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.
Sunday, December 16, 2012
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."
Sunday, July 4, 2010
Weaving Life's Tapestry
There are many times in our lives when we ask the question, "Why?" Why did this happen and not that? Why did this happen to me? Why did this happen now? Why did I make a left turn instead of a right on that particular day? Why? Why? Why? Asking why is a particularly human thing to do.
I am not a philosopher nor am I overly religious. I can't ever come up with a good reason why a specific event unfolds in the manner it does. My mother or someone who is equally faithful would say, "Well, that's just the Lord's will." And, it probably is. That explanation, though, has always been unsatisfying for me, not because I don't believe in God, but because it's so difficult for me as a human being to accept the thought that there are many, many things that occur in my life that I have no control over. I like to think that this is a normal, human reaction on my part, but I do admit that it's one that probably labels me as "not quite as good" a Christian as some others.
Anyway, I was given a gift of opportunity recently to think back on a series of events in my life and see why certain things worked out the way they did. I had a conversation with an old friend, P., whom I had not had contact with in many, many years. In fact, this particular friend was an old boyfriend, a guy whom I dated briefly in college. I "bumped into" P. again through Facebook. On a whim and in reference to a conversation I was having with my brother, I searched P's name on Facebook and was startled when his profile with a photo of his handsome, smiling face popped up. The fact that this handsome, smiling man was standing next to a beautiful, smiling woman wasn't lost on me and it tickled my sense of familiarity.
At any rate, I sent P. a little note exclaiming that I was so happy to find him and asking if he remembered me. He replied later that yes, he did remember me, but that it took some looking through my photos to jog his memory. We exchanged a series of e-mails in which I gave him some background on myself and what I had done with my life in the last 20+ years and he did the same. He asked at one point if we had dated, which left me a little nonplussed, but then, you know, my memory's not so great either, so, it would be unfair for me to judge him too harshly for not recalling events that occurred almost 30 years ago. I mean, I like to think of myself as memorable, but I have been humbled on more than one occasion to find that, alas, I'm not. Oh, well.
In the course of our conversation, P. asked me how we had met and I recounted the story of a study session with some mutual friends that he happened upon in one of the university's many study areas, his subsequent introduction to me and my breathless delight at his charm and wit. I was 18 years old and from Tomball, Texas, y'all. A charming, urbane, witty guy showed me some attention, and I became a bit breathless. I'm easy that way. Sue me.
As I recalled this brief strand of time that occurred during my youth, I started thinking how P., although a relatively minor player in my life overall, actually had a huge impact on how the tapestry of my life was subsequently knit together. P. introduced me to a group of friends with whom he frequently socialized, one of whom, C., later became a boyfriend of mine with whom I was totally besotted but who subsequently broke my heart.
While I was dating C. and was deep in the throes of being besotted and smitten and totally goo goo eyed, he introduced me to Jeff. Or, rather, Jeff introduced himself. Or rather, Jeff thrust himself upon the two of us, helplessly imploring that we assist him in studying for an upcoming Chemistry final, which we begrudgingly did simply because we couldn't think of a polite way to tell him to shove off because we wanted to be alone. Like a fly that buzzes through a perfect spring picnic, this guy, Jeff, was truly annoying.
Eventually, however, C. grew tired of me and I bid him a tearful, heart rending farewell.
So, then, history happened. Events transpired. Years passed.
And, Jeff and I grew up, got married and had two beautiful, perfect children. Together.
For many years, I have mistakenly attributed my introduction to the love of my life to the man who broke my heart. To appreciate how the entire strand of events came together, though, I need to go back to before my heart was rended asunder. In the beginning, there was just a friend who introduced me to another friend who introduced me to another friend. Kind of a six degrees of separation thing. And, that strand was woven into the fabric of my life, made more beautiful by memory and more precious by the anticipation of what happens next. (The fact that Jeff now teaches Chemistry to high schoolers amuses me to no end. It's one of the great ironies of life and proves that God, in His infinite wisdom, has a wicked sense of humor.)
And, now, I look back on that time so long ago and say, "Oh. That's why."
I am not a philosopher nor am I overly religious. I can't ever come up with a good reason why a specific event unfolds in the manner it does. My mother or someone who is equally faithful would say, "Well, that's just the Lord's will." And, it probably is. That explanation, though, has always been unsatisfying for me, not because I don't believe in God, but because it's so difficult for me as a human being to accept the thought that there are many, many things that occur in my life that I have no control over. I like to think that this is a normal, human reaction on my part, but I do admit that it's one that probably labels me as "not quite as good" a Christian as some others.
Anyway, I was given a gift of opportunity recently to think back on a series of events in my life and see why certain things worked out the way they did. I had a conversation with an old friend, P., whom I had not had contact with in many, many years. In fact, this particular friend was an old boyfriend, a guy whom I dated briefly in college. I "bumped into" P. again through Facebook. On a whim and in reference to a conversation I was having with my brother, I searched P's name on Facebook and was startled when his profile with a photo of his handsome, smiling face popped up. The fact that this handsome, smiling man was standing next to a beautiful, smiling woman wasn't lost on me and it tickled my sense of familiarity.
At any rate, I sent P. a little note exclaiming that I was so happy to find him and asking if he remembered me. He replied later that yes, he did remember me, but that it took some looking through my photos to jog his memory. We exchanged a series of e-mails in which I gave him some background on myself and what I had done with my life in the last 20+ years and he did the same. He asked at one point if we had dated, which left me a little nonplussed, but then, you know, my memory's not so great either, so, it would be unfair for me to judge him too harshly for not recalling events that occurred almost 30 years ago. I mean, I like to think of myself as memorable, but I have been humbled on more than one occasion to find that, alas, I'm not. Oh, well.
In the course of our conversation, P. asked me how we had met and I recounted the story of a study session with some mutual friends that he happened upon in one of the university's many study areas, his subsequent introduction to me and my breathless delight at his charm and wit. I was 18 years old and from Tomball, Texas, y'all. A charming, urbane, witty guy showed me some attention, and I became a bit breathless. I'm easy that way. Sue me.
As I recalled this brief strand of time that occurred during my youth, I started thinking how P., although a relatively minor player in my life overall, actually had a huge impact on how the tapestry of my life was subsequently knit together. P. introduced me to a group of friends with whom he frequently socialized, one of whom, C., later became a boyfriend of mine with whom I was totally besotted but who subsequently broke my heart.
While I was dating C. and was deep in the throes of being besotted and smitten and totally goo goo eyed, he introduced me to Jeff. Or, rather, Jeff introduced himself. Or rather, Jeff thrust himself upon the two of us, helplessly imploring that we assist him in studying for an upcoming Chemistry final, which we begrudgingly did simply because we couldn't think of a polite way to tell him to shove off because we wanted to be alone. Like a fly that buzzes through a perfect spring picnic, this guy, Jeff, was truly annoying.
Eventually, however, C. grew tired of me and I bid him a tearful, heart rending farewell.
So, then, history happened. Events transpired. Years passed.
And, Jeff and I grew up, got married and had two beautiful, perfect children. Together.
For many years, I have mistakenly attributed my introduction to the love of my life to the man who broke my heart. To appreciate how the entire strand of events came together, though, I need to go back to before my heart was rended asunder. In the beginning, there was just a friend who introduced me to another friend who introduced me to another friend. Kind of a six degrees of separation thing. And, that strand was woven into the fabric of my life, made more beautiful by memory and more precious by the anticipation of what happens next. (The fact that Jeff now teaches Chemistry to high schoolers amuses me to no end. It's one of the great ironies of life and proves that God, in His infinite wisdom, has a wicked sense of humor.)
And, now, I look back on that time so long ago and say, "Oh. That's why."
Thursday, June 24, 2010
Roller Derby Goddess in My Mind
If you're like me and...ahem...in your 40's, you have probably at some point had at least a tiny bit of what is popularly known as a "mid-life crisis". A mid-life crisis, even a tiny one, is that moment when you realize that you will never be 25 or a size 6 again. You look in the mirror and sigh at the bags and sags and you vow to do something drastic to CHANGE YOUR LIFE.
That moment came for me a couple of months ago. I joined a popular weight loss program and started exercising...again...for AT LEAST the 14th time. The trouble was as it always has been that I HATE EXERCISING! With a passion. With the white hot passion of a thousand burning suns. With the white hot passion of a thousand burning suns in a desert during a drought. Do you get my meaning? I find no joy in it. It's hard. It involves discomfort and sweating and huffing and puffing. I like to huff and puff if it's during the commission of something fun, like, say...sex or maybe...bank robbery, but otherwise my motto has always been: I huff and puff for no one nor for any reason. And, sweating? Even if it's to the oldies, or in my case to the 80's, it should only be done by men who have Adonnis-like bodies and who are employed in mowing my lawn and doing other manly chores around my yard without the benefit of their shirts and while wearing very tight shorts. Otherwise, sweating, like huffing and puffing, is right out.
So, we've established that I detest physical movement due to its unfortunate tendency to force me to sweat and become red in the face. Unfortunately, we also need to address the fact that fat, once it finds its way to the posterior portion of my body, my sit-upon, my bum, my ass, my heinie, if you will, it is completely impossible to make leave of its own volition. I could eat a single baby carrot per day and drink nothing but water or Diet Sprite for the rest of my natural life and my ass would still approximate the size of a small state, like, maybe Rhode Island. So, it is essential in my efforts to get the fat to shove off my butt for me to get some form of exercise along with my consumption of calorie and portion controlled, good for you, delicious, i.e. tasteless, diet food to further my weight loss efforts.
You see my conundrum, don't you? Surely, you do. How does Sherri Lynn regain the svelte, attractive silhouette of her youth if she hates to exercise, but exercise is essential to her weight loss efforts? Well, truthfully, I probably won't regain the exact body of my youth because I've had kids and that particular natural feminine phenomenon does horrendous things to your muscles and ligaments that most ladies just don't snap back from. (We're not even going to address what it does to your sanity. That's a whole 'nuther can of worms that we just don't have time to delve into right now.)
Anyway, got lost there for a second. Several months ago, I hit upon the most brilliant idea of my lifetime (there's a touch of sarcasm there) to easily and happily lose weight and get into shape and start a lifetime love affair with a new hobby. I decided, quite on the spur of one whimsical moment, that joining the Roller Derby would not only fulfill the exercise portion of my weight loss goal, but it would provide me with an outlet for that...um...shall we say...sanity problem I spoke of earlier. I researched the roller derby leagues in my area and around the country and found that it didn't matter that I was fat and 40-ish. I could still be a real bitchen mama on the rink. And, even though, my darling husband, Jeff, greeted my aspirations with, "Sherri Lynn, have you lost your freaking mind?" I was bound and determined that I was going to be a Roller Derby Goddess...or at least a Roller Derby Queen...ok, well maybe just a Roller Derby Princess, then.
I chose my official roller derby name: Ima Whino. I went out and bought roller skates, the quads not the inlines. You can't roller derby on inlines. I bought the protective equipment, pads and a helmet. I even thought of dying my hair blue and getting a tattoo or two and maybe another piercing...yeah...yeah! That's the ticket. See, I got sucked right into the roller derby fantasy. I imagined myself flying around that rink, knocking other, less coordinated skaters around and leading my team to victory after victory. I imagined the beer parties afterwards. I imagined the leagues of adoring fans. I imagined the congratulatory kisses of those Adonnis bodied men...
OK, so I have quite the imagination.
On a bright spring morning, the day after I purchased the skates and pads, I went for my first practice skate at a local county park. The park has a very nice blacktop WALKING trail. Notice how the word "walking" in the previous sentence is in all caps. That will become important later in the story. Trust me. So, I drive my big old lady Buick to the park and park it neatly in the third space from the entrance. I don all the padding from knees to elbows and I carefully laced up those beautiful, white, sexy skates with the purple wheels. I latched the helmet onto my noggin. I was ready. I did a couple of glides back and forth around my car and happily noted how flat and smooth the parking lot was and how my skates worked so perfectly and how I COULD SKATE JUST LIKE I DID ON MY BACK PORCH WHEN I WAS TWELVE AND WEIGHED 88 LBS AND DIDN'T WEAR PADS OR A HELMET OR PROTECTIVE EQUIPMENT OF ANY KIND, THANK YOU VERY MUCH!!
I carefully made my way over to the WALKING path (see, right there, "walking" automatically capitalized itself). I carefully started "skating" down the path. As I skated, I began to notice how difficult it was to skate on this particular path. I began to notice all the flaws in the blacktop. Like, you know how blacktop gets really, really hot in Texas in the summer so it expands, and then in the Texas winter, it contracts, so pretty soon, your perfect blacktop has little holes in it and cracks approximating the size of the GRAND FREAKING CANYON and other minor flaws that might not mean anything to a WALKER or a RUNNER or a BIKER, but can wreak havoc for someone like, you know, a SKATER?? Yeah. I think you are beginning to see where I'm going with this.
It was as I was nearing the first bend in the path that I started thinking that perhaps this wasn't the most brilliant idea of my lifetime. Perhaps this was really not a good idea at all. Perhaps this was the stupidest thing I had ever attempted. Perhaps I should maybe turn around and go back the 200 yards to my car and... Whoa. WHOA! WWWHHHHOOOOAAA! (Imagine both arms windmilling backwards almost faster than you can see.) WHAM. CRACK. OOF. OW...
Now. Imagine me sitting there in all my big assed glory. On my butt. In my little skater's outfit. In a county park. As bikers and walkers calmly navigate around my broken armed self. I sat there stupidly contemplating my skates. Thinking to myself that I should not panic just because I couldn't feel my fingertips. Trying to reason with what I think is a very smart brain that I needed to get back to the car and drive the hell away from the park, but thinking also that in order to do that I would have to get the bloody skates off and...
Did you know that you can't remove lace up skates with only one working hand? Um...yeah. This one I know from experience.
Pretty soon, while my pathetic, broken armed self was sitting there, just sitting there, enjoying the gentle breeze, enjoying...well, really, NOT enjoying the numbness spreading up my right arm from my fingertips, I looked out across the soccer field and saw, wonder of all wonders, a golf cart with two little County guys swiftly approaching like knights on an electric, wheeled steed come to rescue the fair young maiden...okay, so really not so fair at this point and not young and not lithe or full of grace, either.
About 20 yards from me, they slowed their mighty steed and inquired, "Fair maiden, doth thou require assistance?" No, really, what they said was, "Ma'am...are you hurt?" To which I replied, "No...just thought I'd sit here with my big posterior planted firmly on the hot asphalt and enjoy this particular view of the park, while cradling what I accutely surmise is a broken right arm." No, really, I wasn't in any position to be sarcastic, what I said very calmly was, "Yes. I seem to have broken my arm." Like...really, dude, I have NO EARTHLY IDEA how it happened. Pay no mind to those stupid, ugly, crappy assed, wheeled death monsters on the end of my legs with some of their wheels still spinning...happily...crazily...maniacally, if you will.
"Can we give you a ride to your car?"
"Yes, that would be good. But first, I need help getting these effing skates off." OK, so maybe the "effing" part was only said inside my head.
And, so, they hopped like good little County hobbits out of their magical golf cart steed and popped my skates off like they did it every day, flung the skates in the back of the cart, gallantly assisted my hobbling, completely humiliated 40-something self slowly back into the front seat of the golf cart and went winging away across the soccer field to my vehicle like Pegasus winging toward Mount Helicon, where they helped me out of the cart and assured themselves that I wasn't suffering from a head injury and wasn't intent on suing the County for my own stupidity.
Then, they winged away again from whence they came and I stood there in my sports socks in the parking lot. Dumbfounded in front of my old lady Buick and wondering just how the bloody hell I was going to drive home with a broken arm. I will spare you the details of how I called my younger brother and broke down and sobbed on the phone to him, all bravery completely escaping me now that the general public no longer needed to be fooled that I was calm, cool and copasetic, and begged that I needed him to come and take my stupid ass to the hospital because I had just broken my arm roller skating in the park.
And, when my darling husband, Jeff, asked later, "Did you see what you tripped over?" I was able to answer him confidently through the drug induced haze of some really interesting legal pharmaceuticals, although I might have slurred a bit, "Yeah. Some big ol' stupid air molecules got in my way."
Thus, a lesson learned. It's called a WALKING park for a reason.
That moment came for me a couple of months ago. I joined a popular weight loss program and started exercising...again...for AT LEAST the 14th time. The trouble was as it always has been that I HATE EXERCISING! With a passion. With the white hot passion of a thousand burning suns. With the white hot passion of a thousand burning suns in a desert during a drought. Do you get my meaning? I find no joy in it. It's hard. It involves discomfort and sweating and huffing and puffing. I like to huff and puff if it's during the commission of something fun, like, say...sex or maybe...bank robbery, but otherwise my motto has always been: I huff and puff for no one nor for any reason. And, sweating? Even if it's to the oldies, or in my case to the 80's, it should only be done by men who have Adonnis-like bodies and who are employed in mowing my lawn and doing other manly chores around my yard without the benefit of their shirts and while wearing very tight shorts. Otherwise, sweating, like huffing and puffing, is right out.
So, we've established that I detest physical movement due to its unfortunate tendency to force me to sweat and become red in the face. Unfortunately, we also need to address the fact that fat, once it finds its way to the posterior portion of my body, my sit-upon, my bum, my ass, my heinie, if you will, it is completely impossible to make leave of its own volition. I could eat a single baby carrot per day and drink nothing but water or Diet Sprite for the rest of my natural life and my ass would still approximate the size of a small state, like, maybe Rhode Island. So, it is essential in my efforts to get the fat to shove off my butt for me to get some form of exercise along with my consumption of calorie and portion controlled, good for you, delicious, i.e. tasteless, diet food to further my weight loss efforts.
You see my conundrum, don't you? Surely, you do. How does Sherri Lynn regain the svelte, attractive silhouette of her youth if she hates to exercise, but exercise is essential to her weight loss efforts? Well, truthfully, I probably won't regain the exact body of my youth because I've had kids and that particular natural feminine phenomenon does horrendous things to your muscles and ligaments that most ladies just don't snap back from. (We're not even going to address what it does to your sanity. That's a whole 'nuther can of worms that we just don't have time to delve into right now.)
Anyway, got lost there for a second. Several months ago, I hit upon the most brilliant idea of my lifetime (there's a touch of sarcasm there) to easily and happily lose weight and get into shape and start a lifetime love affair with a new hobby. I decided, quite on the spur of one whimsical moment, that joining the Roller Derby would not only fulfill the exercise portion of my weight loss goal, but it would provide me with an outlet for that...um...shall we say...sanity problem I spoke of earlier. I researched the roller derby leagues in my area and around the country and found that it didn't matter that I was fat and 40-ish. I could still be a real bitchen mama on the rink. And, even though, my darling husband, Jeff, greeted my aspirations with, "Sherri Lynn, have you lost your freaking mind?" I was bound and determined that I was going to be a Roller Derby Goddess...or at least a Roller Derby Queen...ok, well maybe just a Roller Derby Princess, then.
I chose my official roller derby name: Ima Whino. I went out and bought roller skates, the quads not the inlines. You can't roller derby on inlines. I bought the protective equipment, pads and a helmet. I even thought of dying my hair blue and getting a tattoo or two and maybe another piercing...yeah...yeah! That's the ticket. See, I got sucked right into the roller derby fantasy. I imagined myself flying around that rink, knocking other, less coordinated skaters around and leading my team to victory after victory. I imagined the beer parties afterwards. I imagined the leagues of adoring fans. I imagined the congratulatory kisses of those Adonnis bodied men...
OK, so I have quite the imagination.
On a bright spring morning, the day after I purchased the skates and pads, I went for my first practice skate at a local county park. The park has a very nice blacktop WALKING trail. Notice how the word "walking" in the previous sentence is in all caps. That will become important later in the story. Trust me. So, I drive my big old lady Buick to the park and park it neatly in the third space from the entrance. I don all the padding from knees to elbows and I carefully laced up those beautiful, white, sexy skates with the purple wheels. I latched the helmet onto my noggin. I was ready. I did a couple of glides back and forth around my car and happily noted how flat and smooth the parking lot was and how my skates worked so perfectly and how I COULD SKATE JUST LIKE I DID ON MY BACK PORCH WHEN I WAS TWELVE AND WEIGHED 88 LBS AND DIDN'T WEAR PADS OR A HELMET OR PROTECTIVE EQUIPMENT OF ANY KIND, THANK YOU VERY MUCH!!
I carefully made my way over to the WALKING path (see, right there, "walking" automatically capitalized itself). I carefully started "skating" down the path. As I skated, I began to notice how difficult it was to skate on this particular path. I began to notice all the flaws in the blacktop. Like, you know how blacktop gets really, really hot in Texas in the summer so it expands, and then in the Texas winter, it contracts, so pretty soon, your perfect blacktop has little holes in it and cracks approximating the size of the GRAND FREAKING CANYON and other minor flaws that might not mean anything to a WALKER or a RUNNER or a BIKER, but can wreak havoc for someone like, you know, a SKATER?? Yeah. I think you are beginning to see where I'm going with this.
It was as I was nearing the first bend in the path that I started thinking that perhaps this wasn't the most brilliant idea of my lifetime. Perhaps this was really not a good idea at all. Perhaps this was the stupidest thing I had ever attempted. Perhaps I should maybe turn around and go back the 200 yards to my car and... Whoa. WHOA! WWWHHHHOOOOAAA! (Imagine both arms windmilling backwards almost faster than you can see.) WHAM. CRACK. OOF. OW...
Now. Imagine me sitting there in all my big assed glory. On my butt. In my little skater's outfit. In a county park. As bikers and walkers calmly navigate around my broken armed self. I sat there stupidly contemplating my skates. Thinking to myself that I should not panic just because I couldn't feel my fingertips. Trying to reason with what I think is a very smart brain that I needed to get back to the car and drive the hell away from the park, but thinking also that in order to do that I would have to get the bloody skates off and...
Did you know that you can't remove lace up skates with only one working hand? Um...yeah. This one I know from experience.
Pretty soon, while my pathetic, broken armed self was sitting there, just sitting there, enjoying the gentle breeze, enjoying...well, really, NOT enjoying the numbness spreading up my right arm from my fingertips, I looked out across the soccer field and saw, wonder of all wonders, a golf cart with two little County guys swiftly approaching like knights on an electric, wheeled steed come to rescue the fair young maiden...okay, so really not so fair at this point and not young and not lithe or full of grace, either.
About 20 yards from me, they slowed their mighty steed and inquired, "Fair maiden, doth thou require assistance?" No, really, what they said was, "Ma'am...are you hurt?" To which I replied, "No...just thought I'd sit here with my big posterior planted firmly on the hot asphalt and enjoy this particular view of the park, while cradling what I accutely surmise is a broken right arm." No, really, I wasn't in any position to be sarcastic, what I said very calmly was, "Yes. I seem to have broken my arm." Like...really, dude, I have NO EARTHLY IDEA how it happened. Pay no mind to those stupid, ugly, crappy assed, wheeled death monsters on the end of my legs with some of their wheels still spinning...happily...crazily...maniacally, if you will.
"Can we give you a ride to your car?"
"Yes, that would be good. But first, I need help getting these effing skates off." OK, so maybe the "effing" part was only said inside my head.
And, so, they hopped like good little County hobbits out of their magical golf cart steed and popped my skates off like they did it every day, flung the skates in the back of the cart, gallantly assisted my hobbling, completely humiliated 40-something self slowly back into the front seat of the golf cart and went winging away across the soccer field to my vehicle like Pegasus winging toward Mount Helicon, where they helped me out of the cart and assured themselves that I wasn't suffering from a head injury and wasn't intent on suing the County for my own stupidity.
Then, they winged away again from whence they came and I stood there in my sports socks in the parking lot. Dumbfounded in front of my old lady Buick and wondering just how the bloody hell I was going to drive home with a broken arm. I will spare you the details of how I called my younger brother and broke down and sobbed on the phone to him, all bravery completely escaping me now that the general public no longer needed to be fooled that I was calm, cool and copasetic, and begged that I needed him to come and take my stupid ass to the hospital because I had just broken my arm roller skating in the park.
And, when my darling husband, Jeff, asked later, "Did you see what you tripped over?" I was able to answer him confidently through the drug induced haze of some really interesting legal pharmaceuticals, although I might have slurred a bit, "Yeah. Some big ol' stupid air molecules got in my way."
Thus, a lesson learned. It's called a WALKING park for a reason.
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