Feb 28, 2010

Summer

I cannot express how much I wish it were summer right now, but I'll try anyway.

I long for the ability to step outside in minimal clothing-- no ten buttons to clasp, scarves to wrap, bundle, bundle, bundle. No searching for viable socks in the laundry basket; just throw on some flip flops and run out the door.

No dreading going outside every day, the short trek from the porch to the car enough to make me want to go back to bed. The coldness of the steering wheel, like gripping a block of ice and the heat never kicking in until I reach my destination.

No facing the on-coming bitter wind running from building to building. By the time feeling returns to all my appendages, it's time to once more brave the outdoors.

This dramatic account is product of a winter already too long.

I long for lazy evenings spend swimming laps in the pool, then laying beside it, soaking in Jane Austen and the sun, eventually falling asleep and being awoken by a curious cat's pokey paw.

For the piling into the van, both dreading and anticipating the long journey to a land unknown. For the vacation-y feel of a different surrounding, the exciting and unfamiliar buzz in the air, telling you something great is about to happen.

For the feeling of coastal breezes sweeping across my slightly burnt skin as I sit in my favorite dolphins-in-sunglasses beach chair at the edge of the swirling waves. Fish nipping at my toes, avoiding the family with the nets just up the beach. My brother joyously getting knocked down by wave after wave, returning to the dry sand bruised, scratched, beaten, and smiling. Tossing that nameless beach game with the scoopers and wiffle ball back and forth with my dad, him ridiculing my inability to catch five in a row. Abandoning the plastic game for the nerf football, and dad once more ridiculing my inability to catch but complimenting the inexplicable spiral I somehow acquired the ability to throw.

For the obligatory trip to our favorite little amusement park, where we always ride the same rides in the same order. Spinning around and around, laughing the entire time, on the Scrambler, begging Dad to ride until he finally gives in. Handing the camera to Mom, he hops in the cart like the eleven-year-old he thinks he is, but by the end declares "I'm getting to old for this" but smiles anyway.

For sitting on the balcony late at night, watching amateurs shoot off illegal fireworks much too close to the building, applauding the exceptional ones and booing when the law rides by to shut them down.

For the summer trips to my uncle's house, always dreaded but never as bad as you think it's going to be. For exchanging glances when their family launches into an epic power struggle, for being grateful I was born to the brother I was. For riding on their boat, being pulled by the mighty forces and thrown off into the lake at speeds that makes Mom cringe, and watching their little dog wish he was anywhere but in the middle of the lake.

For the summer days when you finally reconnect with a friend you haven't seen since school, being free to talk about things outside of homework and ho-hum.

For laying sprawled on the concrete while Steve Perry sings in the background, looking up at the stars with slightly intoxicated parents as they recount the meanings the dulcet tones have to their lives. For looking up at the stars and laughing slightly at the Mike's Hard influenced interpretation of the constellations and not minding when ants launch World War 3 against my calves.

Maybe it's wrong to wish months of my life away, but oh how I long for summer.

Feb 26, 2010

(500) Fabricated Differences Between Men and Women

The "Battle of the Sexes" is some played out crap.
No medium has ever escaped the lure of exploring the concept. Exaggerated portraits of ultra feminists and male chauvinists battling out, and reaching a state of mutual understanding by the end (and usually making out).

But c'mon, that never happens in real life. But gender roles really are ridiculously rampant.

It still amazes me that women get paid less than men for the same jobs and nobody seems to care to do anything about it. Why doesn't it make anybody angry? Where's the picketers? Rosie the Riveters? It just quietly weaves its way into society, into culture, into children.

But this isn't about politics or a bra-burning feminist rant.

I watched (500) Days of Summer tonight. Despite the trying-to-hard-to-be-(quirky) thing it had going, there was something deep in themes that got me thinking. Well, after "Wow, Summer is a colossal bitch."

But was she? (Spoiler Alert!) She told the dude that she didn't want anything serious. That it was all for fun. He just kept ignoring that, putting all his faith into the fairy tale endings he'd been brought up to expect. She was bluffing. She'd end up loving him and they'd live happily ever after. So is it really her fault he didn't take her words at face value? Is it his fault for being naive?

Or is the fault of gender roles, forcing us to think that women can't be callous, unemotional, flippant, fickle. "Players" if I must use the word. She's supposed to fall madly in love with him, not use him for dates and sex and to impress with her absolute quirkiness.

I can't shake the feeling of "man, she's a bitch" though. And I also can't help thinking that if I were prettier (and perhaps quirkier and had a pension of wearing only things in various shades of navy and light blue), I could fall into the same brand of bitchiness. Does this mean I'm a guy? I do prefer to go the bathroom by myself.

But, no, I think we're all simply human. There are some fundamental differences between men and women, but we exaggerate them so greatly so we can have our "battle of the sexes" edition of Survivor. They're both equally capable of being the pining guy counting the days until he sees the girl again and the girl that leads him on by avoiding commitment and then gets married to somebody else.

I could probably go on forever about this, but I'm tired. And need to go do something girly.

Feb 21, 2010

Thank You and Goodbye

(I decided that I'm going to write a random letter to somebody each week. I find writing pretend letters therapeutic and I've really been needing to write this one.)

Dear Kelly,

I only saw you a few times a year, but it was almost every year of my life. Our conversations usually only amounted to the pleasant small talk people have when their lives are connected with mere acquaintance and proximity. But you symbolized something much bigger in my life, and now you'll never know what your mere existence meant to me.

With frequent updates about your family's life, I always knew what you were up to. With a chaotic household of the four most rambunctious boys imaginable, a face-tracked law career, coaching a state-championship winning cheer squad, heading various committees around town, and still having time to flash that carefree and knowing smile to anybody that stopped by just to chat, your life was a whirlwind of constant busyness.

You epitomized a woman bent on living her life the way she wanted it, and rearing four kids to boot. You were strong, confident, capable. Everything I ever wanted to grow up and be.

And then you were diagnosed with breast cancer. But you kept your life from becoming a weepy after-school special. You never pitied yourself and demanded nobody openly pitied you. And, of course, everyone obeyed because everybody always listened to you. You commanded respect, and never failed to earn it.

You took on even more responsibilities after your diagnosis. You headed up the most successful Race for the Cure teams in the county, even if the race wouldn't be fast enough to save you. You didn't give up anything. You were going full force up until the very week you simply were not physically capable.

After the first time you were hospitalized, I was filled with dread every time I saw Grandma's number on the caller ID. Afraid of that phone call, of those words. Even though I knew they were coming, they hit me hard when I finally heard them.

For a week, my brain could only drift to you when it was unoccupied. To you, your poor grieving husband, your four boys. The boys I'd played tag with in the church playground, supervised sleigh riding trips, mediated fights, and coordinated extensive games of "Red Light, Green Light" with. The now motherless boys, the youngest ones to who you'd only be a vague, fuzzy memory.

It took me a few days to even muster the courage to read your obituary. I learned even more about you that I never knew. That tiny paragraph seemed so inadequate to encapsulate the accomplishments of your life. It was far too small to hold all your strength, even if the writing morbidly rings of your own. Always the planner, we all secretly suspect you planned your own funeral, not wanting to be remembered in any way other than perfect, precise, and efficient.

I only saw you a few times a year. I shouldn't be this torn up.

But I was. I am. An entire town was pulling for you, now an entire town grieves for you. There aren't many people who can claim such universal love and respect. As dangerously Hallmark as it sounds, I'll never forget the small and significant impact your life and your death had on me. I can only hope to ever become as strong as you were your entire, short 42 years.

Thank you for being Kelly.

Feb 10, 2010

Anatomy of a Snow Day

8:30-9:30ish

Awaken, realize the freakish brightness that surrounds. Glance at clock. Notice the lateness of the hour. Panic, afraid alarm didn't go off. Glance out window. Notice the blankety whiteness that is your front yard. Relax a bit. Check caller ID for school closing number. See it, fall instantly back asleep.

11:00ish

Awaken, panic again. Recover more quickly this time. Flop out of bed and examine the snow outside. Go downstairs. Nod at obligatory "Thought you were going to sleep all day" joke. Ignore brother begging you go sledding with him until you reach some level of food intake.

12:00ish

Finally give into brother. Dig around in closet for suitable snow suit substitutes. Come out with pair of leggings still sporting a tag, ancient sweatpants that probably once belonged to a distant relative and are three sizes too large, and those throw-away pants worn before basketball games. Put these on and rummage for a waterproof coat. Find one, but realize the zipper is missing. Borrow mother's coat. Rummage for boots. Freakish foot doesn't fit in boots. Wear father's boots, also three sizes too large, with malfunctioning laces. Even three pairs of socks do not make walking easier. Find pair of gloves that mom doesn't care if you "ruin." By using them. What they were made for by three-fingered orphans. Go figure.

1:00ish

Fall/waddle down the basement steps. Locate sleds under three tons of miscellaneous holiday paraphernalia. Pull sled out while the Halloween tree (not spotted in public since 1996) falls on head. Attempt to drag sleds to door while brother stands impatiently and uselessly to the side. Fight annoying basement door lock. Door will not open due to snow drift on other side. Drag sleds upstairs, alone, and through the dining room, ignoring Mother's pleas not to track up the floor, even though no contact with the outdoors has been made. Finally end up in yard with sleds and brother and partial sanity.

1:30ish

Spend time sledding guiltlessly because that is what snow days are for. It has snow in the title.
Dodge snowballs aimed for face from brother. Drag brother back up hill when he's "tired." Feet begin to exhibit signs of frost bite due to lack of fitting and lack of being able to tie shoes wearing gloves. Finally go inside.

3:30ish

Come inside. Stand freezing in laundry room until you're satisfactorily clean to enter the living space, as deemed by mother. Attempt to change out of wet clothes. Eventually have dry ones, but still feel slightly damp. But it's warm and happy.

4:00ish

Feel like you should utilize opportunity to catch up on schoolwork. Find marathon on tv. Ignore homework.

7:00ish

Realize that you might have to attend school the next day and run to the window in panic to check the weather status. Reach no conclusion. Check weather.com. Talk yourself into believing another blizzard is impending. Get on facebook.

9:00ish

Realize once more you might have to go to school. Open homework books and get a pencil. Somebody IMs you.

10:00ish

Now you really must do the homework. But you really don't want to. Stare it idly.

10:30ish

Check weather reports again.

11:30ish

Head to bed. You'll just pray for at least a two-hour delay. Or maybe the homework will magically do itself. Or maybe nobody else did it and you'll get away with it.

7:00ish next morning

Alarm clock goes off. Look outside. Look at tv. Wait for your school to come up in the glorious closing rotation. Exclaim in happiness at "two-hour delay." Go back to sleep.

10:00

Arrive at school, homework incomplete, looking to the sky, praying for snow.