Rest Stop, Part One

I love the smell of greasy French fries at a rest stop along the Jersey Turnpike on a damp April Sunday. The unmistakable scent of frozen potato scraps sizzling away in vats of rancid, bubbling oil adds a certain flavor to the chilly air of a parking lot. You stretch your legs gratefully after hours of cramped inertia and inane FM music, waiting for your husband to refill the tank or take a leak in one of the labyrinthine rest rooms- a giant suite of busy commodes devoid of an outside door- and it never fails to remind of a simpler time. How complicated it can all get, so far from home since the annoying and nauseating family road trips of childhood. The only relief in those days from the sniping and tearing at each other of your parents up in the front was a couple of brief stops for gummy jelly apples or charred, skinny hot dogs with watery mustard. Now you can look forward to petrified veggie burgers and wilted, make believe salad along with the sticky swirls of pink cotton candy. 

We were returning from a bar mitzvah in Virginia, an event I vowed I would never attend when I first ripped open the oversized envelope to find an unexpected summons to celebrate! The announcement wound its way into the mailbox along with an offer from “Publishers Clearing House” and a five dollar coupon from Bed, Bath & Beyond. In a hefty, corporate looking packet padded with confusing directions in teeny font, pre-stamped RSVP card and related “data” about the event was a rather large, florid invitation. It was etched on heavy, oversized paper and surrounded by a thick border like an illuminated manuscript. In the center of the colorful, exotic design, obviously intended to evoke something medieval and Judaic, were boldly embossed the names of the child and his parents. Every word and numeral was fully spelled out to make it look appropriately official, first, last, middle names, day, month, and year. I felt as if I had been called for jury duty. My immediate reaction was irritation. Now I’d have to answer with some ridiculous excuse, or worse, endure a vague and protracted struggle about possibly being a good sport and going.

Suddenly there were visions of hysterically sifting through a clearance rack for something cheap and festive, or maybe just dark and glittery, hopefully in “final reduction” stage; it didn’t seem fair. I immediately reassured myself that I had “plenty to wear” knowing full well this was a pathetic rationalization. Nor did I realize at the time that the initial anxiety would pale next to another wardrobe nightmare. As it turned out, despite my “hunch” about stowed accessories from the past most likely hiding in the recesses of my closet, the four dust mite-ridden corners upon inspection failed to conceal even one pair of shiny, toe crushing ballet flats or weirdly shaped heels in faux lizard. This discovery ultimately led to an act of last minute desperation: an inevitable sprint to Bloomingdale’s the evening before the event and half an hour or so before the store closed, where a smoothie named “Antonio” dramatically solved the problem with only mildly hurtful patent leather sandals; he’d dug them out from somewhere “in the back” presenting them with a flourish. It seemed I’d been naively living out my life in sneakers and clogs.

Ironically, in retrospect even the shoe catastrophe eventually would start to look like an eye dropper of lithium in a bucket of psychosis before it was finally all over. The very worst part of the “prep period” was yet to come- recurring images of endless hours on the turnpike, relentlessly swerving back and forth between lanes, sparring with sixteen wheelers and all sorts of highly dysfunctional families and sleep deprived truckers on the miserable round trip between south of DC and New York. If there was an accident, it would take even longer, maybe forever. In between terrifying flash forwards of ambulances and tow trucks, I worried that the flat shoes would not make me appear tall enough, that my own, modest family background would not measure up, that the gift would fall gravely short.

There were so many things to obsess over I barely knew where to start. For several weeks before the ominous “reply” date, a deadline that began to loom like an upcoming tryst with the electric chair, nearer and nearer each day, I vacillated between anger and forgiveness, despair and hope. Each morning the RSVP inched twenty-four hours closer. Why did certain people feel compelled to organize such potentially torturous events and then inflict them on others in the guise of joy and hospitality? Why couldn’t I be like those other casual party goers who lived for gatherings like these and actually owned sequin-covered fabric (We just got back from a wedding in Minneapolis- a grandniece- it was absolutely beautiful!)?