October 20, 2010
A funny thing happened on my way through Allison's volleyball season--I fell in love with a team and found myself wishing the season were longer. I never would have anticipated that reaction, but Mark and I both felt it deep in our bones.
Did I ever mention how nice it is to be wrong sometimes?
In mid August, when Allison was going to two practices a day, I found myself obsessing about the hours I figured I'd spend hauling children, sitting in stands, delaying dinners...In short--and in selfishness--I didn't like where this was going. I felt a small wave of panic as I realized that, while we are still van-free in the Holt household, we would no longer be truly free. At least on Tuesday and Thursday evenings, and possibly Saturdays.
What happened instead, though, is that Mark and I lost ourselves as we watched a group of girls--strangers just weeks before--figure out how to play well together. We found ourselves transformed with each transformation the team went through. Once unfamiliar names now rolled off our tongues as we hooted and hollered--always appropriately, thank you!--in response to the things that unfolded on those maple floors.
For the first time in 30 years, I have found myself seeped in a school's traditions, shiny from pride through association. Sure, I work in a high school. The same one I graduated from. And I love being at East High. But this love does not equate with the feelings I've had during Allison's volleyball season. I feel "Link" entering my blood system and it makes me happy.
Last night, Allison and her team wrapped up their season, clocking in 6 official wins, but earning far more moral victories than those that are recorded in the books. They took my own alma mater to three games last night in Beatrice. Wish I would have made the drive to cheer on this team of funny, shining, diverse girls who found a reason to play together.
Hats off to you, Allison, Zoe, Alexis, Nyachar, Briana, Kamaya, Amy, Sabrina, Keteyana (who is related to Rosa Parks!), Rian, Shaundi, Christy and Coach Pendi.
You've done far more than just play volleyball together. And I'm mighty grateful for that.
Wednesday, October 20, 2010
Sunday, October 17, 2010
From Russia with Love
October 17, 2010
I got a fine case of the giggles the other night. Around 7:30 Friday evening, as I was being serenaded on my patio by a robust Russian woman singing folk songs in her native tongue, I happily wondered how I had gotten to this point.
Parties are strange beasts formed by cheese balls, both edible and human. From scanning the Sunday papers, I know that not all parties end up on a happy note. But it seems that the ones I go to--not that my list is long or enviable--always end in fits of laughter and earnest hugs.
How is it that we can manage to have fun together, how can we come up with something new to say when we spend so much of our time together each day? Surely, we already know each others' back stories, recalled and revealed over lunchtime leftovers, sometimes, repeatedly. Just as certain, though, is the element of surprise that teeters in the background when people gather to unwind.
Who'da thunk that I'd walk into my own living room, hardly recognizing the furniture in its new, if not temporary, spaces? I suppose I could have been appalled by the newly uncovered dust bunnies that surfaced, the candy-wrappered secrets now revealed by a couch that no longer harbored them. But, mostly, I spent my time trying not to pee my pants in delight. In my circles, a well-timed prank is like a love song. And I felt very loved by my furniture-moving peeps.
I didn't even mind that Parabi, the teacher from Bangladesh, wooed Hobbes the Hobo Dog with frightening amounts of brownies and barbecue chips, the threat of doggy diarrhea still pinched in a not-so-distant future. She seemed so happy and content to do this one thing in a land that otherwise was so foreign to her, that I could hardly begrudge her these acts of disaster-laced canine kindness.
When a party is in the works, few things can be planned for, beyond parts of the menu and a fresh supply of toilet paper. True, as the host, I get to set the time and date and invitation list. Yet, I could not have known that I would meet two Russians and an Egyptian, when the annual East High Fall Staff Bash began at my house Friday afternoon. I could not have anticipated the glorious overabundance of brownies, each uttering its own siren song, luring me to the table time and time again. I could not have known that John, with his impeccable party radar, would once again sense when to head to my house, unannounced yet warmly received.
And I could not help but be amazed that, even though I have known some of these people for most of my adult life, the conversations would be fresh and new, the moments together both anticipated and surprising. That they left willingly before my 9 p.m. bedtime was just the icing on an already excellent cake.
I got a fine case of the giggles the other night. Around 7:30 Friday evening, as I was being serenaded on my patio by a robust Russian woman singing folk songs in her native tongue, I happily wondered how I had gotten to this point.
Parties are strange beasts formed by cheese balls, both edible and human. From scanning the Sunday papers, I know that not all parties end up on a happy note. But it seems that the ones I go to--not that my list is long or enviable--always end in fits of laughter and earnest hugs.
How is it that we can manage to have fun together, how can we come up with something new to say when we spend so much of our time together each day? Surely, we already know each others' back stories, recalled and revealed over lunchtime leftovers, sometimes, repeatedly. Just as certain, though, is the element of surprise that teeters in the background when people gather to unwind.
Who'da thunk that I'd walk into my own living room, hardly recognizing the furniture in its new, if not temporary, spaces? I suppose I could have been appalled by the newly uncovered dust bunnies that surfaced, the candy-wrappered secrets now revealed by a couch that no longer harbored them. But, mostly, I spent my time trying not to pee my pants in delight. In my circles, a well-timed prank is like a love song. And I felt very loved by my furniture-moving peeps.
I didn't even mind that Parabi, the teacher from Bangladesh, wooed Hobbes the Hobo Dog with frightening amounts of brownies and barbecue chips, the threat of doggy diarrhea still pinched in a not-so-distant future. She seemed so happy and content to do this one thing in a land that otherwise was so foreign to her, that I could hardly begrudge her these acts of disaster-laced canine kindness.
When a party is in the works, few things can be planned for, beyond parts of the menu and a fresh supply of toilet paper. True, as the host, I get to set the time and date and invitation list. Yet, I could not have known that I would meet two Russians and an Egyptian, when the annual East High Fall Staff Bash began at my house Friday afternoon. I could not have anticipated the glorious overabundance of brownies, each uttering its own siren song, luring me to the table time and time again. I could not have known that John, with his impeccable party radar, would once again sense when to head to my house, unannounced yet warmly received.
And I could not help but be amazed that, even though I have known some of these people for most of my adult life, the conversations would be fresh and new, the moments together both anticipated and surprising. That they left willingly before my 9 p.m. bedtime was just the icing on an already excellent cake.
Sunday, October 10, 2010
Mama, May I?
October 10, 2010
I had the pleasure of getting in on the ugly end of a mother's rant Thursday after school. She'd come to school, all huffy and a tad bit puffy, book in hand, to right what she thought was a ridiculous wrong.
"You'd keep a kid from Homecoming because of an overdue book?!" she sputtered.
See, East High has the radical notion that even teenagers can handle natural consequences, taking responsibility for both their actions and their inactions.
Thus the overdue book and Homecoming.
"I mean, I'm all for holding kids accountable, but blahblahblahblahblabh...."
Is that why you're here, and not your son?" I thought to myself.
"I can't tell you how sick I am of coming to school to take care of these things for him...."
At this point, foam began forming in the corners of her mouth, while my ear drums were beginning their self-protective retreat. My eyes began to fog over, too, as I dreamed of a world where people still were expected to lay in the beds that they had made. Or hadn't made.
I dreamed of a world where parents and their kids seldom interacted, unless it was to clarify that the dishwasher needed unloading. I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to tap into my own recollections of a youth spent mostly away from and uninvolved with my own parents.
I can't recall even once telephoning my mom to rescue me, aside from that day in my short-lived shoplifting phase that ended in the back room of Wards. And, even then, I only called home because the policeman made me.
And look how I turned out. Okay, okay, but I really did have a happy, well-balanced, generally fine childhood followed by a nice time at college and beyond. And I always loved my parents through it all, which is why I left them out of it.
If this mom truly hates her role as rescuer-in-chief, then I'd recommend she quit rescuing her son. That overdue book held great powers that she snuffed out by returning it to the library herself. Had she just let the power of the written word do its thing, her son would have spent last Friday night home alone, grinding with his G.I. Joe doll in his bedroom, while his sweaty peers were being expelled--one by hip-thrusting one--from the dance at school.
He had the chance to learn some important lessons that night. G.I. Joes are lousy kissers, and overdue library books are powerful things that should not be ignored. Even at a lousy nickel a day.
I had the pleasure of getting in on the ugly end of a mother's rant Thursday after school. She'd come to school, all huffy and a tad bit puffy, book in hand, to right what she thought was a ridiculous wrong.
"You'd keep a kid from Homecoming because of an overdue book?!" she sputtered.
See, East High has the radical notion that even teenagers can handle natural consequences, taking responsibility for both their actions and their inactions.
Thus the overdue book and Homecoming.
"I mean, I'm all for holding kids accountable, but blahblahblahblahblabh...."
Is that why you're here, and not your son?" I thought to myself.
"I can't tell you how sick I am of coming to school to take care of these things for him...."
At this point, foam began forming in the corners of her mouth, while my ear drums were beginning their self-protective retreat. My eyes began to fog over, too, as I dreamed of a world where people still were expected to lay in the beds that they had made. Or hadn't made.
I dreamed of a world where parents and their kids seldom interacted, unless it was to clarify that the dishwasher needed unloading. I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to tap into my own recollections of a youth spent mostly away from and uninvolved with my own parents.
I can't recall even once telephoning my mom to rescue me, aside from that day in my short-lived shoplifting phase that ended in the back room of Wards. And, even then, I only called home because the policeman made me.
And look how I turned out. Okay, okay, but I really did have a happy, well-balanced, generally fine childhood followed by a nice time at college and beyond. And I always loved my parents through it all, which is why I left them out of it.
If this mom truly hates her role as rescuer-in-chief, then I'd recommend she quit rescuing her son. That overdue book held great powers that she snuffed out by returning it to the library herself. Had she just let the power of the written word do its thing, her son would have spent last Friday night home alone, grinding with his G.I. Joe doll in his bedroom, while his sweaty peers were being expelled--one by hip-thrusting one--from the dance at school.
He had the chance to learn some important lessons that night. G.I. Joes are lousy kissers, and overdue library books are powerful things that should not be ignored. Even at a lousy nickel a day.
Saturday, October 9, 2010
Timing Is Everything
October 9, 2010
Come Wednesday morning, I was starting to get a little paranoid. Especially after the garage door let out a long and languorous moan as it made its way up my car's bumper, leaving marks not only on the bumper, but also on my very soul.
After all, it was the second time in twelve hours that my car had been in an accident. And both had occurred in my driveway.
The night before, after a most excellent dinner out with friends (proving that it is possible to have an excellent time--if not an excellent dinner-- at Spaghetti Works, where, apparently, there's no real pressure to clean off the salad bar), I'd shooed everyone out of the car halfway up the drive, knowing we'd struggle to unload in our cramped garage. My act of kindness, though, quickly turned against me, when I could not resist gunning the engine and chasing down said friends. Alas, one of the car's back doors swung open, just as I was passing the porch railing at an impressive 18-mph-clip.
I don't think I'll file that one with my insurance company.
Generally, I swagger through life with the confidence of a booty-rich pirate, never doubting that things will be good and bounteous. In my defense, most of my confidence is rooted in others, who possess both the skills and the good will to clear the path for the rest of us so that we seldom encounter the proverbial fallen limbs of life along our own trails.
Sometimes, though, I encounter a series of glitches that force me to start looking over my shoulder. Repeatedly.
Midweek proved to be one of those times.
My dual car "accidents" (after all, how can I really call them "accidents," sans quotation marks, when both were the direct result of my stupidity, something that is no accident?) were followed, in quick succession, by a string of other unfortunately-timed incidents.
First was the email from our school newspaper publisher, who should have been congratulating us on the timely delivery of our first issue, one we'd spent copious amounts of time preparing. Instead, though, theirs was a doom-and-gloom message, cloaked in an "OMG--DIDN'T WE TELL YOU THAT WE CHANGED THE SIZE OF OUR NEWSPAPERS?!" tone. My initial reaction was to rifle through the fridge and medicine cabinet, for anything marked "18 percent alcohol" in the ingredients' list. My second, more-reasoned-less-seasoned response was to tell the publisher that I looked forward to hearing about their no-additional-charge solution, the one that did not involve me.
The email was followed by "A Series of Unfortunate Events," including but not limited to: the white-tinged and very visible proof to my students and peers that I do, in fact, apply deodorant (most) every day; the mysterious disappearance of six oh-my-god-do-you-know-how-much-these-cost,woman!? senior-class portraits, the realization that our yearbook pages included neither column guides nor page numbers, and the discovery of chin hairs so taut and full of potential as to qualify them for quill-pen consideration.
I was starting to feel like lady luck had packed her bags for another destination.
And then I walked by our school's official sign-in guard, a man who takes our themed Spirit Week days to a new level. On this, Respect Our Elders Day, he had managed to cram his 250-pound frame into a sprightly, flower-spattered dress, complete with accompanying hose, wig and blush (or maybe it was house paint, I'm not sure).
Seeing him stationed at the front desk, the official "First Face of East High," warmed my heart. That the people who lined up in front of his check-in desk happened to be visiting teachers from such far-away lands as India, Burma and Bangladesh, each of whom spoke a different language but all of whom were thinking "What the...?!" in their native tongues, . . . well, it made me realize that I was going to be okay after all.
Thank you, Mark Siske, for proving to be the turning point in my bad luck. I'm glad it found your strong, capable, smartly-dressed shoulders to fall upon!
Come Wednesday morning, I was starting to get a little paranoid. Especially after the garage door let out a long and languorous moan as it made its way up my car's bumper, leaving marks not only on the bumper, but also on my very soul.
After all, it was the second time in twelve hours that my car had been in an accident. And both had occurred in my driveway.
The night before, after a most excellent dinner out with friends (proving that it is possible to have an excellent time--if not an excellent dinner-- at Spaghetti Works, where, apparently, there's no real pressure to clean off the salad bar), I'd shooed everyone out of the car halfway up the drive, knowing we'd struggle to unload in our cramped garage. My act of kindness, though, quickly turned against me, when I could not resist gunning the engine and chasing down said friends. Alas, one of the car's back doors swung open, just as I was passing the porch railing at an impressive 18-mph-clip.
I don't think I'll file that one with my insurance company.
Generally, I swagger through life with the confidence of a booty-rich pirate, never doubting that things will be good and bounteous. In my defense, most of my confidence is rooted in others, who possess both the skills and the good will to clear the path for the rest of us so that we seldom encounter the proverbial fallen limbs of life along our own trails.
Sometimes, though, I encounter a series of glitches that force me to start looking over my shoulder. Repeatedly.
Midweek proved to be one of those times.
My dual car "accidents" (after all, how can I really call them "accidents," sans quotation marks, when both were the direct result of my stupidity, something that is no accident?) were followed, in quick succession, by a string of other unfortunately-timed incidents.
First was the email from our school newspaper publisher, who should have been congratulating us on the timely delivery of our first issue, one we'd spent copious amounts of time preparing. Instead, though, theirs was a doom-and-gloom message, cloaked in an "OMG--DIDN'T WE TELL YOU THAT WE CHANGED THE SIZE OF OUR NEWSPAPERS?!" tone. My initial reaction was to rifle through the fridge and medicine cabinet, for anything marked "18 percent alcohol" in the ingredients' list. My second, more-reasoned-less-seasoned response was to tell the publisher that I looked forward to hearing about their no-additional-charge solution, the one that did not involve me.
The email was followed by "A Series of Unfortunate Events," including but not limited to: the white-tinged and very visible proof to my students and peers that I do, in fact, apply deodorant (most) every day; the mysterious disappearance of six oh-my-god-do-you-know-how-much-these-cost,woman!? senior-class portraits, the realization that our yearbook pages included neither column guides nor page numbers, and the discovery of chin hairs so taut and full of potential as to qualify them for quill-pen consideration.
I was starting to feel like lady luck had packed her bags for another destination.
And then I walked by our school's official sign-in guard, a man who takes our themed Spirit Week days to a new level. On this, Respect Our Elders Day, he had managed to cram his 250-pound frame into a sprightly, flower-spattered dress, complete with accompanying hose, wig and blush (or maybe it was house paint, I'm not sure).
Seeing him stationed at the front desk, the official "First Face of East High," warmed my heart. That the people who lined up in front of his check-in desk happened to be visiting teachers from such far-away lands as India, Burma and Bangladesh, each of whom spoke a different language but all of whom were thinking "What the...?!" in their native tongues, . . . well, it made me realize that I was going to be okay after all.
Thank you, Mark Siske, for proving to be the turning point in my bad luck. I'm glad it found your strong, capable, smartly-dressed shoulders to fall upon!
Wednesday, October 6, 2010
Til Death--Or Faulty Memory--Do Us Part
October 6, 2010
This weekend, a perfectly fine time on the porch with neighbor Jody was nearly ruined by talk of wedding photos. Normally, a topic like this wouldn't upset me, but the fact that I had absolutely no idea in the world where my wedding photos were...well, that left a funny taste in my mouth. Not "funny hah hah," either.
What does it mean when a person who otherwise assumes she's enjoying her 21st year of marriage can't find evidence the event actually took place? And, when said photos weren't surfacing, I realized I couldn't even locate the words to describe the event.
What did your dress look like?
It was white and kind of longish.
Did you wear a veil?
Yeah. It was white and kind of shortish.
What did your bridesmaids wear?
Dresses with flowers on them. They were black and kind of middling. The dresses, not the bridesmaids.
Sometimes, I wonder what it is I value anyway. I mean, I really enjoyed my wedding, even though I showed little interest in the details of the event. I pretty much let my mom dress me for the big day, a decision which, through the years, has proven to be a more successful approach than dressing myself. The one detail I remember caring a lot about was the menu. And then, when the night finally rolled around, I was lucky to get a handful of aged celery sticks and a lukewarm wedding weanie on my plate.
Fortunately, Allison knew where the wedding "album" was. I say "album" but it was more like a 45 rpm, small with just a couple of hits on it. Bob the Picture Man took our photos, mostly because he was cheap. He charged nothing to make us pose all night, asking only that we order at least $100 in photos. As I recall, my family managed to order $101.13 in photos, thus the reason Jody only needed about 45 seconds to scan through one of the most significant days of my life.
There's something to be said for a tightwad.
This weekend, a perfectly fine time on the porch with neighbor Jody was nearly ruined by talk of wedding photos. Normally, a topic like this wouldn't upset me, but the fact that I had absolutely no idea in the world where my wedding photos were...well, that left a funny taste in my mouth. Not "funny hah hah," either.
What does it mean when a person who otherwise assumes she's enjoying her 21st year of marriage can't find evidence the event actually took place? And, when said photos weren't surfacing, I realized I couldn't even locate the words to describe the event.
What did your dress look like?
It was white and kind of longish.
Did you wear a veil?
Yeah. It was white and kind of shortish.
What did your bridesmaids wear?
Dresses with flowers on them. They were black and kind of middling. The dresses, not the bridesmaids.
Sometimes, I wonder what it is I value anyway. I mean, I really enjoyed my wedding, even though I showed little interest in the details of the event. I pretty much let my mom dress me for the big day, a decision which, through the years, has proven to be a more successful approach than dressing myself. The one detail I remember caring a lot about was the menu. And then, when the night finally rolled around, I was lucky to get a handful of aged celery sticks and a lukewarm wedding weanie on my plate.
Fortunately, Allison knew where the wedding "album" was. I say "album" but it was more like a 45 rpm, small with just a couple of hits on it. Bob the Picture Man took our photos, mostly because he was cheap. He charged nothing to make us pose all night, asking only that we order at least $100 in photos. As I recall, my family managed to order $101.13 in photos, thus the reason Jody only needed about 45 seconds to scan through one of the most significant days of my life.
There's something to be said for a tightwad.
Saturday, October 2, 2010
Show Your Work, People!
October 2, 2010
These days, long vision is about as popular as long division. Unless your name is Descartes or Leona Penner, you probably haven’t hankered for either in a long, long time. That’s because, these days, we like easy solutions, snappy sound bites and quick resolution. Long vision and long division both prize patience and process, though. Both can be ugly to endure, but both also reward how we got there as much as they celebrate where it is we ultimately have arrived.
As much as I suffered through high-school math (I use the word “suffered” because it is both accurate and acute), I have to give credit to those math teachers who gave credit for showing our work. They knew that, when we take the time to show our work, to diligently track our move from one stage to the next, we also get the chance to track our growth or our mistakes. We get to move from long division to long vision. And that is a gift worth enduring Algebra for.
Worst are the politicians these days who will do just about anything for a positive headline and a nod in the voting booth. Collectively, they seem to lack both the thinking cap for math and the courage to plan for a future that is further away than, say, tomorrow. Or November 6th. Whichever happens first. In their pursuit for the short-term victory, they are dooming our futures. Who can be bothered with global warming, crippling debt or poverty when none of these possesses the shine and “ah factor” of tax cuts and mama-bear posturing?
I hunger for a politician who possesses the cojones to repeal tax cuts and asks us to start paying for a future that is worth living. And I will be the first to raise my hand in support of just such a policy, setting my sights and betting my hard-earned money on the long vision that sees a future that is bright for everyone, not just the politicians.
These days, long vision is about as popular as long division. Unless your name is Descartes or Leona Penner, you probably haven’t hankered for either in a long, long time. That’s because, these days, we like easy solutions, snappy sound bites and quick resolution. Long vision and long division both prize patience and process, though. Both can be ugly to endure, but both also reward how we got there as much as they celebrate where it is we ultimately have arrived.
As much as I suffered through high-school math (I use the word “suffered” because it is both accurate and acute), I have to give credit to those math teachers who gave credit for showing our work. They knew that, when we take the time to show our work, to diligently track our move from one stage to the next, we also get the chance to track our growth or our mistakes. We get to move from long division to long vision. And that is a gift worth enduring Algebra for.
Worst are the politicians these days who will do just about anything for a positive headline and a nod in the voting booth. Collectively, they seem to lack both the thinking cap for math and the courage to plan for a future that is further away than, say, tomorrow. Or November 6th. Whichever happens first. In their pursuit for the short-term victory, they are dooming our futures. Who can be bothered with global warming, crippling debt or poverty when none of these possesses the shine and “ah factor” of tax cuts and mama-bear posturing?
I hunger for a politician who possesses the cojones to repeal tax cuts and asks us to start paying for a future that is worth living. And I will be the first to raise my hand in support of just such a policy, setting my sights and betting my hard-earned money on the long vision that sees a future that is bright for everyone, not just the politicians.
Friday, October 1, 2010
Buh Bye, Fancy Pants!
October 1. 2010
Eight days in and I realize I’m a complete flop at the role of Modern Woman. No surprise there, I suppose. After all, one day last week, I wore mint colored socks with my brown shoes. I looked like an out-of-season Girl Scout cookie.
For the past eight days, my calendar, which I usually look at for the pretty pictures, became my cruise director, nudging me to volleyball matches, reunion parties, parent-teacher conferences, piles of student papers. Not really the kind of cruise director that deserves a tip, if you ask me. Probably works for one of those cruise lines that serves distended bowels at each port.
I may have survived the last eight days, but I did not really shine. Throughout it all, I tried to find inspiration in the millions of women who live this way every day. I tried to remember that some women not only wear different outfits each day but also wear hose with their dresses. Certainly these women don’t come home after work and wonder what happened to their slips.
I tried to remember that there are women out there whose daily calendars are divided into 15-minute increments, most of which have something more important than “period started, I think” etched between the lines.
I tried to stand up straight, put on a little blush, brush my hair, match my pants and shirts, floss my teeth, pluck my eyebrows, and not laugh when I had to help Allison find a strapless bra. I even tried to explain to the mom at parent-teacher conferences that I didn’t teach her daughter, but when she said how much her daughter loves me, well, I just couldn’t correct her, even though I knew it was wrong to let her keep on praising “me.”
Like I said, I tried. God knows I tried.
Turns out, I’m pretty much hard wired to fail at femininity.
But it also turns out that I rock when it comes to free time. And I had heaps of it today, after calling “uncle” and taking the day off. Still woke up at 5, but, from then on, the pace and the choices were mine. I rode my bike, I worked the puzzles, I walked the dog, I watched a Chinese cowboy flick, I played Scrabble,—quite well, thank you—I cleaned the hot tub, I wandered the garden, abuzz with insect life, and I was refilled.
It’s good to know that I can fake it, if I need to. That I can limp along Fancy Female Lane, fooling those who don’t get so close as to see the lines in my face or take note of the wrinkles in my clothes. More than that, though, it’s good to know that, in the flash of an eye, I quickly find my old rhythm, my old t-shirts, my old self. I am like an old, dependable blanket, comforted by my cotton underwear and well-worn habits.
Eight days in and I realize I’m a complete flop at the role of Modern Woman. No surprise there, I suppose. After all, one day last week, I wore mint colored socks with my brown shoes. I looked like an out-of-season Girl Scout cookie.
For the past eight days, my calendar, which I usually look at for the pretty pictures, became my cruise director, nudging me to volleyball matches, reunion parties, parent-teacher conferences, piles of student papers. Not really the kind of cruise director that deserves a tip, if you ask me. Probably works for one of those cruise lines that serves distended bowels at each port.
I may have survived the last eight days, but I did not really shine. Throughout it all, I tried to find inspiration in the millions of women who live this way every day. I tried to remember that some women not only wear different outfits each day but also wear hose with their dresses. Certainly these women don’t come home after work and wonder what happened to their slips.
I tried to remember that there are women out there whose daily calendars are divided into 15-minute increments, most of which have something more important than “period started, I think” etched between the lines.
I tried to stand up straight, put on a little blush, brush my hair, match my pants and shirts, floss my teeth, pluck my eyebrows, and not laugh when I had to help Allison find a strapless bra. I even tried to explain to the mom at parent-teacher conferences that I didn’t teach her daughter, but when she said how much her daughter loves me, well, I just couldn’t correct her, even though I knew it was wrong to let her keep on praising “me.”
Like I said, I tried. God knows I tried.
Turns out, I’m pretty much hard wired to fail at femininity.
But it also turns out that I rock when it comes to free time. And I had heaps of it today, after calling “uncle” and taking the day off. Still woke up at 5, but, from then on, the pace and the choices were mine. I rode my bike, I worked the puzzles, I walked the dog, I watched a Chinese cowboy flick, I played Scrabble,—quite well, thank you—I cleaned the hot tub, I wandered the garden, abuzz with insect life, and I was refilled.
It’s good to know that I can fake it, if I need to. That I can limp along Fancy Female Lane, fooling those who don’t get so close as to see the lines in my face or take note of the wrinkles in my clothes. More than that, though, it’s good to know that, in the flash of an eye, I quickly find my old rhythm, my old t-shirts, my old self. I am like an old, dependable blanket, comforted by my cotton underwear and well-worn habits.
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