Wednesday, March 31, 2010

I should've worn sneakers

The other day (a phrase I like because it makes everything seem so...current, like news hot off the press--which in turn makes me feel quite up-to-date) I was taking a walk in the park. It was the first day in a long time that the weather was actually nice enough for a walk--a walk I very nearly didn't take because it was almost 7 in the evening and I had just left work and wasn't wearing "exercise clothes." Maybe it's silly of me, but I always feel odd about exercising in a public place anyway, and doing so in what my mom calls "street clothes" is even more awkward. I'm almost sure that no one really pays attention to what I have on and why should they care if I go running about in jeans or pjs or a ballgown. The thing is, I notice things like that. I notice if people have mismatched socks or missing buttons or if they've rolled up their sleeves and the right roll is not even with the left. I notice people's toes, their ears, their teeth, their hands and fingernails--especially their hands and fingernails; I have a thing for guys with nice hands :) In fact, my whole family is like that, paying attention to little things that many people overlook. Because I notice so much I sometimes assume that everyone else does too. Every now and then I realize that I can use other's overlooking to my advantage. For instance, when hospital orientation day arrived, I had yet to order the official nursing student name tag. So what did I do? Make my own, of course. I found my work name badge, typed a new label and ta-da! I even glued some laminate on top to make it all shiny. Did it look authentic. Um, no, not really. However, it was the right color and it had all of the right words and that was good enough. Hey, mimicry works in nature so why not elsewhere. I'd like to say that, being a biology major, nature was my inspiration. The truth is, I have a streak of devious deep down inside. I'm slightly proud of it. Anyway, back to the park. As I was self-consciously strolling in my street clothes, I found myself approaching several baseball fields. I could hear parents--mostly dads--and coaches shouting complicated technical baseball words to the players. Or maybe it just sounded complicated to me because I don't know or care very much about baseball. Either way, there was a lot of yelling going on and it wasn't coming from the players. Considering the intensity, you would've thought these were Major League hopefuls. I walked closer and nearly laughed out loud. The players in the field were all about 4 feet tall with fat cheeks and mouths full of baby teeth. Kindergardeners. They were absolutely adorable, running around on their short little legs, shirts untucked, pants falling down. Half of them were wandering aimlessly in the grass, spinning around in circles. I wanted to sit and watch them but I didn't want to seem creepy, staring at the children of complete strangers. Yet again, no one would've thought anything of it. They would assume I was someone's big sister. Other exercisers, wearing proper exercise clothes, had the same reaction I did when they saw who was playing. Everyone was smiling that "oh how cute!" smile. Come to think of it, some of those people probably were creepy (yikes), but at that moment my heart was touched. I passed the baseball fields with the cute babies and screaming dads, sat down on a bench and read all about a doctor, an officer in the Adventurer's Club who repaired the hand of a Amazon Indian child The little boy had a very bad incident with a machete but he handled it with surprising calm. I mean, the poor child's hand was falling off and he didn't shed a tear until the doctor injected him with pain meds; he was scared of the needle. Go figure. Two weeks later he was up on the roof of his family's hut making repairs. Terribly impressive. The moral of this story is--keep a pair of sneakers in the car at all times and never play with machetes.

Thursday, March 18, 2010

Reflections on Tuesday (even though it's Thursday)

I'v never had a blog before. I don't even think I was quite sure of what a blog is until fairly recently. Anyway, here goes my attempt at actually keeping up with a "blog" (that word is definitely going into the category of words that sound ridiculous--couldn't we call it something else?). Just so you know, my name really isn't Tuesday. I sort of wish it was. Yes, I'm fully aware it's a day of the week, but it's such a cute name. If I ever feel the need to change my name (which I'm pretty sure will never happen) Tuesday will be in the top five. Or maybe if I have a little girl someday, I'll name her Tuesday. There's something rather interesting about it. Nobody in the U.S. likes Mondays; Wednesdays are "halfway through the week" days so you can pat yourself on the back for surviving the first half and steel yourself for the second ; Thursday is okay because people are anticipating Friday; Of course, Fridays are supposed to be fabulous and they lead up to Saturdays which for many are "free" days that quickly become not so free; then comes Sunday and church and family dinners and reading Parade magazine and dreading Mondays. Tuesday is the only day I can think of when nothing in particular is going on. No one's expectations for that day are especially high or low, there's usually no dread attached and no one feels the need to make grand plans. A rather extraordinary position to be in, I think. Can you imagine being a Tuesday? Everyone hopes that you will be a good sort of day and if you turn out to be perfectly splendid, they are pleasantly surprised. If you end up badly, well, it's okay, there's always tomorrow and the rest of the week to make up for it. Interesting...By the way, "C'est le ton qui fait la musique" is French for (literally) "it's the tone that makes the music." In other words, it's not what you say but how you say it. How true.