I Should Know Better. . .
October 11, 2009 JerseyGrins
Oh yeah--I DID know better!
I’ve been around the block of life a few times–well, at my age, quite a few times. So, you’d think I would learn from life’s bumps and scrapes. Oh no. I continue to amaze myself at the silly things I do. I should know better.
One day I’m reclining in the dentist’s chair, with a probe, suction hose, explorer, mirror, curette, and sickle in my mouth. My dentist says to me conversationally, “So what’s new with you?” I cease my handkerchief-wringing long enough to reply, “Mwf! Blowfmr weltkj wekupn qunk kewk rgkhuo wjetr srllgk.” Now, I know my dentist has taken “Advanced Veneers”, “Zoom Whitening”, and “Gingivitis, Our Enemy” as just a few of her graduate school classes. What I don’t know is that she has also taken “Dental Chair Mumblings.” She has clearly heard me say, “Man! Your stylist really got your hair red this time!” Suddenly, she is staring at me, tapping her foot and brandishing a very sharp syringe quite near my face.
A few days later, I’m cruising through town in my 1965 Mustang convertible—it’s a beautiful, mid-life crisis red. I’m feeling cool, feeling sassy. I see that the highway patrol has stopped a poor soul by the side of the road. I blurt out, “Woo-hoo! You’re in some kind of trouble now!” Both men turn to glare at me. A few days later, on Sunday morning, I’m squirming in the pew, looking around—taking inventory. I catch the eye of the man I had “Woo-hoo’d” just two days earlier. I beg to be swallowed up into the earth’s magma layer.
Then there’s the time I run into my son’s school to grab some PTA information. No one will see me this early. My hair looks like an alfalfa field rototilled by the finest Kansas farmer. In fact, the band Kiss will want to get my stylist’s name. I’ve got a few crumbles of yesterday’s mascara on my left cheek, while the Heartbreak of Psoriasis is emerging on my chin. I have on a baggy sweatshirt that says “Mom,” accompanied by jeans that are ready for high tide. White socks and Teva sandals finish the ensemble. As I sneak into school, I run into the PTA president, four teachers I know, and the principal. As I sneak out of school, I run into the district superintendent.
One day at the local supermarket, I’m tossing bread, chips, and soda into my cart with a speed and accuracy that would make Dan Marino jealous. I reexamine the can of baked beans I had so frivolously tossed in, look around furtively, and stick the baked beans next to a box of cake mix. I turn around, and there stands the supermarket police—a boy of about fourteen, with fuzz barely discernable on his chin. He sternly marches me back over to the canned goods aisle. I meekly replace the beans and slink out of the supermarket.
Clearly, my learning curve is not very curvaceous. Is there hope for me?
I don’t know. I think I’ll just open up my mouth, remove my foot that’s in it, and put the other one in.
Entry Filed under: Grins and Giggles
