Juliet, my daughter just turned fifteen, and for her fifteenth birthday, she asked the strangest thing of me. She must have figured, I was male, and he was male too, so I should think alike, and I was an older male, and one who had gotten married, to her mother no less—her mother!—so, I must have gone through it too, or had had one who had gone through it talk to me, all shy and scared, and I must have giggled and found it cute, and because of the bravery, had agreed to go out. Juliet asked me to teach her how to be brave enough to ask a boy at her school out to a dance. The first thing I wondered was why she came to me and not her mother for this. I had a rethink. It was, in fact, her mother, was it not?
Remember that nursery rhyme? Solomon Grundy; born on Monday, christened on Tuesday, blah blah blah, died on Saturday, buried on Sunday? It’s difficult to tell Solomon’s true nationality, or religion, or anything about him for that matter from the short rhyme. Solomon is just some imaginary recipient of the world’s most glorious anti-climax. Can’t really say what was in the mind of the composer of that rhyme, or rather who was in his or her mind, or if at all he intended for the rhyme to be remotely relatable, but one thing is sure though- no one wants to be Solomon.
This is the story of the first and probably only person who desired, and lived, the life of Solomon Grundy.