I say a little prayer

Today would have been John F. Kennedy's 90th birthday. He has been gone nearly as long as he lived.

His death was the first national tragedy I ever experienced, but it shouldn't overshadow that his life was a national treasure. He made public service seem admirable and he made us believe we could be better. To quote Robert Dallek from An Unfinished Life:

"The sudden end to Kennedy's life and presidency has left us with tantalizing "what might have been's." Yet even setting these aside and acknowledging some missed opportunities and false steps, it must be acknowledged that the Kennedy thousand days spoke to the country's better angels, inspired visions of a less divisive world and demonstrated that America was still the last, best hope of mankind."

May you rest in peace, Mr. President.

My romantic post

The following is my response to Tea Mouse's invitation to write a romantic post. I love love, and just because this relationship ultimately ended doesn't mean I don't cherish the memory …

I was in a long-distance romance, regularly flying the 675 miles from Chicago to Philadelphia. I was unquestioningly enchanted with the gentleman in question, partly because he was really good looking but even more because he was far more complicated and far more sensitive than any of our friends knew. Getting someone this remote to open up was sexy in and of itself, and to discover all the contradictions within his nature just made me love him more.

Once I earned his trust, he could talk and talk and talk ... About everything from Reagonomics to his troubled childhood to the deep and very real comfort he derived from his Catholicism. His two great heroes were Adam Smith, the father of modern economics, and Dr. Martin Luther King. I know he would blush and deny it were I to ever call him on it, but he could recite the entire "I Have A Dream" speech from memory.

He was also a natural athlete gifted with tremendous focus. I am completely uncoordinated and can't even walk through a doorway without banging into something. But I agreed to the ski weekend because it was so important to him. Besides, it was after Christmas, we'd both had a lot of demands placed on our time by his family/my family/our friends, and a little time alone together was in order.

When I boarded the plane at O'Hare I felt fine. By the time we landed in Philly, I wanted to die. My head ached. I was hot. I was weak. I don't believe I've ever before gotten this sick, this fast.

We got back to his place and I laid down on his sofa, where I stayed for three days. We never made it to the ski lodge, so in addition to feeling crappy, I got to feel guilty, too.

But much to my surprise, I was as comfortable with his silence as I was delighted by his conversation. He sat on the corner of the sofa, my feet in his lap, for three days, submitting to an Elvis Movie Marathon because he knew it would make me feel better. I drifted in and out of consciousness and he made sure I was warm and comfortable and had tissues. My favorite part: he worried that I wasn't getting enough fluids, so every time Elvis sang, he would play with my feet to wake me up and then make me hot chocolate. I would wriggle upright and look at him over the big mug, watching him watch me over the top of his glasses, ensuring that I "made all gone."

There are people who know him who would never believe how tender and nurturing he could be. Perhaps I felt crappy, but I also felt gloriously loved and treasured and cared for.

As luck would have it, I started feeling better Saturday night and was fine to fly home Sunday night.

About a month later, it was Valentine's Day. When I got back from lunch there was a box on my desk. One of my coworkers was all excited for me. She knew my boyfriend "made good money" and was hoping there was "hardware" in the box.

It was a souvenir mug and a tin of hot chocolate from Hershey, PA, with an admonition that I take good care of myself because I was important to him.

My coworker was disappointed, but to this day it's the best Valentine I've ever received.

Well, am I?

So am I a tight ass? I mean clenched sphincter-wise, not blue jeans-wise.

My co-worker, the one who is (finally!) getting a divorce, showed me her minute-by-minute photos of her night out with the girls. I guess ya had to be there because the pix were pretty boring, and I amused myself by wondering if cellphone cameras have really improved our quality of life until one shot captured my attention: My coworker getting behind the wheel.

"So you were the designated driver?" I asked.

"Well, I'm the one who drove!" So even in our mid-40s, I guess we're supposed to think drunk driving is funny.

"Well, I hope you don't end up sharing a cell with Lindsay Lohan." Then I realized it came out edgier than I intended. OK, it came out exactly as edgy as I'd intended. I just didn't think before I blurted.

So is it me? Am I a humorless, tight-assed school marm who judges everyone too harshly? Was she just relating harmless hi jinks that might even have been healthy, considering the way her life has been going? Or is it OK for me to be furious that, in a city where a cab appears as soon as you raise your arm, she chose to drive?