I can finally fit back into my best business suit, which isn’t actually mine. It won’t ever feel like mine. The charitable but oppressively high-strung maid of honor in a wedding I once bridesmaided my way through loaned it to me while I was in the thick of interviewing for mid-level day jobs and in dire need of a form-fitting power suit - powerful enough to help take the hiring committees’ minds off of the capricious tenor of my résumé. The maid of honor lived up the avenue from me and owned more chic suits than anyone I knew. We wore the same size and the whole thing had been one of her overzealous ideas. When we last ran into each other, I reminded her that I still have what’s hers. She said to consider it a gift to me from her. Will do. For some reason, I was invited to her own wedding a year after the wedding we served in; for some reason, I went . . . to the wedding, the bridal shower, the engagement party - let’s just say, in the gift-giving department, we’re even.
There are a number of people from my past who still have things that belong to me. It’d be nice to get them back (the belongings, not the people), but I don’t have the inclination to initiate a conversation with them (the people, not the belongings), much less a custody battle. Even the outspoken types can turn into non-confrontational types when it comes to matters that don’t seem to matter much once all or nothing is said and done.