Friday, September 18, 2015

#shuffling and the brake pedal, aka things that I'm afraid of

Names have been changed to protect the innocent. Grammar has been intermittently used to both annoy you and give that feel of rapid rambling that you would experience if we were having this discussion in person. It's more for your safety, really.

Dear Life,

You know how there are those facebook posts where it's a bra color, or a pirate name, or if you don't press like it means that you DON'T, in fact, love, but must SURELY (rather) HATE homeless children, or Jesus, or all things good (because you DIDN'T click the button)? (I love how my priorities and devotion are solely demonstrated/indicated in a 'like'...and if I ignore it, or pass it by, or just don't 'like' something that someone says I MUUUUUST, I'm an instant hater...guess I'll have to live with that one. Sorry, children. Sorry, Jesus. Sorry, all things good. Wait, I'm supposed to be a hater (maybe I'm really bad at hating??)...wait, can we do another take? I missed that cue...(clear my throat, find my ANGRY motivation, narrow my eyes...I'm ready!) I'm NOT sorry, children, et al!!! NOT SORRY!!! (throw some stuff around to emphasize my DISLIKE.)

Anyway, a few years ago, there was a trend where we would 'like' someone's post and they would give you a number and you would have to create a secondary post with that number of random's totally buried in my feed, so I can't write to the full extent of the original, but I can summarize: blah blah blah i trimmed/hacked my eyelashes when i was a little girl blah blah blah i found the loophole in becoming a legit musician by recording my practice sessions and replaying them so that my mom thought i was hard at it blah blah blah i'm terrified of high maintenance hair blah blah blah i'm random blah blah blah i love hard blah blah blah i'm insecure blah blah blah i wish i was in tahiti the end. So, I was taken back to the terror thing today on two occasions, and this, my loving, devoted (third post) friends, is the theme of my postity post post post today.


#every day I'm shuffling
When I was a girl, I wasn't a big fan of uppity. Which was probably a shame, because my mom was in the fashion industry and she was (is) a bad ass. She could rock leather (it was the 80's) pants, cashmere, stiletto heels, frosted tips, and tangerine gloss through JFK with a rolling rack full of samples to show her client at Saks in one hand, and her Louis Vuitton in the other while simultaneously hailing a cab, and radiating this vibe that you just didn't want to mess with her. I think that if I had had the same interest, I could have seriously capitalized upon that fine grooming and example. The standard was high, folks. I knew how to travel solo from coast to coast and back on my own by the time I was 12. I also knew how to clean a house, cook a decent, balanced meal, and shake hands properly at that young age. She showed me the ropes: be nice, don't ever settle for a dirty hotel room, tell the truth, try new things, when you feel like something is wrong, it IS (trust your instincts), when you're walking down Broadway and a guy is pissed and screaming at the world, DO NOT ENGAGE, I repeat, DO NOT ENGAGE.

Unfortunately, then I was (and still am to a degree) quite I ruined plenty of beautiful designer shirts/pants/dresses by spilling things down myself. She was (is) immaculate. I was more at home in keds and overalls. And, for the most part, she let me. But while I may not have gleaned the her excellent fashion sense, but rather a strong sense of self, there were certainly standards/things in that upbringing that could never be: all things slouching, any variety of bad table manners, every incantation of talking back, any reference to butts, AAAAAND shuffling.

In that world, shuffling = scuffs on the floor = no bueno. The picking up of feet was a requirement. This law retained order and cleanliness, not to mention peace and serenity. There was no clomping, no swishing, no dragging of shoes. (Nor the dragging of chairs across the floor - another no no.) This generally accepted lesson seems to be missing in others, I observe. And while I try to keep it together in public places, in my head, I DO find the posh, coiffed vision of my mother sternly commanding that these shuffling feet be immediately picked up.

To be in a public place, surrounded by strangers, is one thing, but to WORK with someone who wears platforms EVERY DAAAAAAY and then drags them around implies that either those kicks are too heavy or...i don't know, something else. I can tell you 100 quirky stories about all the different things I've seen in the work place. I'm sure you have your own, too. Workplace gigs like this are hard because we're adults and, let's get real, if some one came up to you and said "dude, you keep dragging your feet, BUY DIFFERENT SHOES OR LEARN HOW TO WALK PROPERLY," you'd probably buy a kewpie doll that strongly resembled them. And in as much as I've set up this tale with the precedent that shuffling annoys me, I find that, in this specific instance, it's not so much that the sound annoys me, as much as it kind of has a bizarre, stalker-like effect. My brother works with me, and on a few occasions while he's been with me in my office and this lady is on approach, we stop and listen with wide she coming? Is she walking by? Is she going next door? WHERE IS SHE??? AAAAHAHHHAHAHAHHH!!!!! So, this must be added to my list of random oddities (which is a LONG list), I'm freaked out by draggy shoes and chicks who can't properly walk in platforms. They're reminiscent of Freddy dragging his claws over pipes...he's coming. (Psycho strings play menacingly.) Perhaps, in another environment, I would be inclined to judge. In this case, it just freaks me out.

The second LEGITIMATE fear is new, but probably good in what it will prepare me for. New drivers. That are in my family. That are in the same car as brings out a whole new world of terror, anxiety and over-assertive behavior that I never considered possible. My brother is driving. It's great. I'm proud of him. It's also going to age First, he LOVES to hug the outside means that most of the time, I'm on the side that's hovering over this line...that's close to the parked cars...and bikers...and kids riding skateboards...that one day I'll end up scraping up against, or decapitating, or dismembering...all because he loves said lines. At first, I tried to be chill about it, but then when I'm shouting at him to move over, I guess that's not really so chill. Second, his gear and braking transitions are not smooth. That's not totally his fault, but when you're talking and then your speech is interrupted because the seatbelt has heimliched your throat because the car hops and jumps and bucks...oye. Third, because he's new, his judgment is developing. When you're an experienced driver (hopefully), you can gauge the speed and distance of oncoming traffic. When you have a tiny window, you drop it into gear and work it. Oncoming drivers are counting on you to be out of their way when they get to there. If one gets messy. Today, he meandered into the intersection to make a left turn and a classic impala was hauling toward us...and he was like...DECIDING whether he should go or not. YOU CAN'T WAIT, YOU'RE IN THE INTERSECTION AND IF YOU DON'T PUNCH IT RIGHT NOW, I'M GOING TO DIE IN THE GLORY OF AN IMPALA. Of course, I'm never that articulate. It comes out as snorts and grunts and partial vowel sounds...and then comes the desecration of my eyeliner and mascara because I'm dragging my hands down my face in anxiety. The only word that managed to make it's way out in it's entirety was COMMIT!!! Poor thing. I'm sure I'm going to give him a complex IF he doesn't murder me first by means of unintentionally wreckless sisterslaughter.

What's even more stressful is that my oldest son will be 16 next year...and this whole crazy driving madness will start again. Ugh...I mean, yaaaaaaaaay. Right? Until that day, I may need to up my medication, I mean, meditation...maybe listen to Enya to build up an arsenal of peaceful feelings prior to strapping myself in beside my kid. YIKES! I'm afraid!!

Wish me luck. Just don't shuffle while you're doing it.

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