Pageantry

Not the most obvious of topics for a blog about separation, perhaps, but I’ve been musing on it. Feel free to skip this one if you’re not in the mood to discuss … I understand.

So: pageantry. Let’s pour a bit and have a tasting. The bouquet: roses, certainly, in Miss America’s flowers, circa 1978. Not sure which that one was, but it’s bound to be one of the last ones that mattered. Pure vintage, that pageant.

Also: the sharp but bubbly scent of victor’s champagne; incense from a Catholic censer; the smell of horses in a royal cavalcade; the simple wildflowers and sugary cake at a farm wedding. Pageantry is everywhere, yes?

No. Not during the end of a marriage. There’s nothing pretty about it, and those horses smell far better than the spoiled funeral spread you’re left confronting. The fourth wall breaks and that camera zooms in and it’s all just snot and tears, frankly.

So pageantry can go away pretty easily. It can be hard to take a shower, let alone get all dolled up. And he didn’t appreciate it anyway and he’s not even here to see it – thank the stars — so why bother?

You know why. For you. For your own, damn, human, sense of delight.

The pageant is everywhere, all around us, all the time. [So are the horrors, and I’m not minimizing those, but that’s NOT this post.]

No, this is about the pageant. About noticing those wispy clouds in the blue sky, and young [or better, if you’re my age, well-kept older] legs in summer clothes, and the newborn tomatoes in your garden. Look at a few royals. Read some celebrity gossip. Cook a dinner, then start thinking about inventing a dessert.

I’ve learned to at least appreciate all those Miss Americas out there. Dream girls have a place in the pageant, I suppose, though I have vowed never to aspire to that again. And I think we need to all have a long conversation about what’s taking the place that pageant held in the American imagination. But again, that’s another post.

I leave you with this: pageant2

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