This past week was consumed by a funeral for a member of SO's family. He had some health problems, but it was sudden. This was the second death in the family this year. While I heard it many times, I managed to go through the whole event without saying something like, "Nice to see you, wish it wasn't under these circumstances." This is the funeral corollary to, "It is a good thing we have weather since most people couldn't start a conversation without it" - often attributed to Mark Twain.
There were many pictures at the visitation and funeral. And for the first time in a quite some time, I saw what I always presumed was the high school senior picture of the deceased. I clearly remembering seeing this picture on one of my first visits to SO's home town and parent's house. My impression at that time was that he looked impossibly old in that picture. Only a few years removed from high school myself at that time, I thought my senior picture looked like an immature child in comparison. I also barely saw the resemblance to him.
The dogs accompanied us on the trip to the funeral. They add a lot of aggravation, but I hate kenneling them when they don't need to be and they offer a nice diversion. I was mostly a piece of furniture at the visitation - sitting there taking up space as throngs of people that I did not know passed by. A few glanced and nodded at me, as they would look at a couch and wonder about the utility of such an uncomfortable object.
"I am going to run back to let the dogs out for a few minutes."
We stayed at a friend of the family's house. It was a nice house on a rural road. It reminded me a lot of my own house. Comfortable. Imperfect. It was extremely generous that the dogs were embraced there. It was extremely generous that I was embraced there, but the chance of me peeing on the carpet was considerably lower. Considering the beagles' happy, boring routine, having a place to risk taking two dogs was extremely hospitable in addition to just being able to stay there.
The dogs behaved wonderfully - not only at the house but through the entire few chaotic days.
Looking at the few houses I was in around the time of the funeral, I was struck how immune we can get to our own hovels. I couldn't take my eyes off a few cracks in the walls; we all have some cracks in our walls. Maybe because they were so noticeable, but maybe because my own house has very similar cracks. I'm comfortable with a little bit of grubbiness. There is definitely a line that doesn't want to be crossed, but being in a pristine house with almost nothing out of place and little evidence of anyone being alive is suffocating. Sitting in a place like that is like sitting at a funeral visitation while knowing almost no one.
I ran out of topics for the few people I did know soon. I am, quite frankly, not very interesting. Funerals make for the most painful small talk.
I'm socially awkward, not socially inept. There were a few social blunders that I'm quite sure I'll be perseverating on for a while.
At the other end of the scale from immaculate house is the dwelling that hasn't been touched outside of the bare minimum for decades. I try not to judge. Not everything has the same value to everyone.
I think we could sort of measure what’s important to us by what we bother to keep stored.
But staring at that high school picture of the deceased, I saw something different. Maybe my original impression was different at that time since black and white photographs bring with them an aura of sentimentality. Maybe it was due to my self impressions at the time - and now. I'm now over twice the age of that snapshot in time.
The funeral further convinced me what I already knew - we all have a dangerously flawed self-perception.
Or maybe it is due to the realization that everyone is faking it almost every single day. I looked around at some of the family members I barely know - so many of them look like they have it all together. A black suit will do that to a person. I know that many of them don't have it all together; some of them likely barely have the pieces sewn together behind the smile, nice car and perfect hair.
One elderly grandmother family member said the bit of grey hair I had made me look distinguished. I wonder if that was supposed to be a compliment? At her age, I'm not sure intentions are quite so deliberate.
Life goes on. Despite my bad choice of words, SO's aunt agreed with me.
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