Free Floating Fridays

I've never fit the mold, always chafed against the grain, railed against the "rules" of male and female behaviour, the so-called gender wars, that artificial societal construct which keeps us all firmly in pink and blue, dresses and lumberjack outfits, pearls and guns, advanced mathematics or home economics. (whatever do they call that now?). And effing well knowing our places in a civilized society. I am still looking for mine. Maybe it's because I'm not civilized in the traditional sense. No time for small talk, even less for braggadocios of whom many exist in my family of origin. Mainly of the male persuasion.

It was such a relief to be with one of my Sheilas last week as we share a lot of giggles over the behaviours of our family when we get together. The men never cease bragging loudly and long. If an emotion escapes in the room it is quickly stamped out. The men can swiftly round on us, the single spinstery women, with pitying glances. We can't afford the multiple cruises, or the wealthy clubs, or the endless travel hither and yon, hotels compared knowingly for the quality of spas and steaks. We live in poverty. But, and here's the codicil, it's all our own fault. We should have been nicer to the fellahs who would have taken proper care of us. We're not nice, you see. We don't tumble into that gender slot where the demure wee elderly attached "girls" peep out now and again to approve of the above mentioned luxurious life styles and vote as their fellahs do. "Sure he does all the thinking for us, it's grand." We are expected to admire the expensive dresses, the costly tans, the talking fridges, the marble floors.

I may sound bitter, I am far from it. Sheila and I laughed until we were sick. How we put in what we called "purgatory time" under the harsh glare of our families, she more than me as they live closer and drop in and judge her or broadcast of German river runs, Greek islands and Amazon tours. We exchanged tips on how to respond to the bragging when addressed directly. "Nice", "Interesting," were the favourites.

We also make excellent targets if we bring up the Family Dysfunction. We are immediately shouted down, told never to open those particularly doors even though most in the room could use massive therapy and unwittingly display it with endless loud hostilities towards the One Who Dared mention it.

It's such a comfort when you know you're not alone in a baffling universe not of your own making. Where everything is so superficial and Trump's not a bad fellah and climate change is for stupid arseholes who believe anything. If you believed in God you'd know that He wouldn't let anything bad happen to his creation. QED.

A "normal" male cousin, who's had the therapy and whose heart is open, sent me a long email during the week and enclosed a picture taken when I was around 7. Our two mothers (sisters) are at the back. And our families side by side in age as we were then. I had forgotten I wore corrective lenses for a few years.

My Three Sheilas

Sheila (alternatively spelled Shelagh and Sheelagh) is a common feminine given name, derived from the Irish name Síle, which is believed to be a Gaelic form of Cecilia.
Word/name: Latin Cecilia, via Gaelic Síle
Related names: Cecilia

And a unique Australian definition (apropos of nothing):
Sheila — Australian slang for "woman", is derived from the Irish girls' name Síle (IPA: [ʃiːlʲə], anglicised Sheila).

I have 3 Sheilas in my life. Which when you think about it is extraordinary. Friends are thin on the ground at my age. And the fact that I moved to Newfoundland when I was 60 (I'm now 75) didn't bode too well, one would think, for new friendships. But these comparatively newish friends are very important to me.

They don't know each other. One is in her fifties, one in her sixties and one is in her seventies.

They are all as different as chalk and cheese.

The oldest Sheila makes me laugh until I am just about sick. We tell each other the most astounding stories from our youth, stuff we've never shared with anyone, ever, and we fall down, howling, thigh slapping, snorting, catching our breath. We share a very highly developed sense of the ridiculous and an art for self-deprecation.

The middle Sheila has been a friend since I moved here. We have traveled a lot together, gone to Ireland together, nurture each other, commiserate with each other. The other night over dinner she said earnestly to me: "You know if anything ever happens to you I'd visit you no matter where you were, right?" And I know she would. She brings me soup and hash and I know she'd feed me no matter what my condition. But it was a lovely thing to say and I will treasure it because sometimes we wonder, right? Who's gonna visit when we are drooling and incontinent and mindless. Well, I have one. Signed up in advance.

Baby Sheila I have known for a while. She was one of those instant friends. It happens so rarely. To me, anyway. Did you ever meet someone and you just know instantly? It's happened to me a few times and unfortunately they are all dead now. This time maybe she has a chance of outliving me. I have fun with her. She has a great understanding of aging, living with her 90+ dad and like me, comes from a dysfunction junction of a family of origin. And she's great at pointing out the assets and not the liabilities of life.

Picture above is one I have as my wallpaper. I was hoping to make it into a card, like I do, but the words weren't coming. What words come to you, if any?