my ordinary life

I recently returned to my ordinary life. I suppose “ordinary” is different to different people, but my ordinary life still consists of all those things I do that many would consider far from mainstream. It doesn’t make any difference when you’ve lost what to you made your life more than ordinary. You could be a celebrity, a royal, a scandalous politician — but if it’s missing, it’s missing, and you’re nothing but ordinary.

B and I went to polo clinic yesterday, or thought we were going, only to discover that the arena had been filled with jumps for the horse show and there were no trailers in sight. We ended up in the hitting cage, taking swings at the little white ball and fixating on it as it rolled towards us down the ramps. I took some poorly timed partial swings before letting go with a full swing to send the ball smashing into the back wall.

We’re on divergent paths.

Off side forward shot.

I want someone who can work a room.

Off side back shot.

I’m happiest when we’re sharing each other with friends.

Near side forward shot.

It’s too risky for you to move.

Near side back shot.

You know where I stand.

Horrible miss. I put my mallet down.

“My arm hurts and I can’t stay in two-point on this wooden horse,” I say, jumping off. B gets in the saddle, takes a tail shot and I duck for cover, leaping to the other side of the cage.

Excuses. Welcome to my ordinary life. Everything loses some flavor upon the return to ordinary life. No more plane trips, no more “meet me in Rome,” no more curling irons, flirty dresses, sky-high heels, “yes there really is snow in California,” “no I really do think the seasons are beautiful,” no more stepmothers making premature recommendations for your married life together.

“Your garden is lovely,” I said to him. He thanks me. It’s the only time we’ve spoken in private without the relatives interrupting. He hopes I had a good time, and that I’ll come back, even though he knows it’s a long flight. “I’m going to…take pictures of your flowers,” I say. From the other side of the yard I watch him pulling long leaved weeds from the flower bed. He’s calm, rational, charming. Like me, when I’m not being erratic, illogical, and scary. He never seemed demanding or imploring. I wonder curiously how his offspring spawned those traits.

“The reason you’re not hitting it straight on,” B says, “is because your hand is turned the wrong way at the top of your swing.” I turn my palm forward and my hits are consistent. Spiritual polo revelation.

“Are you still playing ice hockey?” she asks me. “Yes,” I say. A motorboat rumbles to life on the water far below. “I didn’t think it was still hockey season.” “We play year round back home,” I say. “Well of course, I guess it is all indoors over there.” She smiles. It’s fragile, but genuine. I look out at the boats. A replica old-fashioned red and blue tugboat approaches the dock. “We want to have a renewal of our vows here, at the Tiki bar,” she says. “We were going to do a ten year but now we have to do five years instead, because of his illness.” “Oh,” I say, looking down at the sloppily lacquered table. “I wish he would take care of himself too,” she says, gesturing out at the water where her son helps to refuel the boat. “You should tell him to go to the doctor.” “I will,” I say.

I throw the ball up the ramp for B. She takes several shots in succession. I watch her gear up for a full swing, pausing, standing up out of the saddle, timing her reaction as the ball rolls down. Invariably, she misses, with frustrated commentary.

“He speaks so highly of you,” she says, leaning forward over the din of trombones. “You know, he and I used to not get along, in the beginning, we just didn’t click. Now we’re much better. It just took some time.” I can’t hear some of the words in whatever she says next. Just “the” and “of” but no nouns that would help me decipher what she’s trying to say. I figure she’s already told me what was important anyway, and I let the music drown her out.

I walk out of the hitting cage, taking a swig of my water. The heat and dust are choking. We open the car doors and as I get into the driver’s seat I feel the corner of my eye is wet. I wipe my entire face with my sleeve. “My allergies are bad,” I say to B, hollowly. Welcome back to my ordinary life.