Happy Dead Anniversary

The Happy (Dead) Couple

Many lovers of literature recently celebrated what would have been the 105th wedding anniversary of writer Virginia Woolf and Leonard Woolf, publisher and an author in his own right, who married on August 10th all those years ago but are both long dead so why bother since neither one will be in attendance at any parties in their honor. Also, who's to say that the pair would have stayed married that long anyway? After all, just a year after they married Virginia fell in love with a woman and embarked upon a brief affair. And she had other suitors as well, and Leonard didn't seem to mind. And eventually Virginia quietly scurried out of the house while Leonard was upstairs working and went to a nearby river and filled her coat pockets with rocks and slowly waded in, letting the waters fill her lungs and blot out all the frenzied voices forever, leaving behind that very husband, the wedding to whom is being celebrated, so draw your own conclusions.

This is the exact thing that my husband thinks is wrong with me. Or rather, one of the many, many things that are wrong with me. I'm not sappy. I'm too direct. I'm too hard. I'm not like other people. I don't engage in normal, expected behaviors. I ask too many questions. I don't make small talk. Instead, I make people uncomfortable with big talk. (If you are in that last group I suggest you stop reading this right now before it's too late.)

Listen, I have no idea why I was born or what I'm supposed to be doing with my life, but I sincerely doubt that my sole purpose here is to make other people feel good about themselves. If from time to time I can, by offering solace in a time of need or handing out twenty dollar bills to the homeless, I'll jump at the chance. Otherwise I have my hands full trying to make myself feel good about me, and so far I'm not doing such a great job at that.

So if you want to bake an anniversary cake for Ginny and Len, go for it. Stick in 105 candles and have a grand old time. I plan to celebrate quietly, on my own, by trying for like the tenth time to get past page 12 of To The Lighthouse, or Mrs. Dalloway, or in fact any book written by Ms. Woolf. But this time I'll drink a few cans of Red Bull first.