Here's how my day started yesterday:
Looked out my bedroom window at 4:55 a.m. right before I headed out for the office. My comment was, "Oh, shit."
Six inches of snow between my front door and my car parked on the street in front of my house. Almost ate it on the way down my front steps. Images of lying broken in the snow and freezing to death and having neighborhood wildlife nibbling on my frozen carcass made me press on. Waded through snow on my front lawn? sidewalk? street? whatever to get to my car. Tried to turn on windshield wipers but the weight of the snow made them stop halfway up. Started car that didn't want to start, revved engine a couple of times, cranked heat up to nuclear blast level. Got out of car and kinda swooshed snow off the windshield with the sleeves of my coat because I didn't have a snow brush thingie. Got back in car and tried to thaw hands out enough to grip steering wheel and thaw feet out enough to feel pedals. Put car in gear and pressed on gas, released clutch and kinda hoped for the best.
Drove 18 miles to work on major freeways, some of which had seen a snow plow at some point during the previous night. Almost ate it again when a school bus decided that its lane wasn't large enough and it needed some of mine too. Hit brakes and felt the stomach rumbling feeling of a little fishtailing down the freeway at 40 mph. Tried not to poop pants. Somewhat successful. Screamed obscenities at the unwitting bus driver about his lack of intelligence and questioned with what animals his parents mated. Did not feel better.
Reached parking garage and endured arctic blast when window rolled down to swipe entry card. Redressed myself in my hat, scarf, gloves, and overcoat before exiting vehicle. Almost ate it for the third time in less than 45 minutes on the snowy, icy walkway to elevator in garage. Images of lying broken and frozen in garage and having urban wildlife steal my boots and socks made me press on. Deciding whom I would sue first should I injure my big fat heinie on the concrete spurred me to keep going. Exited elevator and garage lobby to find another six inches of snow that had to be navigated between the garage and the Willis Tower...and IT WAS SNOWING AGAIN, DAMMIT. Stood at the corner, spitting wet, half frozen hair out of my mouth and slitting my eyes against the snowflakes that were slamming into my eyeballs like excrutiatingly cold grains of sand, and waited for the two different stoplights I had to negotiate to get into my building. Decided if I turned my head AWAY from the driving snow, my hair would still be a problem but at least I wasn't in any danger of going blind.
Finally, walked into building where the security personnel yelled a cheery, "Good morning!" at me before I even got my gloves, hat and scarf under control. Resisted impulse to tell them to go copulate with themselves.
Congratulated myself on the accomplishment of staying alive for another hour.
Sunday, February 24, 2013
Sunday, January 13, 2013
Winter Blues: Or Why I'm Late for Work...Again.
GOING TO WORK IN WINTER IN HOUSTON:
1. Two minutes to go time, put on jacket if it’s below 60 degrees.
2. Step out door of house.
3. Lock door.
4. Get in car and leave
5. Drive to office.
6. Arrive at garage and park car.
7. Lock car.
8. Enter building.
9. Remove jacket.
10. Arrive at office and begin work day.
GOING TO WORK IN WINTER IN CHICAGO:
1. Fifteen minutes to go time, pack office shoes to take to work with you.
2. Put on winter boots.
3. Put on jacket.
4. Put on overcoat.
5. Put on knit hat.
6. Put on gloves.
7. Put on scarf.
8. Decide you need to go to the bathroom.
9. Remove scarf.
10. Remove gloves.
11. Remove overcoat.
12. Go to the bathroom.
13. Re-don overcoat.
14. Re-don gloves.
15. Re-don scarf.
16. Go out to car.
17. Scrape snow and ice off of windshield enough to see out of a 6” x 6” square.
18. Enter vehicle and start.
19. Crank heater up hot enough to shoot flames from the vents.
20. Remove gloves.
21. Remove hat because you don’t want to look like a dork while you’re driving down the freeway.
22. Remove scarf for same reason.
23. Unbutton overcoat so you have a tiny bit of arm mobility.
24. Wait for at least 5 minutes for defrost to kick in enough for wipers to scrape more snow and ice off of windshield.
25. Drive to work.
26. One block from your house, realize you forgot to lock the door.
27. Drive back to house.
28. Lock door.
29. Get back in car and drive to work.
30. Arrive at garage and park car.
31. Rebutton overcoat.
32. Re-don hat.
33. Re-don scarf.
34. Re-don gloves.
35. Get out of car. Lock it and walk one block to work, shivering and freezing your heinie off all the way, while telling yourself that you’re so lucky to have this adventure.
36. Arrive at building.
37. Take off gloves and hat.
38. Smooth hair back into place.
39. Tuck gloves in overcoat pocket.
40. Tuck hat in other overcoat pocket.
41. Ride elevator up to office.
42. See hair in reflection in elevator and realize you look like a cartoon character only not funny.
43. Enter work area.
44. Remove scarf.
45. Remove overcoat.
46. Realize one of your gloves fell out of the pocket.
47. Walk back down hallway to elevator, looking for missing glove.
48. Take elevator back down to first floor of building.
49. Find glove on the floor in the middle of the lobby. Mumble, “There you are!” like you’re a crazy, homeless person.
50. Ride elevator back up to office.
51. Hang up overcoat.
52. Remove winter boots.
53. Take office shoes out of pack and put them on.
54. Realize you have shoes from two different pairs in your pack.
55. Put head on desk and cry.
56. Begin work day.
1. Two minutes to go time, put on jacket if it’s below 60 degrees.
2. Step out door of house.
3. Lock door.
4. Get in car and leave
5. Drive to office.
6. Arrive at garage and park car.
7. Lock car.
8. Enter building.
9. Remove jacket.
10. Arrive at office and begin work day.
GOING TO WORK IN WINTER IN CHICAGO:
1. Fifteen minutes to go time, pack office shoes to take to work with you.
2. Put on winter boots.
3. Put on jacket.
4. Put on overcoat.
5. Put on knit hat.
6. Put on gloves.
7. Put on scarf.
8. Decide you need to go to the bathroom.
9. Remove scarf.
10. Remove gloves.
11. Remove overcoat.
12. Go to the bathroom.
13. Re-don overcoat.
14. Re-don gloves.
15. Re-don scarf.
16. Go out to car.
17. Scrape snow and ice off of windshield enough to see out of a 6” x 6” square.
18. Enter vehicle and start.
19. Crank heater up hot enough to shoot flames from the vents.
20. Remove gloves.
21. Remove hat because you don’t want to look like a dork while you’re driving down the freeway.
22. Remove scarf for same reason.
23. Unbutton overcoat so you have a tiny bit of arm mobility.
24. Wait for at least 5 minutes for defrost to kick in enough for wipers to scrape more snow and ice off of windshield.
25. Drive to work.
26. One block from your house, realize you forgot to lock the door.
27. Drive back to house.
28. Lock door.
29. Get back in car and drive to work.
30. Arrive at garage and park car.
31. Rebutton overcoat.
32. Re-don hat.
33. Re-don scarf.
34. Re-don gloves.
35. Get out of car. Lock it and walk one block to work, shivering and freezing your heinie off all the way, while telling yourself that you’re so lucky to have this adventure.
36. Arrive at building.
37. Take off gloves and hat.
38. Smooth hair back into place.
39. Tuck gloves in overcoat pocket.
40. Tuck hat in other overcoat pocket.
41. Ride elevator up to office.
42. See hair in reflection in elevator and realize you look like a cartoon character only not funny.
43. Enter work area.
44. Remove scarf.
45. Remove overcoat.
46. Realize one of your gloves fell out of the pocket.
47. Walk back down hallway to elevator, looking for missing glove.
48. Take elevator back down to first floor of building.
49. Find glove on the floor in the middle of the lobby. Mumble, “There you are!” like you’re a crazy, homeless person.
50. Ride elevator back up to office.
51. Hang up overcoat.
52. Remove winter boots.
53. Take office shoes out of pack and put them on.
54. Realize you have shoes from two different pairs in your pack.
55. Put head on desk and cry.
56. Begin work day.
Sunday, December 16, 2012
Why, God?
Yesterday, a terrible, terrible tragedy occurred. A disturbed man, armed with a couple of guns, entered an elementary school in Connecticut and shot and killed 27 innocent people, many of them young children.
When horrendous things like this occur nowadays, everyone is compelled to run to their Facebook account and posts their feelings about what happened. Although I believe that it is healthy to vent strong emotions in order to attempt to shine light on them and attempt to make sense of them, it was with a great deal of despair that I watched comment after comment after comment pop up on my Facebook feed.
The despair I felt was mostly centered on two topics related to the massacre that were inappropriate and illogical. One topic was political, which I thought was dumb and in incredibly poor taste to bring up while emotions were high and folks were still reeling from shock, but which I suppose was an understandable topic in light of the horrendous and unexpected attack. The other topic was just shocking and stupid and completely illogical, and it's one I've been mulling over for the past 24 hours or so while I'm trying to wrap my brain around the senselessness of the situation.
I will never understand why folks, particularly Christians, will say things like:
"Well, what do you expect? God is no longer allowed in schools."
"Why did God allow this to happen?"
The first question is one of the more ludicrous, and indeed, hurtful, things I've ever heard from folks who profess to be Christians. The inference of this statement is that God's power is limited. That man, in his pathetic attempts to control his world, can actually keep God out of schools and away from the people inside those schools. That just because man has decided to officially remove prayer from the school day, God is for some reason no longer able to have an effect on what happens inside school walls.
If, as a Christian, you truly believe that God is infinite, that He is omniscient and omnipresent, you must accept that God was inside that school when the gunman entered. He was there with those poor, innocent babies as they were slaughtered in front of their classmates and their teachers. If you accept that God was there in that school at that time because you know that man cannot possibly contain God, no matter how much legislation is passed regarding the separation of church and state, then the second question is the more reasonable and natural question to ask.
Why did God allow this tragedy to occur? Why did God allow folks, who innocently awakened one morning on a cold December day, bathed, dressed, ate their cereal and went off to that school, to be slaughtered randomly by a madman for no reason? The answer is that He didn't. He didn't allow this tragedy to occur. God doesn't work that way. When He created human beings, He gave them free will. Men and women are free to choose whether they will do evil or good.
God is not some magical, mythical being who flits around with a wand and say, "Uh uh uh, oh no no, you can't do that." Because if He did do that, if He did prevent these sorts of awful things from happening, then we wouldn't have free will and we couldn't make a conscious decision to love and follow Him. This darkest day occurred because a man woke up on December 14, 2012 and made a decision to do evil, to consciously choose to exercise his free will and to wantonly kill other human beings before he took his own life.
That's it in a nutshell.
God didn't choose for or allow those students and teachers to be slaughtered.
Man did.
When horrendous things like this occur nowadays, everyone is compelled to run to their Facebook account and posts their feelings about what happened. Although I believe that it is healthy to vent strong emotions in order to attempt to shine light on them and attempt to make sense of them, it was with a great deal of despair that I watched comment after comment after comment pop up on my Facebook feed.
The despair I felt was mostly centered on two topics related to the massacre that were inappropriate and illogical. One topic was political, which I thought was dumb and in incredibly poor taste to bring up while emotions were high and folks were still reeling from shock, but which I suppose was an understandable topic in light of the horrendous and unexpected attack. The other topic was just shocking and stupid and completely illogical, and it's one I've been mulling over for the past 24 hours or so while I'm trying to wrap my brain around the senselessness of the situation.
I will never understand why folks, particularly Christians, will say things like:
"Well, what do you expect? God is no longer allowed in schools."
"Why did God allow this to happen?"
The first question is one of the more ludicrous, and indeed, hurtful, things I've ever heard from folks who profess to be Christians. The inference of this statement is that God's power is limited. That man, in his pathetic attempts to control his world, can actually keep God out of schools and away from the people inside those schools. That just because man has decided to officially remove prayer from the school day, God is for some reason no longer able to have an effect on what happens inside school walls.
If, as a Christian, you truly believe that God is infinite, that He is omniscient and omnipresent, you must accept that God was inside that school when the gunman entered. He was there with those poor, innocent babies as they were slaughtered in front of their classmates and their teachers. If you accept that God was there in that school at that time because you know that man cannot possibly contain God, no matter how much legislation is passed regarding the separation of church and state, then the second question is the more reasonable and natural question to ask.
Why did God allow this tragedy to occur? Why did God allow folks, who innocently awakened one morning on a cold December day, bathed, dressed, ate their cereal and went off to that school, to be slaughtered randomly by a madman for no reason? The answer is that He didn't. He didn't allow this tragedy to occur. God doesn't work that way. When He created human beings, He gave them free will. Men and women are free to choose whether they will do evil or good.
God is not some magical, mythical being who flits around with a wand and say, "Uh uh uh, oh no no, you can't do that." Because if He did do that, if He did prevent these sorts of awful things from happening, then we wouldn't have free will and we couldn't make a conscious decision to love and follow Him. This darkest day occurred because a man woke up on December 14, 2012 and made a decision to do evil, to consciously choose to exercise his free will and to wantonly kill other human beings before he took his own life.
That's it in a nutshell.
God didn't choose for or allow those students and teachers to be slaughtered.
Man did.
Monday, November 19, 2012
The Year of Vanity
This month marks a full year since I broke a longterm friendship. I didn't break the friendship by choice, nor did I do so lightly. In fact, at the time the friendship became damaged, it seemed a stupid, silly squabble, a heated set of words hurled across the dinner table during what should have been a time of family celebration and togetherness. Perhaps I was too sensitive, but I got my feelings hurt. Opinions and thoughts that I had expressed in the past were thrown back in my face, ridiculed and criticized. I was blindsided and deeply wounded. I was also very tired at the time, very stressed, slightly inebriated. In retrospect, there was certainly a recipe for a relationship disaster.
I have thought many, many times about whether the friendship was salvageable, and if it was, what would be the best way of repairing it. Of course, it seems obvious to me that the best way to knit back together what was once one of the most important relationships I've ever had would be for someone to apologize, but sadly, I simply cannot bring myself to apologize for something I don't believe is my fault. Equally sad is the fact that the other party will not apologize either for this person truly believes that they are in the right.
Am I sorry that the friendship is broken? Absolutely. Do I believe that at some point both of us will deeply regret our respective parts in this difficult situation? Of course, I do. But I also wonder if there even is a way back from a place where no communication is allowed or encouraged. Neither party will budge. Neither party wants to make the first move. Neither party wants to even attempt communication.
The root of the problem, of course, is that a trust has been broken. Friends should feel free to express their doubts and desires and dislikes without fear that they will be embarrassed or misunderstood or ridiculed. During the confrontation that caused the rift in this friendship, the other party felt that they had a right to their opinions in a family matter, and they felt that they needed to express and have someone heed those opinions. And, yes, they did have that right. There is an appropriate time and place to have those sorts of discussions, though, and I felt as if I was being ridiculed for giving my best effort to make the best of a bad situation. I am extremely sensitive about being ridiculed for any reason. So, the trust that each of us felt in the safety of family and our friendship was destroyed, shattered by ego and pride, mangled by vanity.
Is it pride that makes us stubborn? Are we really happier being separate?
Do I miss my friend?
Does my friend miss me?
I have thought many, many times about whether the friendship was salvageable, and if it was, what would be the best way of repairing it. Of course, it seems obvious to me that the best way to knit back together what was once one of the most important relationships I've ever had would be for someone to apologize, but sadly, I simply cannot bring myself to apologize for something I don't believe is my fault. Equally sad is the fact that the other party will not apologize either for this person truly believes that they are in the right.
Am I sorry that the friendship is broken? Absolutely. Do I believe that at some point both of us will deeply regret our respective parts in this difficult situation? Of course, I do. But I also wonder if there even is a way back from a place where no communication is allowed or encouraged. Neither party will budge. Neither party wants to make the first move. Neither party wants to even attempt communication.
The root of the problem, of course, is that a trust has been broken. Friends should feel free to express their doubts and desires and dislikes without fear that they will be embarrassed or misunderstood or ridiculed. During the confrontation that caused the rift in this friendship, the other party felt that they had a right to their opinions in a family matter, and they felt that they needed to express and have someone heed those opinions. And, yes, they did have that right. There is an appropriate time and place to have those sorts of discussions, though, and I felt as if I was being ridiculed for giving my best effort to make the best of a bad situation. I am extremely sensitive about being ridiculed for any reason. So, the trust that each of us felt in the safety of family and our friendship was destroyed, shattered by ego and pride, mangled by vanity.
Is it pride that makes us stubborn? Are we really happier being separate?
Do I miss my friend?
Does my friend miss me?
Wednesday, November 14, 2012
Fifty Shades of Friendship
Starting over at almost 50 years old isn't easy. I know that sounds a bit dramatic, but it IS dramatic to move over 1000 miles away from your home and friends and life and begin work on a new home, friends and life. It is dramatic to move from hot, humid, conservative southeast Texas to cool, humid, decidedly more liberal northwest Indiana.
It's a dramatic change at any age, but I believe it's moreso at 50. At 50, you're supposed to have everything all figured out. You're supposed to be rising in your career, near to finished with your child rearing, coddling your grandbabies and counting your stash of retirement gold. At 50, you're not supposed to be sitting on your front stoop at 2:00 a.m., sobbing and worrying because your spouse hasn't found a new job, you don't have any friends and the beautiful old house you bought needs a new furnace. Life is supposed to get easier at 50...or at least that's what I always thought.
On the other hand, change is good. Drama may not be good, but change is. Change presents challenges and challenges bring fresh perspectives and new ideas on how to tackle old problems. So, your spouse is still going to need to look for that job and your old house still needs a new furnace, but you can figure out a new way to make friends, which is what I did.
No matter what anyone tells you, I am, at the bottom of my heart, a friendly person. I do want people to like me. Truly. It's just that I want them to like me for me. I won't put a lot of effort into trying to make and keep friends. I cannot force you to like me. I can be my funny, bizarre, ADD-riddled self and I can be kind and considerate and compassionate, and if you like me, GREAT! If you don't, it's your loss. I won't spend a lot of time agonizing over your lack of interest or trying to convince you why I'm so great or trying to remake myself into something else so that you'll have to like me. I am great and fun and really cool, and if you're smart and funny and want to be entertained, you'll figure that out about me.
The thing is, there are not a lot of opportunities for people in their 50s to make friends. It's not like when you were a kid and your mom set up playdates with the neighbors or made you go to church and you met other kids there. It's not like you're in school and you can hang out with other kids after class, go out to movies, or bars or clubs, sit and talk and get to know each other. When you're 50 and don't belong to a church, that potential avenue for friend finding is closed. When you're 50, you're probably not attending classes or going out to bars. If you're like me, you've probably discovered the wisdom of keeping work relationships at work and home relationships at home.
So, my challenge was how do you meet people and make friends if you're older and you're starting over in life in a strange new place? My answer was simple. I decided to search for friends on the Internet. I know it sounds weird and possibly unsafe, but I went onto a social website that allows its members to search for other folks in their geographical area who meet to pursue hobbies or share interests. It's true that this particular site might be better suited to young, single folks because they generally have more flexibility of schedule and find it less daunting to pursue socializing with complete strangers. But I dug up some courage and I spent a huge chunk of time searching for a group in which I'd be comfortable, and when I didn't find one, I simply created my own group by deciding that my little corner of Indiana needed a supper club. Through my supper club, I met someone who directed me to another group for women in my area to get together a night or two a month for wine or dinner or book discussion. Thus began my slow process of making new friends in my new home place.
It took several months and some false starts. I attended meetings and dinners looking for what my son aptly called my "Sex in the City" girls, i.e. other smart, funny women who had the potential to become my new best friends, friends who could be counted on to cheer me up when I was sad or lonely, friends who would support me when I felt insecure, friends who could meet me for a drink or a movie or lunch, friends who would let me be ridiculous.
I think I've found a friend or two who fits that description. Of course, I fully realize that it takes years to build a true, solid friendship based on mutual love and respect, but at least I've got a potential foundation started. It's very exciting but more than that, it's hopeful.
And hopeful is really, really good.
Really.
It's a dramatic change at any age, but I believe it's moreso at 50. At 50, you're supposed to have everything all figured out. You're supposed to be rising in your career, near to finished with your child rearing, coddling your grandbabies and counting your stash of retirement gold. At 50, you're not supposed to be sitting on your front stoop at 2:00 a.m., sobbing and worrying because your spouse hasn't found a new job, you don't have any friends and the beautiful old house you bought needs a new furnace. Life is supposed to get easier at 50...or at least that's what I always thought.
On the other hand, change is good. Drama may not be good, but change is. Change presents challenges and challenges bring fresh perspectives and new ideas on how to tackle old problems. So, your spouse is still going to need to look for that job and your old house still needs a new furnace, but you can figure out a new way to make friends, which is what I did.
No matter what anyone tells you, I am, at the bottom of my heart, a friendly person. I do want people to like me. Truly. It's just that I want them to like me for me. I won't put a lot of effort into trying to make and keep friends. I cannot force you to like me. I can be my funny, bizarre, ADD-riddled self and I can be kind and considerate and compassionate, and if you like me, GREAT! If you don't, it's your loss. I won't spend a lot of time agonizing over your lack of interest or trying to convince you why I'm so great or trying to remake myself into something else so that you'll have to like me. I am great and fun and really cool, and if you're smart and funny and want to be entertained, you'll figure that out about me.
The thing is, there are not a lot of opportunities for people in their 50s to make friends. It's not like when you were a kid and your mom set up playdates with the neighbors or made you go to church and you met other kids there. It's not like you're in school and you can hang out with other kids after class, go out to movies, or bars or clubs, sit and talk and get to know each other. When you're 50 and don't belong to a church, that potential avenue for friend finding is closed. When you're 50, you're probably not attending classes or going out to bars. If you're like me, you've probably discovered the wisdom of keeping work relationships at work and home relationships at home.
So, my challenge was how do you meet people and make friends if you're older and you're starting over in life in a strange new place? My answer was simple. I decided to search for friends on the Internet. I know it sounds weird and possibly unsafe, but I went onto a social website that allows its members to search for other folks in their geographical area who meet to pursue hobbies or share interests. It's true that this particular site might be better suited to young, single folks because they generally have more flexibility of schedule and find it less daunting to pursue socializing with complete strangers. But I dug up some courage and I spent a huge chunk of time searching for a group in which I'd be comfortable, and when I didn't find one, I simply created my own group by deciding that my little corner of Indiana needed a supper club. Through my supper club, I met someone who directed me to another group for women in my area to get together a night or two a month for wine or dinner or book discussion. Thus began my slow process of making new friends in my new home place.
It took several months and some false starts. I attended meetings and dinners looking for what my son aptly called my "Sex in the City" girls, i.e. other smart, funny women who had the potential to become my new best friends, friends who could be counted on to cheer me up when I was sad or lonely, friends who would support me when I felt insecure, friends who could meet me for a drink or a movie or lunch, friends who would let me be ridiculous.
I think I've found a friend or two who fits that description. Of course, I fully realize that it takes years to build a true, solid friendship based on mutual love and respect, but at least I've got a potential foundation started. It's very exciting but more than that, it's hopeful.
And hopeful is really, really good.
Really.
Tuesday, November 13, 2012
Changes in Latitudes/Changes in Attitudes
So, I came back here to "my blog" recently when someone reminded me of my failed Roller Derby Goddess foray and realized that I haven't really written anything new in about two years now. Yikes. Two years flew by, and, while my life isn't always the most exciting, things certainly have been happening that are worth mentioning and discussing and figuring out.
Two years ago, I worked as a crew scheduler for a major airline. I was promoted from that poisition to the position of crew coordinator. During this time period, my company merged with one of its competitors, which necessitated me moving my home and family from Texas to Northwest Indiana. I am almost 50 years old. I was born and raised in Texas. I grew up, attended high school, college, got married and had babies, buried a father and a father-in-law, all in the Great State of Texas. To say that there was some culture shock involved in this 1000 mile move across the country would be an understatement.
But along with the culture shock, I saw and still firmly believe that there was and is a huge opportunity, the opportunity to learn, to grow, to become a better person. As I characterized it to my husband and friends, and to anyone else who would listen: How many times in your life are you given the gift of an opportunity to completely remake yourself? This sort of opportunity is both extremely exciting and a bit daunting, but I remain hopeful and positive that the very best part of my life is yet to be experienced. So, I'd like to chronicle some of the thoughts and experiences I have here in the Midwest...as soon as my fingers thaw out and my teeth stop chattering.
Two years ago, I worked as a crew scheduler for a major airline. I was promoted from that poisition to the position of crew coordinator. During this time period, my company merged with one of its competitors, which necessitated me moving my home and family from Texas to Northwest Indiana. I am almost 50 years old. I was born and raised in Texas. I grew up, attended high school, college, got married and had babies, buried a father and a father-in-law, all in the Great State of Texas. To say that there was some culture shock involved in this 1000 mile move across the country would be an understatement.
But along with the culture shock, I saw and still firmly believe that there was and is a huge opportunity, the opportunity to learn, to grow, to become a better person. As I characterized it to my husband and friends, and to anyone else who would listen: How many times in your life are you given the gift of an opportunity to completely remake yourself? This sort of opportunity is both extremely exciting and a bit daunting, but I remain hopeful and positive that the very best part of my life is yet to be experienced. So, I'd like to chronicle some of the thoughts and experiences I have here in the Midwest...as soon as my fingers thaw out and my teeth stop chattering.
Saturday, July 10, 2010
Airport Airhead
Recently I was cutting up with some friends and I was reminded of this delightful little moment in time in my life. There are moments in your lifetime that are etched into your memory because of their profundity or their sheer wonderfulness. This was NOT one of those moments. No, this moment will forever remain in my memory because of its idiocy. For once, however, I was not the one being the idiot. That honor would have to go to the other player in my moment, the random stranger at the Washington, DC airport who foisted her dumbness upon me for that one brief shining moment in time.
It went down like this. I was returning from spending a couple of really not good days with my family in New York City. The weather had been hot and muggy, the teenagers had been cranky and surly and my mother had been challenging. I have since discovered that my mother's personality and mine do not mix well while traveling. I tend to be a fly by the seat of your pants traveller and she is, well, not. During this particular trip, though, I hadn't come to that realization, yet. That little nugget of wisdom was still forming in the recesses of my brain.
Anyway, as I have mentioned before, I work for an airline, so my family and I always travel stand by. If there are seats available on the aircraft, we go on our merry way, winging merrily to distant climes and exotic locales, like Jacksonville. If there are no seats available on the aircraft, we sit at the airport, waiting...bored...frustrated...irritated. I don't know exactly what we're irritated about. We fly for free, dammit, you'd think we'd be thankful, but I guess we just have gotten spoiled over the years. This particular trip, after having been irritated for the better part of 48 hours in New York, we were stuck, irritated, on our homeward bound journey in the DC airport.
We sat and waited for several hours. Planes came in, planes took off, we remained grounded. I checked flights and tried not to become hysterical, but when it became apparent to me that we might be trapped in DC until the end of time, I decided that drastic measures were in order. I left my children and my mother in the gate area and went back through security to the ticket sales counter for my airline. I was given information on upcoming flights and some possible remedies to get unstuck from DC. I then proceeded back through the security area to get back to my family in the gate area.
Now, as nearly every travelling person has experienced, the security area at any airport presents its own challenges, challenges that range from being merely inconvenient to profoundly stupid. Seasoned travellers know to remove their shoes and to place all toiletries in a quart sized ziploc bag, and to place their cellphone and change in the little dish, and to watch and wait for their turn to step quickly through the scanner, retrieve their belongings and get out of the way of those following them. Seasoned travellers do all of these things automatically, without even thinking about them. Seasoned travellers limit conversation and pay attention. Inexperienced travellers, or, maybe they're just naturally annoying people, just don't seem to get the general flow of things in the airport security area. They chat to each other or on their cellphones, fail to pay attention and move forward when it's their turn, fail to take their shoes off, fail to get the hell out of the way when others are behind them and passing through the scanner...well, you get my meaning.
So, on my way back through security, I had removed my shoes and placed them and my cellphone in the plastic tub and stepped through the body scanner. I was waiting on the other side of the scanner for the plastic tub with my belongings to appear when I heard a female voice over my left shoulder say, "So...are we going to get to see pictures of the baby on the monitor?" Now, I have mentioned before how much I despise random people trying to make chit chat with me, so I attempted to ignore the voice, but when no one else responded to her, I, with a feeling of deep foreboding, a feeling that told me that this situation could not possibly end well, turned my head to the left, indicated with my right hand toward my chest and queried, "Are you speaking to me?" A lady, a complete and utter stranger to me, bobbed her head in the affirmative and queried again, "I said, are we going to get to see photos of the baby on the monitor?" and indicated toward my abdomen that she thought I was pregnant.
Now, before I go any further, perhaps I should discuss what I was wearing that day and maybe why this woman had the unmitigated gall to address me in such a manner. I was wearing travelling clothes. When one flies standby often, one develops a sort of uniform for travelling, something that looks nice enough to be worn in first class should one be fortunate enough to be upgraded to first, but something that is relaxed and comfy enough to spend hour upon blessed, stinking hour in the waiting area of an airport. That particular day, I was wearing an oversized, longish blue sweater that I had purchased in NYC from a trendy, upscale, overpriced retailer, a pair of basic black travelling slacks and my comfy black walking shoes and socks.
Furthermore, I was well into my forties at this point and had not been pregnant for a number of years, my youngest was 14 at the time. I will admit that I'm overweight and was so at the time of this event, as well. In fact, I've admitted this on any number of occasions and take a certain amount of delight in calling myself "fat", becauses "fat" is a funny word. "Obese", "heavy set," or "big boned", on the other hand, aren't funny at all, and "fluffy" is just dumb. So, I suppose that the bulky sweater and extra weight could possibly have made it appear that I was with child...maybe. But, I learned a long, long time ago that unless you know beyond a shadow of a doubt that a woman is indeed pregnant, you do not so much as breathe a word of inquiry in that regard towards her. You go behind her back and ask her friends.
Now, maybe, just maybe, this was God's way of telling me that I needed to get my health under control and make weight loss a priority. Perhaps, He sent this "angel", and I use the term ever so loosely, to shock me into the nearest WeightWatcher's meeting like He used the big fish to shock Jonah to hightail it, covered in fish spit, to Ninevah. Or, on the other hand, maybe this was God's way of showing this dumb lady that nosiness is NOT next to Godliness, and that she needed to learn to keep her opinions and her observations a little bit closer to the vest. Either way, all I know is that perhaps the Devil stepped in at that moment, compelled me to turn around and confirm that the question was indeed directed at me, and then look the woman dead in the eye and in the most deadpan, straight faced, don't-screw-with-me-sister voice I could manage answer her by saying, "No, ma'am. I'm not pregnant. I'm just FAT."
Queen DumDum of the Dumblefusses looked shellshocked for a fraction of a second, but instead of having the good grace to maybe mumble "sorry" and turn away, she decided to try to cover herself by blathering on and on about how neat it would be if the airport scanners could actually "see" a baby in utero and display it on the screen for everyone to enjoy...like pregnancy is some sort of freaky sideshow that random, travelling strangers need to have the opportunity to participate in and discuss again at their leisure. I quickly retrieved my belongings from the scanner's conveyor belt and turned on my heel and stormed away, whipping out my cellphone along the way so that I could call my husband and scream at him about stupid, nosy noodleheads, while I walked down the concourse and back into the gate area.
I arrived back at the gate area and relayed my experience to my mother and children. My mother stared at me, horrified, and exclaimed, "Sherri Lynn!! I can't believe you said that!" My comment to her was:
"Well, Mom, a really stupid question deserves a really smartass response."
It went down like this. I was returning from spending a couple of really not good days with my family in New York City. The weather had been hot and muggy, the teenagers had been cranky and surly and my mother had been challenging. I have since discovered that my mother's personality and mine do not mix well while traveling. I tend to be a fly by the seat of your pants traveller and she is, well, not. During this particular trip, though, I hadn't come to that realization, yet. That little nugget of wisdom was still forming in the recesses of my brain.
Anyway, as I have mentioned before, I work for an airline, so my family and I always travel stand by. If there are seats available on the aircraft, we go on our merry way, winging merrily to distant climes and exotic locales, like Jacksonville. If there are no seats available on the aircraft, we sit at the airport, waiting...bored...frustrated...irritated. I don't know exactly what we're irritated about. We fly for free, dammit, you'd think we'd be thankful, but I guess we just have gotten spoiled over the years. This particular trip, after having been irritated for the better part of 48 hours in New York, we were stuck, irritated, on our homeward bound journey in the DC airport.
We sat and waited for several hours. Planes came in, planes took off, we remained grounded. I checked flights and tried not to become hysterical, but when it became apparent to me that we might be trapped in DC until the end of time, I decided that drastic measures were in order. I left my children and my mother in the gate area and went back through security to the ticket sales counter for my airline. I was given information on upcoming flights and some possible remedies to get unstuck from DC. I then proceeded back through the security area to get back to my family in the gate area.
Now, as nearly every travelling person has experienced, the security area at any airport presents its own challenges, challenges that range from being merely inconvenient to profoundly stupid. Seasoned travellers know to remove their shoes and to place all toiletries in a quart sized ziploc bag, and to place their cellphone and change in the little dish, and to watch and wait for their turn to step quickly through the scanner, retrieve their belongings and get out of the way of those following them. Seasoned travellers do all of these things automatically, without even thinking about them. Seasoned travellers limit conversation and pay attention. Inexperienced travellers, or, maybe they're just naturally annoying people, just don't seem to get the general flow of things in the airport security area. They chat to each other or on their cellphones, fail to pay attention and move forward when it's their turn, fail to take their shoes off, fail to get the hell out of the way when others are behind them and passing through the scanner...well, you get my meaning.
So, on my way back through security, I had removed my shoes and placed them and my cellphone in the plastic tub and stepped through the body scanner. I was waiting on the other side of the scanner for the plastic tub with my belongings to appear when I heard a female voice over my left shoulder say, "So...are we going to get to see pictures of the baby on the monitor?" Now, I have mentioned before how much I despise random people trying to make chit chat with me, so I attempted to ignore the voice, but when no one else responded to her, I, with a feeling of deep foreboding, a feeling that told me that this situation could not possibly end well, turned my head to the left, indicated with my right hand toward my chest and queried, "Are you speaking to me?" A lady, a complete and utter stranger to me, bobbed her head in the affirmative and queried again, "I said, are we going to get to see photos of the baby on the monitor?" and indicated toward my abdomen that she thought I was pregnant.
Now, before I go any further, perhaps I should discuss what I was wearing that day and maybe why this woman had the unmitigated gall to address me in such a manner. I was wearing travelling clothes. When one flies standby often, one develops a sort of uniform for travelling, something that looks nice enough to be worn in first class should one be fortunate enough to be upgraded to first, but something that is relaxed and comfy enough to spend hour upon blessed, stinking hour in the waiting area of an airport. That particular day, I was wearing an oversized, longish blue sweater that I had purchased in NYC from a trendy, upscale, overpriced retailer, a pair of basic black travelling slacks and my comfy black walking shoes and socks.
Furthermore, I was well into my forties at this point and had not been pregnant for a number of years, my youngest was 14 at the time. I will admit that I'm overweight and was so at the time of this event, as well. In fact, I've admitted this on any number of occasions and take a certain amount of delight in calling myself "fat", becauses "fat" is a funny word. "Obese", "heavy set," or "big boned", on the other hand, aren't funny at all, and "fluffy" is just dumb. So, I suppose that the bulky sweater and extra weight could possibly have made it appear that I was with child...maybe. But, I learned a long, long time ago that unless you know beyond a shadow of a doubt that a woman is indeed pregnant, you do not so much as breathe a word of inquiry in that regard towards her. You go behind her back and ask her friends.
Now, maybe, just maybe, this was God's way of telling me that I needed to get my health under control and make weight loss a priority. Perhaps, He sent this "angel", and I use the term ever so loosely, to shock me into the nearest WeightWatcher's meeting like He used the big fish to shock Jonah to hightail it, covered in fish spit, to Ninevah. Or, on the other hand, maybe this was God's way of showing this dumb lady that nosiness is NOT next to Godliness, and that she needed to learn to keep her opinions and her observations a little bit closer to the vest. Either way, all I know is that perhaps the Devil stepped in at that moment, compelled me to turn around and confirm that the question was indeed directed at me, and then look the woman dead in the eye and in the most deadpan, straight faced, don't-screw-with-me-sister voice I could manage answer her by saying, "No, ma'am. I'm not pregnant. I'm just FAT."
Queen DumDum of the Dumblefusses looked shellshocked for a fraction of a second, but instead of having the good grace to maybe mumble "sorry" and turn away, she decided to try to cover herself by blathering on and on about how neat it would be if the airport scanners could actually "see" a baby in utero and display it on the screen for everyone to enjoy...like pregnancy is some sort of freaky sideshow that random, travelling strangers need to have the opportunity to participate in and discuss again at their leisure. I quickly retrieved my belongings from the scanner's conveyor belt and turned on my heel and stormed away, whipping out my cellphone along the way so that I could call my husband and scream at him about stupid, nosy noodleheads, while I walked down the concourse and back into the gate area.
I arrived back at the gate area and relayed my experience to my mother and children. My mother stared at me, horrified, and exclaimed, "Sherri Lynn!! I can't believe you said that!" My comment to her was:
"Well, Mom, a really stupid question deserves a really smartass response."
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