Twinkle: On Judgment and Guilt

So today while the big girls were at school and Baby B was napping, I did something that people probably assume I spend all my time doing, but I never, ever actually do as a stay-at-home-mother. I reclined on the sofa with a few Easter-themed Reesie cups and watched as many True Detective re-runs as naptime allowed. (I was reviewing them for symbolism, y'all. Seriously, I am obsessed).

I was literally on my sofa, watching tv instead of having a job, and eating chocolate--the very things that the women in Mr. Twinks' family probably judge me for the most (even though reaching that level of leisure is so rare it's practically unheard-of)--when I got the call that Aunt Irene, of Sister Shubert guilt and mini-hot dog judgment fame, had a massive stroke and is on life support.

I guess I've known Aunt Irene and the rest of the family for 10+ years now (so hard to believe), and I've always felt that Aunt Irene got a bad rap, even though I was sort of hard on her here on Daddy Rabbit. She's known to be a little high strung, but has always been nothing but nice to me. Apparently her first marriage--the traditional Jew-on-Jew match that the 1940s demanded--was to a man who was not so nice, but most of her married life was spent in a great marriage with a non-Jewish man who died right around the time I came into the picture. So she was never that judgmental about Mr. Twinks and me. Mini-hot dogs, yes--she would judge the sh*t out of people who ate too many mini-hot dogs. But she was always cool with interfaith relationships, and I appreciated that. She was never anything but nice to me.

So of course I immediately thought of the Sister Shubert roll that she accepted with guilt and self-loathing almost exactly a year ago, and again I wish she had eaten as many of those as she wanted and not felt guilty about any of them. I mean, y'all, she was old. I'm all for being healthy, but I'm also for living your life and enjoying it. Aunt Irene has had a long life with lots of children, grandchildren, and one bastard great-grandchild who has the tackiest name ever, but how much of that life was spent fretting over calories as she consumed them? I'll tell you how much: a lot. She fretted over how many she consumed; she fretted over how many those around her consumed. It's one example of an unwillingness to enjoy life, and it just makes me sad.

Any one of us could have a stroke at a gas station on our way to the beauty parlor, with a sh*tload of money in our purse. I would argue that, if you're old and have had a good life, it's preferable to a long, drawn-out illness with lots of suffering. But I'm not trying to get too dark here. I'm just saying that I appreciate Aunt Irene not judging me, and I wish she hadn't judged herself quite so harshly.

So, after Mr. Twinks returns from delivering her living will for the second time today (the family lost the first copy, and the incompetence is making Mr. Twinks lose his mind), he and I will enjoy a little wine, a lot of sushi, and the return of Scandal. And we're doing so guiltlessly.