Ushered at Orange Flower Water last night and had the "joy" of reliving the day I left house, home, husband. The play involves two couples. As the wife of one and the husband of the other make the choice to leave the lives they've created, the audience gets the bedroom view of experience -- caustic remarks, slaps to the face and ego, words and sex as weapons.
That's not entertainment but it is thought-provoking art. And provoke it did.
As my friend and I recapped the drama over a late night snack, I shared how it had reminded me of this or that reaction from my own exit. My friend saw parallels in his life. We chatted for quite a while and then we agreed that relationships are work . . . lots and lots of work, that the thrill of the initial hunt/chase/infatuation-turning-to-love was absolutely necessary in order to give the worker bees in later life something sweet to remember and want to build upon.
He was the first with the confession. "I don't know that I have the energy or the desire at my age to work that hard again. I like my life the way it is."
I concurred, "I'm at the point where I could fit someone into my schedule but I'm not willing to do all that's necessary to fit them into my life."
We liked that line.
We also liked the idea that while it's true, we still hold out hope that there is someone for each of us who will create enough chemistry that will in turn ignite the emotional energy that could lead to the "making of space."
Call us self-centered, selfish, self-something if you want. I prefer to think of us as pragmatic optimists.
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