Unmet Expectations

I had a lesson in expectations the other day.

A friend of mine, let’s call her Hildy, lost a good friend of hers recently. Hildy and I don’t live in the same town, or even the same state, and Hildy and I don’t even see each other that often, so I’m not even sure you’d call us friends as much as friends of a friend. And it was that friend who’d died.

But I really felt for Hildy. She’s older—

Which reminds me. When you get to a certain age, suddenly everyone older than you is older. Nobody is just plain old. Even if they’re 127 and counting. Have you noticed that? I thought so.

Anyway, I knew Hildy had lost a sibling this past year, and another good friend, and that her only son lives forty-five minutes away, and she wasn’t overly fond of her daughter-in-law. Not that she’d ever said a word, mind you; it was just something in the way she’d spit whenever her name came up.

So I pictured Hildy dragging herself up each morning, switching on the TV (assuming she had one), and settling on the couch (assuming she had one of those, too) where she’d doze off and on all day, forgetting to eat.

So, I determined to call Hildy twice a month. I even marked it on my calendar. I felt pretty good about myself after I did that. But, you know, every time Hildy’s name turned up, I was squeezed for time. So I’d push Hildy’s name off onto another day... then another week... and...

Drag your feet enough, and you can procrastinate something right into next year. You know what I mean? I thought so. But I can go you one better. I am entirely capable of procrastinating Hildy clear into a future when I’d look at my calendar and say, “Who the hell’s Hildy?”

I’m self-enlightened enough to know why I was doing this. I missed that friend, too, but I was handling it okay, and I knew Hildy wasn’t. I knew we’d have a weepy conversation—-well, she'd weep, and I'd bravely hold back my tears. She’d do a lot of why-me’s, and I’d do a lot of there-there’s, and eventually I’d invite her to move into my guestroom.

But last night, I had my work done, my house clean, my car washed, my clothes washed, my hair washed, my bills paid, and I remembered Hildy. And after I’d alphabetized my spice rack which didn’t take as long as I’d hoped—-I mean, thought—-I ended up with nothing I needed to do for the next hour except watch American Idol. Have you seen that? I thought so.

But, feeling saintly, I called Hildy, instead.
“How are you?” I asked with those inflections that say you really care about the answer.
“Who is this again?”
“Jerri.”
“Oh, Jerri. I’m fine. I just got—”
“Are you? Are you really fine, Hildy?”
“Yes, I'm fine. I just got back from the Shop ‘n Go.”
Good. she was eating. Feeling relieved, I settled into a more comfortable position on my couch. I was in for a dull conversation, but at least it didn’t sound like she’d need to live in my guest room.
“Clementine oranges,” I confided. “On sale for 68 cents a pound at my Shop ‘n Go.”
“Oranges? Oh. No, no. Not Shop ‘n Go... Mexico.”
I laughed, asked her to give me a moment. I turned up the volume on my cordless, put it back to my ear. “How funny. I thought you said Mexico.”
“I did. A friend of mine owns a villa in Cabo. Right on the beach. Real marble floors. Even a pool man.”
“Pool man.”
“A real hunk. Skilled.” Hildy giggled. “If you know what I mean. What have you been up to?”
I thought of my completed work, clean house, clean car, clean clothes, clean hair, paid bills, and alphabetized spice rack. “I’m sorry, I just realized the time. It’s almost nine.”
She misunderstood. “I won’t go to bed for hours yet.”
“No, it’s me. I... A favorite show of mine’s about to come on. American Idol. Ever watched it?”
“Don’t think I have.”

I thought not.