in your thirty-ninth year to celebrate the momentous occasion. Utah, Mikonos, Idaho, Venice, and San Fran! And such a beautiful mix of skiing and sightseeing to usher out your last year of your thirties, if I must say so myself.
Love how your twins were outfitted inCalvin for Kidseverywhere you went, and you only stayed in the best of accommodations where the champagne flowed in equal proportions with the milk and cookies.
Forgive me, but Mr. Petunia is looking mighty dapper for a silver fox. You’re lucky he’s on board with your nonstop photo shoots and looking audacious and glamorous for the camera.
As I prepare for the New Year and make my own resolutions, I’m thankful for people like you. People who ignore political strife and natural disasters. Who think everyone lives in New York City. Who just go about their lives with rose-colored glasses firmly planted on the bridge of their nose.
(Forget the struggling single dad or the couple working two or three jobs to pay their heating bills.)
I do love your travel reports; they make me want to go to these places. They allow me to dream of another life or greater possibilities, and I suppose that’s doing me a favor, allowing me to dream.
But there’s reality, Petunia. Reality that includes a sink full of sticky dishes, a busted washer and dryer, and kids needing new shoes for function, not fashion.
Happy birthday, darling. May you find peace in the coming year.
In celebration of ringing in the New Year, I started a fund for retired school crossing guards—you know those lovely men and women who safely help our children cross the street in the rain, snow, sleet, and sun.
Follow this safe link to donate.
Happy New Year!
The UnAffectionate Blogger
New Year’s Eve. A night I’ve largely spent alone for the last seven years.
Leona came over a few years ago to watch movies and eat popcorn. Usually, I make homemade pizza with pepperoni, dance around with Gabby, and we’re both asleep by nine p.m.
