has got nothing on mine. I just went to my neighborhood association’s annual meeting and dinner, which was not once lacking in drama. Highlights included our schizophrenic neighbor screaming at one of the visiting councilors, getting wine drunk with women three times my age (we’re going out for tequila and Mexican food next week), and being invited to celebrate Easter Greek Orthodox-style by a woman who’s lived on my street since 1961.
I was easily the only person there under 35 (and most certainly the poorest). But goodness, how wonderful I feel to be a part of these people’s lives, if only for a few months.
They live in a world where straight men wear black brocade suits with purple collar shirts and silver bangles (without the slightest hint of irony) and where women throw on their pearls, diamonds and fur coats like we would put on a t-shirt. It’s as though I’ve left the real world and entered the Neighborhood of Make-Believe. Ah, but it’s reality. And I’m living it–and loving it.