My father called me on my birthday. I haven’t talked to him in maybe four years.
I can’t recall how long exactly, but when you’re dealing with that unit of measure, the number doesn’t seem to matter. The phone call was odd and stilted; in under three minutes my father was able to make me sad, flabbergasted, and furious, as usual. I asked questions about his life and learned probably five things about him. He asked me zero questions about my life and learned .05 things about me. That’s pretty much been the ratio from “go.”
And I was at the hair salon! Christophe was doing my highlights! It was weird. When I covered the mouthpiece and whispered, “It’s my father! I haven’t talked to him in like four years!” Christophe’s eyes got big as saucers (in a Versace tea service, naturally) and he dropped a box of foils.
I get so unbelievably tired when I think of my father so I’m offering up an entry from the PaperGirl Archive. If, right after that call, someone had asked me how old I was on my birthday, I would’ve said, “Oh, I suppose about ninety, ninety-five.”