Precession to a Ritual.

 

In the days leading up to the Ritual of the Golden Paper, we seek to remain gently ballasted with the crimpings only observed on-spec when minor children are involved. If not, we go about our lives as if everything on the surface is subject to its own command. But deep in our collective marrow, where compliance suits compulsion to a radio-mounted 'T', we attempt to formulate the least common one-syllable question ever conceived. It begins in the way which is guaranteed to elicit little impetuosity and even less annoyance. Which is all to the good, since time is short, and, once the shooting starts, it's anyone's bargain as to who gets to stick around without causing undue alarm in a long forgotten depository.

Our friends are in the business of giving us 'moral support' if nothing else. And by that I mean we haven't seen them for months. This can't help but bring on uncalled for remarks when a date is finally set. Until then, no one is urged to remain patient, for in that lies the quickest route to  certain disappointment. I wouldn't want the person who will one day marry my infant daughter to have any misconceptions about where I stand with respect to the adisability of appearing well prepared for the occurrence of 'less-than-optimal' events, things, places and (most especially) people. Look, if anyone knows how tough it can get out there, it would be me. So, I can well understand that in your current mindset, there's not likely to be even a hair's breadth of daylight between your position and that of an at-large individual when it comes to sabotaging my career. Jealousy is a very jealous master, but so is something else.

This is where bargaining comes down to the wire and anyone who still insists on holding their own could get caught out with no flotation device in sight. In the event that you should find yourself lying down face-first in my foyer, here's what I want you to do: You should immediately make certain that I've received whatever diminutive tokens come to mind when I make a brief remark. Failing that, it could well be that I've reached a 'decision point' and all idle banter is a strictly 'no-go' program. I will be offering plasmic rebates to those whose footwear most closely coincides with prevailing industry standards. As my common-law husband Kevin Moffit is fond of saying, 'what is it that makes you think there's something I should know about?'. And, when he says that, what do you think I do? I'll tell you EXACTLY what I do: I leave speculation to all the invidious nincompoops out there and go straight to the heart of the matter. Which, for the most part, involves trying to convey an attitude of innocent circularity. This meshes well with some of our senior people, as they've already made it plain that I'm on the chopping block  for being kept around after everything 'goes dark'. And, if this sounds 'too good to be true', then you don't know the half of it, and probably never will. God. 

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