There I was, minding my own business and spending time with a friend. We were at a local coffee shop, enjoy mochas and conversation. I was showing her something on my laptop when....sniff, snarf, gulp, followed by uncontrollable crying. Like the embarrassing kind where the face is red, wiping nose and tears with a sleeve (how delicate). Also included in this display were several bouts of shallow breathing and that creepy high-pitched squeal. C'mon, stop lying....you know you've done it too. Just usually in the privacy of your own bedroom, followed by hiccups, a cold splash of water, and a stiff drink. The young lass causing all this commotion might have been quite pretty had it not been for the sleeve-as-snot rag and howling in a public place.
And in the other corner, we have the bitter, bespectacled twenty-something...who was reducing her boyfriend to a meek, quivering pile of Jell-O. One could hear every whining word out of her pursed lips, yet only a dim grunt every now and then from the offending party. Her tears were not desperate like our other character, these tears were irritating and begging for attention. At one point during my coffee shop hell, I had crying in stereo...jealous? What are the chances of having two breakdowns occurring in the same public space, at arms length (both arms)?
The whole situation had me wondering when common decency made a hasty exit to stage left. Perhaps we can conjecture about age (they were both about 10 years younger than me), or upbringing when considering these outbursts. I am sincerely not putting myself up on a pedestal...when I say that it would never be in my personality to have these dramatic eruptions in a such a fishbowl. I leave you with this question: has the coffee shop become the living room for the new generation?
27 April 2008
17 April 2008
Dream Machine
My dream machine was blue and white, complete with matching streamers and a banana seat. It was my first bike, and certainly the one I remember with the most fondness. For what seemed like a long time, my sleek friend had training wheels attached to the back, clattering around the cul-de-sac and back to our driveway. I had more than one spill from that sacred banana seat, but my Dad always managed to convince me to get back on. I persisted, dreaming of the day I would coast past my house like all the other big kids...sans training wheels.
Dad was my guide during the learning process. His was the hand steadying my bike, the voice of encouragement when I doubted myself, and the smiling face when I reached my childhood goal. It must have been a spring day, warm and carefree. This was the day that I was going to cast my training wheels aside and be a BIG KID. After a few quick turns of a screwdriver, my pride and joy had graduated to two-wheel status. Dad and I did a practice run around the block, gaining speed and courage. For reassurance, my father had one hand on the back of the blue-and-white banana seat. Ponytail flying out behind me, wind in my hopeful face, I turned my head to look again for his familiar face...only to find that my father had let go. I saw him getting smaller and smaller, waving from the driveway as I coasted triumphantly around the bend in the road. How my little heart swelled in my chest! Eyes gleaming, I returned to my father....arms outstretched, expression proud but tinged with perhaps a bit of sadness.
My sweet ride is long gone, keeping company with memories of Play-Doh and a child-sized stove. But almost twenty-five years later, I recall the streamers waving in the wind, firm grip on the handlebars, and scrawny legs pedaling furiously into the future.
Dad was my guide during the learning process. His was the hand steadying my bike, the voice of encouragement when I doubted myself, and the smiling face when I reached my childhood goal. It must have been a spring day, warm and carefree. This was the day that I was going to cast my training wheels aside and be a BIG KID. After a few quick turns of a screwdriver, my pride and joy had graduated to two-wheel status. Dad and I did a practice run around the block, gaining speed and courage. For reassurance, my father had one hand on the back of the blue-and-white banana seat. Ponytail flying out behind me, wind in my hopeful face, I turned my head to look again for his familiar face...only to find that my father had let go. I saw him getting smaller and smaller, waving from the driveway as I coasted triumphantly around the bend in the road. How my little heart swelled in my chest! Eyes gleaming, I returned to my father....arms outstretched, expression proud but tinged with perhaps a bit of sadness.
My sweet ride is long gone, keeping company with memories of Play-Doh and a child-sized stove. But almost twenty-five years later, I recall the streamers waving in the wind, firm grip on the handlebars, and scrawny legs pedaling furiously into the future.
06 April 2008
Moving....Again
Bruised elbows, banged-up shins, achy back...home sweet home. All these things and more, encompass the love/hate struggle that is moving. Nobody really wants to shoulder a queen mattress up several flights of stairs, but the end result is satisfying. A place of my own set up exactly how I want it. Moving day is never without it's mishaps: chasing the rogue freight elevator between floors, getting cracked in the head with a dresser, having to put my bed together with a warped spoon because I don't have a screw driver.
But with the down side of moving is always an up side. I adore my mini-me apartment, with it's freakishly high ceilings, but pint-sized stove and counter top. I'm also learning and accepting the quirks that come with living in an old building. The bathroom door is cantankerous, requiring a shimmy to the right then left, before it deigns to close. There is the squeaky kitchen drawer, as well as the cabinet door that always hangs open. But the space is always filled with light, even on the dreariest of days. It is the perfect size for this city-girl-in-training, every corner stuffed with my things. And as every day goes by, it will become more and more...mine.
But with the down side of moving is always an up side. I adore my mini-me apartment, with it's freakishly high ceilings, but pint-sized stove and counter top. I'm also learning and accepting the quirks that come with living in an old building. The bathroom door is cantankerous, requiring a shimmy to the right then left, before it deigns to close. There is the squeaky kitchen drawer, as well as the cabinet door that always hangs open. But the space is always filled with light, even on the dreariest of days. It is the perfect size for this city-girl-in-training, every corner stuffed with my things. And as every day goes by, it will become more and more...mine.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)