I know it’s Sunday now, and I suspect tomorrow is New Year’s Eve. But how to reconcile these two facts? It’s like apples and oranges. Wait, there were numbers. Yesterday was 29. So today is 30 and tomorrow is 31 and now I’m all caught up. Phew.
I’ve just finished reading I Found My Tribe (excellent; run out and read it) so I will be using short sentences filled with divine beauty and grace, except possibly for those last parts. And come to think of it, that first part too. I’m not very good at keeping my sentences corralled.
Anyway. I was drying glasses to put them away because we had some friends and neighbours in yesterday for ye olde traditional Christmas drinks, and I remembered the us who put all those wine glasses and cocktail glasses and highball tumblers on our wedding list for all the dinner parties we would have where people would need different glasses for pre-prandials and red and white and water. We haven’t given a lot of those dinner parties. Yesterday, I suspect people put all sorts of unauthorized drinks in unorthodox containers, probably necking prosecco from a wine glass or lemonade from a champagne glass or red wine from a paper cup, for all I was paying attention. It didn’t seem to matter.
Becoming a grownup is a process of doing things because they are things your parents didn’t do, and then slowly finding yourself doing things because that’s the way your parents did them, and meeting yourself somewhere in the middle and deciding that’s what feels like home. At least, I think it’s like that for me.
I learned to polish glasses in my waitressing jobs, two in particular that had a need for sparkly glasses without smears or fingerprints because they were just that sort of respectable establishment. Polishing the glasses was a big deal once you’d set the tables. You filled a small metal teapot with boiling water from the coffee machine and took a freshly laundered linen napkin or two. Then you went around the tables holding each glass upturned over the steam of the teapot for a moment, and polishing it to perfect clarity with the napkin. In at least one place we did the cutlery too – knives, forks, spoons – before they were put away in the big baize-lined drawers. No foggy-bladed knives for our distinguished customers. It was oddly hypnotic and very satisfying, much better than hoovering the carpet or sweeping the floorboards.
The girl who polished those glasses was a million years ago: half a million years before she picked the wine glasses for her upcoming wedding, another half-million to now, when we’re only just coming out of the coloured plastic cups from Ikea phase of the household and starting to pull out the fancy glasses again.
I need an ending, but I am not Ruth Fitzmaurice so I can’t effortlessly weave my little story around so that all the glasses are a perfect metaphor for the point I wanted to make. Did I even have a point? That’s the nice thing about a blog, though: you don’t always have to have a point, or you can have a few and let them fall where they may. Let’s raise our glasses to blogs, then.