I discovered on Thanksgiving Day that my 74-year-old Aunt Victoria was going to get married this past weekend. She was marrying a man 15 years younger than she is. A man who she first married 34 years ago.
No, they had not divorced and now were remarrying. That would be way too typical for my family. Victoria’s first husband, and father to my 4 cousins, died this past year, and to paraphrase Victoria “Now that the bastard is dead I don’t need to spend money on an annulment. I just have to produce the death certificate and the Church will conduct our ceremony.” She said this line repeatedly to her own children and grandchildren, aka the still grieving children and grandchildren of the bastard ex-husband. She introduced the idea a mere two weeks before the blessed event to her 50 year old daughter by saying “Now that your dad is dead, you don’t have to be a bastard anymore.”
Take Me to the Church…34 years later.
Unbeknownst to me, Victoria, who accrues sin like Adele produces chart topping songs, was feeling that her civil ceremony in 1981 just did not pave her way to St. Peter the way that an event blessed by the Catholic church would. Admittedly, if anyone could use a little absolution it is Victoria who once “borrowed” her son’s paper route money to play bingo and funneled years of child support payments into a variety of gambling endeavors.
Victoria must have Yelped “Catholic Churches” in order to find reviews for priests who do not care that she has not seen the inside of a church since the Nixon administration. While throwing down her 4th Chardonnay and puffing on her 855th cigarette of the day, Victoria also tried to convince my youngest sister that she should get baptized at the wedding in order to save her soul. Perhaps she thought the priest would throw in a free Christening as a bonus? In any case, when my sister declined the offer, Victoria told her that she was welcome to go into the arms of the devil.
I was spared any major attempted spiritual overhaul at Thanksgiving even though I have not seen the inside of a church other than weddings, funerals, and to suck up to a girlfriend’s family here and there in 40 years. Perhaps I eluded Victoria’s righteous laser eyes because baby Momus gave himself over to the head rinse way back when.
The only major exchange I had with Aunt Victoria on Thanksgiving was when she looked meaningfully at me and said “You used to be taller.” When I responded that this phenomenon occurs with age, she asserted that she did not start shrinking until two years ago. Must have been the hair-coloring-shade-not-found-in-nature, slot machine addiction, and default on your mortgage combo that kept your spine so robust, I mused. Internally, of course. It was Thanksgiving, so instead I said “You’ll always be a statuesque presence in my life, Aunt Victoria.”
I must admit that I opted out of the weekend wedding festivities. After having spent two days with the extended family over Thanksgiving and the following day, I was pretty spent. Victoria had also not originally invited me, and gave mixed signals about whether I should come: “It’s just a 20 minute thing, so don’t feel pressure to drive out there. But you are welcome certainly, but it’s fine if you don’t come.” I wondered if she feared that I would engage with her children in an avalanche of sarcastic and ironic observations on her special day and was thus ambivalent about my presence. Pretty reasonable concern.
I probably should have gone for entertainment purposes alone – about half of the extended family went and about half came up with an excuse like I did. I feigned illness, but honored Victoria’s essence by playing in a poker tournament on her special day.
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