The high school from where I graduated has always had a cross country team that does daily runs in the area around the school. There are many times I have seen them running in the heat of summer, as I sat safe from the sweltering temperatures in my air-conditioned car, and I’ve thought they were just as crazy as the people in the office park where I work, who go jogging around the parking lots during their lunch hours.
LUNCH HOURS! I mean, really? How do you do that kind of workout and not have to spend an extra hour scrubbing the funk that has to be emanating from your skin? And don’t even tell me they go back to work without taking a shower because… da-yum… that’s just gross. I would get fired if I did something like that.
Anyhoo, today I had a change of heart toward one of these high school runners. A young girl was trailing the pack of stick thin girls. She wasn’t dead last, but she was running by herself. What did me in was the fact that she was the only chubby one of the group — plugging along… in the rain… wearing a sports bra that probably wasn’t quite strong enough for her — and I had this flashback to my 8th grade Field Day. Gawd, how I hated Field Days. Always between 10 and 20 pounds overweight, I was never a sprinter, and these dreaded events never failed to put those athletic weaknesses in the spotlight.
For this particular field day, we had to sign up for different events, and we HAD to sign up for at least one. I looked for the shortest race, but by the time I got to the sign-up sheet, the 100-yard dash was taken, as was the 110 relay. But I noticed there was a 220, and I thought, “Oh, okay, another relay.” It wasn’t until the day of the event that I realized that it wasn’t a relay. I had to run 220 YARDS! 220 YARDS! Who DOES that to a 15-year-old??? Bunch of sadists…
Not only that, but in the first heat round, I got paired with THE FASTEST GIRL IN THE COUNTY. Seriously, they should have made her pee in a cup. When the race started, I was the moped and she was the sports car — not even in third gear and her blond ponytail was a blur. That was the longest 220 yards of my life — running in the burning sun of a late May afternoon, cheeks burning even hotter with embarassment about my poor performance, about my appearance, about my vulnerabilities.
All that came back in an instant when I saw this courageous girl running in the rain. I wanted to ride (not run, though) along side of her and cheer her on, but the way some people can be cruel these days she probably would have thought I was teasing her. So here I give the girl props for doing something I was too afraid to do back then. She doesn’t have to break the tape to be the winner. She’s awesome in my book.
Tonight… Front Desk… 7:55 pm
Phone rings.
Me: Thank you for calling (place where I work). This is Carla.
Female Caller: (in drugged out southern drawl) Did y’all call here?
Me: Apparently so. Are you a student here?
Female Caller: (pause) Mmmno.
Me: Are you interested in becoming a student here?
Female Caller: (pause) Mmmmno.
Me: Is anyone in your house interested in attending (place where I work)?
Female Caller: (pause) Yeah… my sister.
Me: Is she home? Perhaps I could transfer her to someone who can talk to her about the school?
Female Caller: (pause) Mmmmno.
Me: Okay then. Just tell her that we did call, and she can give us a call back when —
*click*
Here’s hoping her sister is more eloquent.
Brother-in-law #1 (the older one): (talking about Brother-in-law #2) I look better than him.
(pause to let us stare at him for an explanation)
Well, I’m 50-60 pounds heavier than him, but you can’t tell.
Brother-in-law #2: This is success to him — “I don’t look nearly as fat as I really am.”
It was a Saturday evening during the summer of 1982, I believe. “Billie Jean” was huge, and I had just gone to the Greenville Mall with my mom and stopped at Peppermint Records (Can I get a moment of silence from my fellow Greenville natives who remember that wonderful record store?) where I bought a Duran Duran pin and a Michael Jackson pin. I proudly wore that pin over to my grandmother’s house that night for dinner. It was tradition that every other Saturday night we went to MaMa Grant’s house for hot dogs, (with steamed hot dog buns!) baked potatoes (with ranch dressing!), chips, and apple pie with ice cream for dessert. Doesn’t that just scream “America!” or at least “Heartattack!”
Hrmm, bad word choice there.
Anyhoo, as I sat there munching on my hot dog, MaMa Grant (bless her heart) looks across the table at my shirt and asks, “Is that a picture of a black man on that pin?”
Oh to have been able to tell her, “It’s okay, MaMa, in a few years he’ll be white!”
(Disclaimer: I loved my grandmother dearly and do not mean to paint her as a racist. She was a beautiful woman who treated everyone as wonderfully as they treated her, perhaps even more so. So don’t go thinking I came from a racist family. That is all.)
Well, my pen is — or I guess I should say pens. Because I have a lot of them. Really. A. Lot. I was in STAPLES yesterday and improperly fondled a twenty-something pack of Sharpie colored, fine-point markers.
I felt compelled to talk about my pen addiction because of an article I read this week in the New York Times. (Thanks to Matt for the link.) The author complained that the concentration on the handwriting curriculum in schools is useless because how many of these kids will even need pen and paper in the future? Of course, it didn’t help her case when she lamented the fact that her child was making poor grades in his handwriting lessons, but she (…a …writer) goes on to add that the only time she picks up a pen is to sign her name on a credit card receipt. That admission just saddened me. Here’s a published author who can’t be bothered to slow down and submerge herself in the process that helped her hone her craft.
I still love the feel of a pen in my hand as it scribbles across the page. I’m comforted by the sound of the metal tip as it scratches along the paper. I feel an immense pride and a swell of satisfaction in seeing my handwriting fill page after page of black, spiral-bound journals.
That’s not to say that I never write from scratch at the screen. At my last job, I wrote almost all my articles at the keyboard. I’ve written that way at home as well, but when I need a jump-start, when words can’t appear the way I need them to, I pick up a pen.
Those who’ve had less than stellar handwriting probably welcome any technological advances that reduces their need to compose by hand. Kids definitely have embraced texting as a way to deliver notes instead of the old-fashioned, cleverly-folded, handwritten letters. But each invention makes me a little sadder because I fear we take one step toward going paperless.
Edward Bulwer-Lytton thought the sword was a lesser foe to the pen. Oh, if he could only see what he was up against in the future!
