marinelli's miscellany

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Kids! One minute you’re buying them a hot chocolate

And next, they’re totally checking out that cute barista you were also kind of checking out, and then you realize the barista is closer to your kid’s age than to yours, and you feel so very old, but also proud of your kid (such… ambition!), and tenderly protective of both her and the barista (who undoubtedly endures—all day—the doe-eyed stares of all ages and genders), all the while your kid is as oblivious to you as the barista is to you both, and so, in the interests of propriety, you redirect your gaze to the front page of The New York Times, and, encountering blessed visage of lesbian widow and DOMA plaintiff Edith Windsor (who, you are humbled to note, is older than you, your kid and the barista combined), you chuckle, and, raising your iced espresso, silently thank her, and your kid, and the barista, and the non-stupid representatives of SCOTUS, and the journalists, and whoever harvested these ostensibly fairly traded coffee beans, plus enumerable, unknowable others, living and dead, for such a spectacular moment, which you will savor from now until you are a very old, sassy, grandmotherly-sort, cheering on, for as long as you have the breath with which to do so, each subsequent wave of culture-jammers and patriarchy-smashers (whom you may yet scandalize and surprise, not merely with octogenarian barista-flirtation but with your stories, your still largely untouched, decidedly queer treasure chests overflowing with them), all the while remembering the scars—yours and hers, his and theirs: together, ours—which made possible the indelible maps connecting each of these delicate, incredible moments.