You'll Want to Dress

Set stage:

Sunday morning, 6:30 AM.

I wake, drink coffee, and shower by 7:30 because I have promised my husband that I will drop my husband off at the golf course by 8 AM for an 8:15 tee-time, and I must drop my husband off because his truck has a trailer, and his work equipment is on that trailer, and he does not prefer to drive this trailer-married vehicle to the golf course as it may die a slow and agonizing death at any speed above 35 mph.

I am not, in the least, envious that he is playing and I am not. I have a promise to keep. “A promise made is a promise kept.” That’s what my husband says, and he got that from his mama, and she was as fine a woman as there was until cancer took her when my husband was 19, but that’s another story for another day.

In this one going on now, I have promised my 84-year-old Italian, Roman Catholic Aunt that I will play golf every-other-Sunday until I find someone, of whom we both approve, to take her to church - a church that is ten-minutes away - and that until we do indeed find someone, I will not enter nor pray in a Catholic way, but will heartily and happily deliver her only - every other Sunday as agreed.

This agreement was made by my Aunt, only after searching, observing, and somewhat-hesitantly agreeing to go to the church we identified, among others, as being acceptable, with an out-clause just in case.

I set everything up so that after I deliver her to God, I can return home, fix the dryer, vacuum my bedroom, fold the towels and return in time to redeliver her home after Mass has concluded, and look “nice” doing it.

I take all of this into consideration as I dress; I have a lovely blue and teal tie-died dress I bought at the market, I am covering it with a stylish jersey deep blue overtop, and am wearing teal and black casual sandals. I tie my hair up. I apply mascara. I wear a bra.

I look OK in my opinion as I drop Lynn at the course. People see me. They do not gasp, they wave. I feel confident in my choices.

I kiss my husband goodbye, I visit the store at his request to buy ingredients for dinner, I make sure I have mimosa-makings because I am here, I am a realist , and I understand, in a deep, soul-spiritual way, that this will be a three-mimosa day.

I return home, empty the dishwasher, waken my Aunt, trim her hair, give her a mini-facial so she feels pretty at church, send her off to dress while I smoke a cigarette on the front porch because we do not smoke in the house anymore, and she joins me. She sits on one of our comfortable porch chairs.

She sighs.

I say, “What time do you want to walk in to the front church doors.”
She says, “Well, Mass starts at 10:30, and if I’m early, I could say the Rosary, so ten o’clock.”
I say, “Check your cell-phone that you refuse to learn how to use, and tell me what time it is.”
She say, “Oh it’s ten to ten, we can’t make it.”
I say “Why?”

“Well," she says, "because you’ll want to dress.”