Confessions of a Spoiled Brat

The goal leading to my latest psychological growth spurt was to better deal with a person with whom I must deal daily, and with whom I have constant difficulty. Isn’t that always the way? We almost never enjoin in any kind of spiritual or psychological journey because of some fault we sense in ourselves. We journey in an effort to relieve pain, to decrease stress, or to “fix” someone else.

Two weeks into my latest exercise, I made an unsettling, yet wonderfully emancipating discovery. I am a spoiled brat. And, true to form, I’m not just your garden-variety spoiled brat. I am a self-made spoiled brat. I studied to achieve this status. I worked at it. Work, though, is too small a word; I persevered.

“Spoiled brat…”

I’m sure I heard these words burst forth from my mother’s mouth, initially, and apparently more than once, as they come to mind fairly easily. My mother was given to name-calling when angry. She had several favorites. I believe “spoiled brat” was used in situations when her use of the word “No!” was met with some complaint, or perhaps when she sensed we were behaving in an ungrateful manner. I’m sure she directed these words at me on more than one occasion, though I’ve never felt deserving, until now.

My epiphany arose from a single question; “Did he mean to hurt?”

At the risk of sounding simple, I must admit I had never considered this part of the equation before. The question was aimed at a woman detailing her husband’s latest transgression. It seems he had forgotten to take out the trash, or something equally heinous. Then came the question, and I lost my sense of hearing as my brain began to whir, filled with misdeeds I had logged over the years. As they flashed before my eyes, the question repeated; “Did he mean to hurt?”, and inevitably, the answer was “no”.

It was an amazing exercise, and I recommend it to everyone. It’s hard to comprehend how much room is taken up by imagined slights. As I took out each hurtful memory and held it under this light, it disappeared, leaving me lighter, freer, happier. I began to experience people differently and give more of myself as the part of me that had been holding onto hurt was available for real interaction.

Strangely, though, as the hurt peeled away, I noticed a disturbing recurring pattern in my thinking. Roger called to ask if I could come to the gym a little early. My first thought was “I don’t want to.”. The dog trainer called to say she couldn’t make our Thursday evening appointment, but Saturday afternoon was open. My first thought was “I don’t want to.”. Shane asked if I could swing by the school after work to pick him up, so that he could stay for the basketball game. My first thought was “I don’t want to.”. The point is not whether I did these things, because I almost always do. The point is that my thinking immediately turned to what I wanted, and, chances are, if I did do the things I had already decided I didn’t want to do, my demeanor displayed my reticence.

I also became aware of how much of my quiet time is spent in thinking about what I want. Rush hour is prime time for this kind of ruminating. Usually, by the time I get home, my evening is planned according to my desires, and I don’t appreciate interruptions that divert me from my chosen endeavors.

The natural response to uncovering such a distasteful aspect of one’s character is to ask “why?”. The answer came easily. It was survival, really. My divorce left me a working, single mother of four children. Circumstances leading to the divorce left me ill-prepared for this, or any other challenge. After a pity-party that lasted several weeks, I looked around and realized five people were counting on me, and only me…for everything. I pulled up my boot-straps, just as my father had taught me, and forged ahead. In the process, as I felt the pressure of four sets of eyes trained solely on me, my eyes, too, focused inward. Somewhere along the way, I had come to equate strength with doing things my way. This may have worked, then. It may, in fact, have been the only way. But, blessedly, circumstances have changed, and that kind of self-interest is no longer in my best interest.

It will take some time to change a habit I worked so hard to develop. Awareness is the first step. This evening, as I sat amidst hundreds of other weary commuters, my cell-phone rang. The voice on the other end of the line suggested a diversion from my well-thought-out plan for the evening. My first thought was “I don’t….”.

That’s as far as it got…

And, that’s a start.

Game Face

I loved those Saturday afternoons. Dad was asleep by half-time, but magically, some kind of internal clock woke him in time to watch the final play. His snores leant a softness to the crowd noise and announcers’ banter.

Later, I married an avid University of Alabama football fan. He hung flags, wore his special game-day shirt, and God help you if you were misguided enough to ask him a question while the ball was in play. While watching with him, I met and fell in love with the Florida Gators.

I graduated from a school whose founder chose as its mascot the White Owl. I believe this to be the reason they were denied the right to field a football team. So, with my back to the wall, I punted, and adopted a team. For the last ten years, the only occasion upon which I’ve missed a televised Florida game, found me sitting in the stands, watching my son play.

When Shane was about four, a complete stranger approached us at a local “Chili’s” as we waited to hear the tell-tale sizzling, announcing the approach of our fajitas.

“Is this boy playing football?”

Managing to speak despite a mouth gone slack, I answered, “He’s only four!”

“Oh! Well, he’s a big boy; got offensive lineman written all over him! See ya’ in two years!”

I don’t know if he was there, but we were. Three nights a week, I hurried home from work to dress my first-grader for football practice. It had never occurred to me, during all those years of coaxing nylons up my own leg, that the experience would benefit my son. Spandex is so unforgiving….

Shane trotted gamely onto the field, as I scanned the row of peopled, nylon-covered, folding chairs, unaware that the spot I chose would, for the next several months, be designated as “my spot”. Fortunately, I chose well. Aluminum fencing, separating us from the boys, served as an adequate footrest, and my neighbor was an interesting man who, at 50, had just reenrolled in school. I found him to be somewhat aloof at first, until he explained he had no hearing in his right ear. From that point on, I leaned in to talk to him, and realized he hadn’t really been ignoring me, after all.

Six year-olds in football helmets look like Atom Ant. They just do. And there is nothing more entertaining than watching twenty-five Atom Ants run (mostly into each other), and kick, and catch. Shane learned a lot that year, and the experience inspired his father. Roger has coached Shane’s teams, in one capacity or another, every year since.

The first year with Roger at the helm was abysmal, or as we have come to call it, “a learning experience”. The team won only one game. Fortunately, it was the last one, and the fervor experienced in that triumph encouraged the parents to give him another chance.

Year two brought in new talent, and we won every game, including the county championship. Riding this wave, we beefed it up for the boys in year three. A parent/policeman arranged for her co-workers/motorcycle-club-members to escort us to the county championship. A show of bravado like this is so much more effective when you actually win the game. Instead, we suffered our first loss in two years, and the boys learned a very valuable lesson. We cleaned it up a bit, but the moral went generally like this; “Don’t let your mouth write a check your ass can’t cash.”

Shane has played football for five years now. Besides the obvious physical aspects of the game, he has benefited in many other ways. Youth sports offer a social “in”, as it introduces boys to others in their peer group they might not otherwise have met. Most importantly, though, youth sports build confidence. And, it’s not just about winning games. The confidence boosters live in the small things; a successful block at practice, the ability to run three laps around the field in one-hundred degree weather without stopping to vomit and/or cry, and being part of a group relying upon one another to complete a task. Add to this, the vision of Mom in the stands sporting the team colors, holding a sign with your name and jersey number on it, and the possibilities for positive self-esteem are endless.

Five years ago, at the age of thirteen, my nephew expressed an interest in football. He had excelled in baseball and soccer, and his parents had hoped he would continue. Football came out of left field. My sister, Laura, was especially skeptical, mostly due to the violent nature of the sport.

For the last four years, Andrew has held the starting safety position on his high-school football team, and his parents have never missed one game. Three years ago, as I sat in my pajamas, enjoying a rare Friday night at home alone, Laura called to say Andrew was playing at a local high-school just minutes from my house. I reluctantly drew on some jeans, pulled a fleece over my pajama-top, and arrived just as the third quarter began. It was my sister’s turn to don the colors, wave the pom-poms, and cheer. Her husband, too, felt his creativity enhanced by his son’s show of athletic prowess. The hats he designed for us to wear at the Championship game were comically supportive, and the cooler he lugged into the stands, packed with assorted hot beverages and warm spicy muffins. Andrew’s team ended the year as State Champions, and I have missed few games since.

Despite our living about forty minutes apart, I don’t see my sister very often. Her son’s football games provided us with an opportunity to share a passion, to laugh, and to connect. I came to relish our time.

I learned the basics of the game from watching it on television, and the nuances by watching my son and nephew play. I learned what splits are, the difference between free- and strong-safety, and how to guess a penalty call by noticing where the pretty, yellow bean-bag is thrown. It is a bean-bag, you know; a bean-bag wrapped in yellow cloth. The only flags in football are those flapping at the edges of the field.

I love American football, and my various experiences with it have left me well-versed. My son and I watch games together, and when he gushes after a particularly gutsy play, I get it. The guys at the office, misguided Georgia Bulldogs all, include me in their pre-game and post-game discussions, and through this experience I have perfected the art of “talking smack”. Ok, I pretty much had that one down already. I just aim it in a different direction now.

As they have for the last four years, my son’s team made it to the semi-finals. This year we lost, but there’s always next year. Shane made a name for himself as the best center in his age group, and his kicking coach has offered to take him to Kicking Camp at Appalachian State this summer.

The Gators won a national championship this year, and I have a tee shirt to prove it. I wear it to work on the occasional “Casual Friday” just to see those Bulldogs bare their impotent teeth.

And my Steelers won the Super Bowl! You’re thinking, “She’s from Atlanta and she’s supporting the Steelers?” Two words: Troy Polamalu.

I may know the game, but I’m still just a girl…

"Teach Your Children"

I wasn’t sure the car would stop. The street held remnants of an earlier rain, and the ball rolling into it, was a surprise. Even more startling was the young child who followed, despite a large group of variously aged family members congregated in his driveway. As I braked, I turned to look at his family, hoping someone would see the boy, and come to his aid. Several of them turned, looking in his direction.

Blessedly, the car did stop. As I sat, allowing the child to retrieve his ball and move well clear of the car, I turned again to look at his caretakers. Some continued to watch him, while the more oblivious of the group continued talking, and laughing, and jostling; no one moved, no one called out. The boy snagged his ball, and grazed me with dark, dancing eyes, before darting back into his driveway.

My son’s presence in the garage meant he had something to tell me that wouldn’t wait.

“Mom!” His inflection confirmed my suspicion.

He burbled as we carried my things inside.

“Science class was so cool today! Mr. Patterson, you remember him, right? Well, Mr. Patterson said he’d been waiting for a rainy day to tell us this story, right?”

He freed his hands by setting a bag on the kitchen table, and began using them to bat at the puppy, whose excitement on seeing his friend come inside was just as exuberant as it had been the first time, about thirty minutes before.

“It was about a witch. Well, not really a witch. Well, she WAS a witch, but now she’s a ghost, right? I mean, it’s kinda like “Blair Witch”, but not really.”

He continued to share his story, as I moved about the kitchen. Some of his words were lost in the sounds of cans scraping along shelves and refrigerator bins opening, but I understood the crux of his story. The long and short of it, was that Mr. Patterson had set aside the business of beakers and microscopes to take advantage of a rainy day, by regaling a roomful of eleven-year-olds with his stories of adolescent close-encounters with beings from “the other side”. Unfortunately, in arriving at this decision, Mr. Patterson had forgotten his role as authoritarian. He had underestimated his own importance by sharing a frightening story with children who are directed, daily, to listen to him, and to remember every word he utters.

The next morning, I awoke to a pile of blankets on the floor beside my bed. And, somewhere in that pile, lay my frightened, sleeping son.

Shane held his cell-phone behind his back.

“Mom? Can I go to the movies with Koran?, he stage-whispered.

I asked all the usual questions; what, when, where, and gave my consent. As he ran, grinning, back to his bedroom to change, my cell-phone rang. It was Jill, mother of Alex.

“Is Shane going to the movies with Koran?”

“Yes. Is Alex?”

“Did you know that they are dropping the kids off? There will be no parents…I don’t know.”

Anger crowded my embarrassment.

“No, I didn’t know that. Let me call you back.”

I called Koran’s father, who back-pedaled furiously when questioned. I thanked him for the invitation and called Jill to tell her Shane wouldn’t be going. Her sigh spoke her relief, and I thanked her. We watch out for each other…

Laughter breached the closed door to the playroom as Shane and two boys who live next door played video games.

“Lunchtime!”, I called, imagining myself in belted shirt-dress, high heels, and pearls. June Cleaver’s got nothing on me.

Six hands vied for space under the bathroom spigot before the boys barreled into the kitchen to ham and cheese on wheat, Sunchips, and milk.

“Is there mayonnaise on this?” Ray studied his sandwich without touching it.

“Mayo and mustard.”, I answered, still in character, before resuming wiping the counters.

“Mom?” This was my son.

“Yes?”

“Do we have any vanilla stuff? You know, for the milk? They don’t drink plain milk. They like vanilla.”

I turned to find my storybook lunch decimated. Shane, his back to me, munched contentedly on the contents of his plate. To his left, two slices of discarded bread messily decorated the outskirts of a plate, while his friend held the formerly sandwiched slice of ham to his mouth. To his right, Ray had finally found the nerve to touch his food, removing all traces of mayo, leaving a slice of bread topped by mustard and ham. Both glasses of milk remained untouched.

“No, I’m sorry. And, I’m sorry you don’t like your lunch.”

“It’s okay, Mom.” Shane rushed to my defense. “It’s just that they don’t eat brown bread. They like white. And Ray doesn’t like mayonnaise, and their Mom always puts vanilla in the milk. But, that’s okay.”

That evening, the boys’ mother returned the favor, inviting Shane to dinner.

“What did you have?”, I asked on his return.

“Chicken nuggets.”, he answered. “They always have chicken nuggets. That’s what they like.”

Somehow, I can’t imagine the boys’ father braving the hazards of a drive across town in Atlanta traffic, thinking, “Mmmm, chicken nuggets!”

My sister will be late to her own funeral. This was my thought as I rested my head against the gaily colored mural adorning the wall of the local “Rio Bravo”. The trill of a cell-phone caught my attention, and seeking the sound, my eyes came to rest on a girl of about six. She flipped the phone open with one perfectly manicured hand, while the other rested on the denim-clad knee of a man I supposed to be her father. She brought the phone to her ear and turned, revealing a powdered face, featuring painted lips, carefully placed glitter, and several coats of black mascara. I’m sure my mouth fell open.

One tiny foot rocked back and forth on the tip of a stacked heel as she talked. The pink polish on her nails matched, perfectly, the hue of a sweater that clung to her board-flat chest before falling over expensively tattered jeans. Her future flashed across my eyes, leaving me with a feeling of profound sadness for her squandered childhood

Shane’s cell-phone had rung at least twenty times over the course of an hour.

“Who is that?”, I asked, irritated by the sound of my mother’s voice coming from my mouth.

“Valerie…” Shane’s voice, too, sounded stressed. He took advantage of a break in the noise to go outside, picking up a basketball on his way towards the goal.

When the offending noise began again, I picked up the telephone, intending to tell Valerie to cut back on her calls before I was forced to have a talk with her mother.

The Caller-ID bore her mother’s name and cell-phone number, but the voice on the other end of the line was Valerie’s. I made no such threat.

His efforts at whispering drew my attention.

“I know, but we’re changing plans in June. It doesn’t make sense to buy a new phone now.”

The span of his silence suggested his wife’s increasingly shrill voice.

“He can use my old phone.” These words were louder, more forceful, in keeping with a man with a plan.

Another silence ensued, and when conversation continued, it went on for some time, though he spoke few words.

Later, he visited the office across from mine.

“My son lost his phone.”

“Can’t he just use your old one until we change plans in June?” , his sensible friend asked. “Buying a new phone now would just be a waste of money, because it won’t work with the new plan.”

“She wants to get him another Razor. She’s worried what his friends will think.”

His friend’s derisive chuckle spoke volumes.

“I told her we’d just use mine.”

Later that afternoon, his loquacious wife, with children in tow, came by to pick him up on their way to purchase the Razor.

“What are you doing this weekend?” I asked, as the clock ticked towards four, and our two-day pass.

“I’m taking my son to a birthday party at the Roxy.”, came the bored-sounding answer.

“The Roxy?”, I asked, incredulous. “THE Roxy? The concert hall downtown? A twelve year-old child is having a birthday party at the Roxy?”

“Yeah…it’s to make up for all the bot-mitzvahs.”

I had no answer for that.

What will become of our children? It seems every passing day presents me with another horrifying example of adults who have seemingly forgotten their role. A young child is allowed to follow a ball into a rain-soaked road in front of an oncoming car, and they watch. A science teacher, whose words are expected to form the minds of our children, spends an entire class period convincing them that witches and ghosts are not just the stuff of Halloween charades. A group of eleven year-old boys and girls are invited to a Sunday afternoon movie by parents who can’t be bothered to chaperone. A Harvard educated mother feeds her children a diet so consumed by frozen, fried chicken and vanilla flavored milk, that sandwiches on whole-grain, accompanied by organically produced milk, appear exotically disgusting. I shared a restaurant waiting room with a six-year-old whose make-up was applied more professionally than mine. A mother, apparently, never questions her daughter about hundreds of calls made from her cell phone to a boy she sees, every day, in their sixth-grade classroom. A boy’s father caves to his ranting mother, by spending money on a cell phone that will be useless in less than six months; in an effort to retain pre-pubescent social status. And, an entire concert hall, complete with seating for several thousand, is rented in honor of a twelve-year-old girl who had the misfortune of being born to Christian parents.

How long before the odds play out? Who do our children have to look up to? When did outings and fancy electronics replace structured caring and responsibility? When did children begin making decisions that affect an entire family? As they cry through smeared mascara, who will explain objectivism to our girls? What is left? What will they have to look forward to; to work towards? How will they define “special”?

Synchronicity

My visit with Miss Lucie went well. She knew me! You never know, and you take what you can get. But, she knew me, and the time passed as though we had visited the weekend before. The woman is a blessing. My lips, upon her forehead, came away softer.

Dinner with a friend, after an awkward embrace accompanied by pat excuses, morphed into my first dinner alone within the confines of a restaurant. It felt as I had imagined it would. I read, I ate, I left. End of story.

Yesterday was a gift from God, a teasing reminder of days to come. Cool breezes warmed easily on the kiss of a winter sun, allowing me to complete my tasks in my shirtsleeves. I pinched pansies, planted amaryllis, and mowed my lawn. Later, moisture tinged breezes urged me to fold my arms as I observed meat grilling under a waning sun.

Monday dawned on an unexpected rain, and hope. I checked in on a friend whose absence worried me. His response reminded me of both, the ease and importance of expression. An arm outstretched reminds another of his worth, and he, in kind reaches out. Such is synchronicity…

Oh, My Darlin’…

“You wait!” A familiar sneer leant my mother’s words an equally familiar tone of acridity. “You wait! You’ll wish you had this time back! Time moves faster the older you get. Why, at my age, a year goes by in a blink of an eye.”

As a kid, who had probably just bemoaned a yawning three week wait until Christmas, her admonition had no more effect than her frequent wishes for my future.

“I hope you have children, and I hope they cause you just as much trouble as you’ve caused me.”

As it turned out, she was right, on both counts.

I have heard the month of January described as meaningless after the hustle and bustle of a holiday season that now seems to span several months. There is, of course, an introspective aspect to January, coming as it does, after weeks of economic, gastronomic, and even alcoholic depravity.

New Year’s Day dawns on millions of hung-over, antacid-swilling Americans, who greet the day holding a television remote control. Football-filled hours pass in a semi-upright position, interrupted only by the odors of foods said to be infused with magic powers on this day, and this day only. More often than not, it is while we are pushing collard greens around the perimeter of our plate, that someone floats the topic of New Year’s resolutions. As we anticipate finally being able to access a beer without encountering a well-maintained eyebrow raised by the “time police”, we attempt to discern a recognizable image in the smattering of cornbread crumbs stuck in gravy remnants before answering.

And, no matter the answer, we finally manage to pull from the refuse that is our dinner plate, one thing is sure; by January thirty-first we will have forgotten it. This is the stuff of January.

Recently, though, I’ve discovered other reasons to mark January.

January is the month of the Clementine. In case you are not familiar with this delectable nugget of sugary citrus, a Clementine is cousin to the tangerine. A friend tried, for years, to sell me on their merits, but to my discerning eye they appeared nothing more than a miniature tangerine at twice the price. I couldn’t imagine anything about them being worth double the money…until my son tasted them.

Usually imported from Spain and neighboring regions, these tiny, orange morsels are sold almost exclusively in crates. This feature originally, prohibited me from buying them. This year, after tasting one provided by my friend, I decided to chance unloading a crate of citrus on a family usually partial to meatier fruits such as apples, pears, and melons. Within days, my son was urging me to return to the store for another crate, and when I tasted one, I understood why.

That was three crates ago, and on Saturday, I carefully placed one of the last three available into my grocery cart. Clementine season is winding down. We’re treating this crate as though it will be our last, because it just might be.

This weekend, I discovered another reason to mark the passing of January. My Christmas cacti, inaccurately named as they begin blooming just after Thanksgiving, are waning. I have, over the years, collected a virtual grove of cacti by taking advantage of post-holiday plant sales. At present I nurture eight, in varying shades. This year, for the first time, all of them bloomed.

My grandmother raised Christmas cacti, and I loved one of them, especially. It was at least two feet in diameter, and bloomed in a lovely, deep, shade of pink. Visits to her house were warm, due in part to her attention to the thermostat, but also because of our shared interests. She knew I loved plants, and she loved to share. Every time I visited, she pinched off shoots of any plant I admired, urging me to root them. And, I did.

Today, my largest Christmas cactus, started as an offshoot of the one I so admired, measures over two feet in diameter. She is old. There are unattractive striations upon her leaves, and yet she blooms, gloriously, year after year. When others tease, putting out buds that never come to full fruition before the foliage shrivels; she blooms, and blooms, and blooms. I fertilize her, in warmer months. I water her, judiciously at first, until the buds begin to squeeze from her succulent fronds, whereupon I strengthen her by plying her with liquid. And she responds to my ministrations, year after year, after year.

Withered blooms fell into my watering can yesterday. The show is nearly over. As I looked around the sunroom, I enjoyed, possibly for the last time, each and every bloom; bright pink, salmon red, and white, with just a trace of pink lining each petal.

And I marked January, wondering where the time had gone.

Saturday Morning

The warm sun and gracious breezes of yesterday are gone. The morning dawns on rain; a reminder to be careful what you wish for….

I’ve sat here for too long, as per usual. So many distractions, so much ether-noise. I’m contemplating creating a net-free day; just one day, every week, during which the rolling chair in my office is allowed to grow cold. I’m warming to the idea.

I prefer lazy Saturdays. Yawning days upon which I can paint whatever vista my mind creates. Today is not one of those days. After struggling to bring some semblance of order to my domicile, I will pull on my warmest athletic clothing and accompany my son to his basketball game. We’ve had fun this year. We are winning, due in large part to my son’s ability. Success breeds fluidity.

A more expansive frame of mind encouraged me to contact a friend and arrange a dinner date for later this evening. As happens so frequently, now that the time is upon me, I consider offering my regrets. But I won’t. I’ll go. We’ll meet in the parking lot, and exchange the usual feminine greetings, or perhaps commiserate about the weather. Once inside, we’ll sit on opposite sides of a highly burnished wooden table and scan the crowd with full knowledge that we are miles from familiar faces. The menu will provide a private moment in which to compose our made-up faces while we flip through a mental tickler file of conversation topics until a particularly savory offering captures our attention, bringing us back to the task at hand. I’ll consider ordering something fatty and delicious, but I’ll give a cursory look at the column featuring soups and salads. I’ll make a choice to keep in my back pocket until time to order, when I’ll encourage her to choose first. My choice will be incumbent upon hers. After all, if her attempts at conversation are punctuated by forkfuls of vinegar-spiked, leafy greens, a beefy morsel won’t rest easily upon my palate.

I was reminded, this week, of the psychological benefits of good works. Today, I am returning to the nursing home. The hospice is housing four patients there. I will visit those I can find. Ms. Lucie is still there. I am looking forward to seeing her. I wonder if she will remember me. Of course, she rarely knew me when she saw me every week, so the question seems a little ridiculous. One the other hand, it really doesn’t matter. It doesn’t seem important to her that she know who you are, it is only important that you are, and that you are there. I never left her without a smile. I’m looking forward to wearing one today.

Best Laid Plans

I rarely plan anything.

Take vacation, for example. Work schedules require that I set time aside, well in advance. This done, however, I’ve been known to wait, until the week before, to choose a destination, ensuring that the following week will be spent in a mad flurry of telephoning, shopping, cleaning, and packing.

Don’t ask me what I’m bringing to the party. And, telling me what to bring is a complete waste of both our times. Several days before your event, I will peruse various websites, offering tantalizing recipes, and select my favorites, just before I leave to shop for ingredients. I’m a good cook. You know you can count on me to provide something unique, in taste and presentation. Just don’t attempt to build your menu around my dishes.

If you happen to be present when I rise on a weekend morning, you would be better served to go with my flow, than to inquire as to my plans. I don’t have any, and I will resent your efforts to schedule my “free” time. Of course, there isn’t any real “free” time. But, reminding me of that, when I am so intent on the notion, is not in our best interest. If we have an event that requires schedule coordination, wait until I have left my office, and have, at least, exchanged pajamas for street clothes. My wardrobe change is a signal that I am, purportedly, ready to begin the day.

“What are you wearing?”

If two women plan to attend an event together, this question will be asked, several times, in the preceding days. Some men, too, prefer to coordinate. I won’t ask, and I am loathe to answer. I will, as the event looms, conduct a careful study of the closet I carry around inside my head. I will settle upon, and discard, a number of outfit options, before allowing a select few to remain in the recesses of my mind. I will consider jewelry, shoes, and handbags; creating a slideshow of fashion that will occupy free moments, coming to the forefront, for several nights, as I lay down to sleep. Amidst a flurry of discarded clothing, that now decorates every available surface, my decision will be made minutes before you announce the “warm up” of the car.

I don’t know “what’s for dinner”, until I’ve come home, and had time to view, at close quarters, the contents of the refrigerator, the pantry, and the freezer. If, as I move between larders, you see me halt, wearing a glazed-over expression, do not be alarmed. I am “planning”, on the fly.

“On the fly”, is a term I can sink my teeth into. I am also partial to “by the seat of my pants”, and “que sera, sera”. I like to keep my options open.

“Don’t fence me in…”

All of the above is true, and, due to a symphony of circumstance, under careful review.

The start of a new year puts one in mind for planning, even if she chooses not to follow the herd intent on making resolutions that won’t last. I rise upon the dawn of a new year, to a yawning day, and, restlessness, brought on by an inherent opportunity to turn leaves.

My new workout plan is being monitored by a good friend whose fortitude has brought about admirable results. She listens, wearing a knowing smile, as I describe the measures I have taken to ensure success, and waits until I am finished, to speak.

“Have you written up a workout plan?”

Several coworkers and I share the break-room table. Conversation has turned to the weekend ahead, and one of us bemoans a lack of time.

“And, this is why I have started scheduling weekends.” A hush falls over the room, as all eyes turn towards the speaker, a part-timer, and mother of two.

“My Weight-Watchers leader recommended it, and it really works for me! I get so much done!”

Silence holds fast, until an innocent bystander enters the room, giving us cause to expel held breaths.

A friend calls, and I lay down my dust-rag to view the Caller ID. A glance at the wall-clock tells me there is plenty of time left to polish my desk, before I push “Send”. After several minutes of catching up, and political back-and-forth, he turns the conversation to my blog, punctuating the conversation with a question.

“So, what do you write about?”

Words tumble out, one upon the other, as I struggle to answer the question, finally mumbling something about “writing what I know”. He ignores my response, going on to explain his penchant for all things technical. But, the question sits between us, settling finally, firmly upon my mind.

Later that evening, I relate the conversation to a writer-friend of mine, who poses a question of his own.

“Have you written a mission statement?”

I gulp for breath, as my eyes search my desk for a suitable resting place.

“A mission statement?”, is all I can manage.

“Yes, a mission statement!” His words take on purpose, as he prepares to drive his point home.

“But, isn’t that too much like work?” The whine in my voice is embarrassing.

“But, writing is work! You have to decide what you’re going to do, where you’re going. What do you want to do with your writing?” Passion fills his words.

And, as I search the recesses of my work-weary brain, my struggle with spontaneity begins, and I realize that, just because it has worked for me up until now, doesn’t mean it’s working now.

For several days, now, I’ve received one, consistent, message. Everything in me fights it.

And, I never back down from a challenge…..

Girlfriend

Audrey is Jamaican; gorgeous, witty, intelligent, and when she speaks, each word is decorated by a latent trace of island accent. Since the first day, of the first season our sons’ were old enough to play youth sports, we have shared their ups and downs, together.

For four months, out of each of the last five years, we’ve met at the football field dressed in our finest blue and orange. We chant cheers, critique plays, and call our encouragement out to each boy, by name. And, as the coach brings the players together for a post-game prayer, we heft our gear and wave three, free fingers, as “See you next week” is called out in a variety of feminine voices.

Football ends in November. Basketball begins four weeks later, and, this year, we share both. There is no gear to heft. The gym is relatively warm. The chairs we carry upon our backs, comfortable, and placed side by side. For one hour and fifteen minutes, twice a week, we call our encouragement out to the boys by name, each relying upon the other to supply the names of children we don’t know.

“Great job…!” I call out before leaning close, in case his parents flank my other side. “What is his name?”

“Alex, that’s Alex.” Her voice comes from the other side of her head, as she continues to follow the play.

“I can’t keep them straight!” I whisper loudly. Her hand on my arm supports her giggle, as her head moves with the trajectory of the ball.

Our star player hefts the ball down-court, in the direction of…no one.

“Oh, dear!” The words escape before my hand covers my mouth.

Laughter competes with her accent, making her words even more melodious.

“Imagine what he could do if he looked in the direction he was throwing!”

And, later, my hand finds her wrist.

“Your son is on the floor.”, I deadpan.

Her head swivels as she searches the court, and on finding him unharmed, laughs, again.

“Well, it’s the third quarter. It had to happen some time!”

The ball is re-bounded by a boy whose girth limits his playing time. I call out my congratulations, just before he collides with a boy who outweighs him by at least twenty pounds. The boys wallow on the expensively tiled court for several seconds, and my hand, again, finds my mouth.

“Oh! What happened?” Both boys struggle, with much flailing of limbs, to rise, drawing a concerted sigh of relief from the parents lining the court.

Audrey, her smooth-skinned chin in one hand, points one carefully manicured nail with the other, as she begins to answer.

“Well…” She hesitates, as though studying the scene before us. “That one fell upon that one…” And, that was as far as she got.

Our giggles erupt, simultaneously, and go on for several minutes. Audrey alternately covers her face with her coat, and wipes her eyes with her pointer finger, as I struggle to contain myself. A second or two passes before our giggles erupt, again, and the sequence repeats several times, over several more minutes.

Mindful of running mascara, I, too, wipe tears from my eyes with mittened hands, and re-cross my legs in an act of composure, as Audrey finally manages to speak.

“Basketball is such a stress reliever, isn’t it?”

And, like two little girls, we giggle, again.

This is the gift of friendship.

Child to Child

I saw him.

I saw your child.

Bullies on your playground backed you into a corner, and he came out.

Your eyes blazed.

Your voice changed.

Confidence and bravado were exchanged for whining demands accompanied by the impotent stomping of rubber-soled feet.

A plush pout replaced your sardonic grin while red-rimmed eyes held years of unshed tears at bay.

And arms that should have held you crossed, instead, across my chest.

Are You Still Fat?

“You won’t believe what she asked me!” The wind competed with her words as she drove, forcing me to push the cellphone closer to my ear.

I turned and walked in the other direction, in case the bad connection was on my end.

“What did she ask you, honey?” Thankful she couldn’t see the smile my words broke through, her obvious indignation conjured an image of my friend; short, and fiery, the hair she had worked so hard to contain that morning would, by now, have escaped its rubber restraints, so that it danced around and into her snapping, chocolate brown eyes.

“Are you still fat? That’s what she asked me! Are you still fat? Why does she do this to me, honey?”

“I…”, was as much as I was allowed.

“She’s so sweet! Why does she see me this way? Who would do that? I mean, you see someone you haven’t seen in a really long time, and do you say “Hi, how’re doing? Is your wife still fat?” Of course, you wouldn’t honey. You wouldn’t say that.” The wind continued to whip around her words, but her volume made it less of an issue.

“Well, I’m not sure…”, I started, again.

“I know, I know, she doesn’t mean it.” She anticipated my response, before pausing for a breath.

Sitting forward in the porch chair I had sunk into, I opened my mouth to continue, a moment too late.

“But she’s always done this, honey. You know she has! Remember the trip we took? The way she was always so solicitous of me?”

I rested against the cushions again, and, looking down, realized I still wore my running shoes. I did leg lifts, as I listened.

“This defines me, honey! Doesn’t she know that? Doesn’t she know my entire life has been defined by my weight?”

I did two more lifts before hearing her silence.

“Please don’t tell me that.” My voice was soft, but forceful, as I brought both feet to the ground, and stood.

“What honey?” Tired by her diatribe, her voice had quieted, too.

“Please don’t tell me that at your age you are still defined by your body type. I have to believe that at some point we just don’t care anymore, you know? And I count of you to be my barometer. What are you, thirteen years older than me?”

She left the question unanswered.

“I watch you, you know? I learn what to expect, from you.” I kicked a stray piece of mulch back into the flower bed as I walked.

“I’ve always believed that at some point we just don’t care anymore, that other things become more important, like what books we have read, or whether or not the garden is putting out, things like that. I need you to tell me that.”

Her silence continued for a moment before she asked softly, “What am I going to do, honey?”

“Did you ever think about talking to her?” Reaching the gate at the end of the walkway, I turned.

“I can’t do that. She has no idea she’s doing it. She’s so sweet.”

Her voice bore no sign of the horror she had described earlier, and as she spoke children’s voices drifted in and around her words.

“Well, I’m here, and no one seems to notice this thing sticking out of my ear.” I smiled along with her at the memory of every other time she had said those words.

“Hey! I posted to my blog! I mean I got to thinking about what you said…” Knowing her grandchildren would soon take her attention, my words came out in a rush.

“Good! ‘Cause if you left that last one in front, no one would ever come back! I gotta go, honey!”

And, this is what we do.