“How old are you, 28?”
I knew I liked our cleaning lady. (Yes, we have a “cleaning lady,” cleaning being one of the things that happily had to give.)
“Thirty-three,” she smiled warmly. “Jesus’s age.”
Ever since a little hispanic woman in a poncho waved me over to her when I was 21 coming out of H&M on 5th Avenue with a bag full of cheetah print tube tops and said, “you, your eyes are always smiling but your heart is always crying,” I have deemed women of hispanic descent prophetic.
I smiled back in our kitchen. A smile that said, oh. Knowing confidently that I am not the savior of the world, I am not up for being crucified this year. In response to my smile that said, I’m not sure if this point is a good thing or a bad thing, she raised her eyebrows as if to say, it’s a good thing.
Since then I’ve been singing the Patti Smith version of U2’s “Until the End of the World.”
That dangling and accusatory “you.”
“You…you were acting like it was the end of the world.”
The song is a conversation between Judas and Jesus as imagined by Bono.
(Take a minute to get over the ridiculousness of that sentence, then put it past you and just take in the lyrics and the song, it’s haunting.)
It was a rainy Friday today.
The type of day when little things felt overwhelming.
It was if the song determined my mood. I think that sometimes they do. Forget prophecies, this was the self-fulfilling prophecy. I found myself heavy, acting like it was the end of the world. You guys scrambling all over the place. You pooped again? A runny nose? Another fever? Crap, what am I going to feed you. I’m so tired. It was all too much…
I think tomorrow I’ll try to have a different song in my head. Maybe “Walking on Sunshine.” Or better yet, a poem, Jim Morrison, she dances in a ring of fire and throws of the challenge with a shrug...