All of these events happened over a recent weekend.
I buzzed through a drugstore to do a quick errand, and was stopped by a stranger who asked which of the two under eye concealers she held would work best for her, liquid or powder.
Onto the grocery store, where another woman asked me if the red lobster packaged in plastic wrap at the seafood counter was in fact dead, and if so what should she do with it. A few aisles later, she approached me again carrying two different wedges of cheese asking me which one would work better for fettuccini alfredo. Then in the food section, a man asked me what a kiwi tasted like and how you would eat it.
The next day, I’m in the shoe section of a department store when a young woman approaches me and asks if the sneakers she is holding would be good for fitness walking, as she is trying to get back into shape.
First let me eliminate the obvious, and say that I’m pretty sure they did not think I was an employee in these stores, as no one would ever hire anyone who looked or dressed like me on weekends. And yes, they were all strangers. I should also eliminate the fact that I was in any way, shape or form looking pleasant and approachable, as when I do errands I am all business, purposefully avoiding eye contact to get in and out as quickly as possible. So asking me a question when I’m in errand mode requires determination, courage and good faith that I look like someone who might actually know the answer.
More interesting is that this is not just small talk; these people want answers. And my answer could determine whether or not they buy a certain product. Who knew a middle aged woman with no makeup on running errands in a beat up blue blankie sweater could have this much influence over our local economy?
Even more interesting is the fact that I do indeed have the answers; or at least I think I do. And those answers -in order - were: powder, yes its dead, you could sauté it with pasta, parmesan, tastes kind of like a strawberry, cut it in half and scoop out the inside, yes they are fine and you can do it!
This should come as no surprise to anyone who went to grade school with me and remembers my arm perpetually risen like Horshack from Welcome back Kotter, in response to just about every question in every classroom and subject, prompting teachers to ask “Does anyone BUT Beth want to try to answer this question?” Granted I didn’t always have the right answer, but I wasn’t afraid to give it a shot. And if I didn’t know the answer, I would just ask more questions.
In fact, the older I get, the more questions I have. But they are not the kind that can be answered in the grocery store check out line. They are questions like: What is our purpose? Why do bad things happen to good people? and What happens after we die? But while I am still seeking the answers to my own questions, I’m still happy to try to answer yours.
And yes, if the Lobster is red, it is indeed dead.
Tuesday, May 24, 2011
Wednesday, May 11, 2011
Blankie Power
That’s right, I have a blankie. Well, sort of.
It’s been on vacation with me and it’s chilled out at home with me. It’s been to every marathon expo with me, and waited for me at the end of each race. I’ve laughed in it and cried in it. It’s been with me when I cleaned my house, cleaned my yard, and tried to clean up in Las Vegas. It’s my ratty, old, blue shrunken sweater covered with pulls and pills. And although I’ve lost track of its specific origin, I estimate its age at over 20 years – longer than I’ve known most of my friends, and about the age my child would be if I had one. Its been washed and worn so many times it’s almost transparent, and now requires a shirt to be worn under it in public; which is just as well as it has shrunken so much it barely covers my belly bulge. If I were in grade school, I’d draw a heart and write inside of it Beth + Sweater = TLF (true love forever). Why do I love this sweater so much? I have no idea. I just do.
From a very early age, we develop an attachment to materials that bring us comfort, starting with the blankie. Blankie goes everywhere! Blankie makes us happy! Blankie + me= TLF! Which is all good, until something very bad happens to blankie. I’ve heard horror stories of blankies falling apart in the wash, falling out of a carriage or falling out a car window, but I’ve never heard a story about a baby falling out of love with one. Its appeal is undeniable, irresistible and inevitable. My blue sweater is the adult version of my blankie, and I’ll bet you have one too.
My late Uncle’s “blankie” was his orange plaid shirt, so much so, it’s hard for me to picture him not wearing it. Literally, as he is wearing it in almost every family photo over the years. He had a highly responsible job, and his orange plaid shirt signaled the simple things in life that made him happy: family time, leisure time, his yard, the sun and his shirt, not necessarily in that order. And I’m sure if you monitored his blood pressure, it would be lowest when he was wearing his signature shirt. Much like my sweater, his shirt took quite a beating over the years, so my Aunt did what any proud family matriarch would do. She tried to replace it with a new one, which anyone who has ever tried to replace an original blankie knows is an exercise in futility. My Uncle’s love of his ratty old orange plaid shirt became the stuff family legends are made of, with my favorite story being how that shirt mysteriously found itself buried in the bottom of the trash one day, only to come back on the back of my Uncle as he calmly watered the grass in it the next morning.
I’ve seen many examples of blankie-like comfort clothes over the years, from the “power tie”, worn as a security blanket to big negotiations, to “fast socks”, superstitiously worn to important races and even “lucky underwear”, worn for reasons I’d rather not know. As logical adults, we know clothing does not have magical powers, and even Superman was still super without his cape. Still, certain pieces of clothing trigger such strong memories and emotions that they become almost impossible to part with.
Hanging in my attic, there is an old XXL sweatshirt, its neck and wrist bands barely attached by a few threads, full of holes and covered with stains, soft from the many washings in an attempt to remove them. It has escaped the trash for 12 years only because it was a favorite of my late brother Stephen- his version of my beat up, beautiful, blue blankie sweater. I’m tempted to put it on to see if its magical powers can be transferred to me, but the magic was in the man, not the clothing. So I keep it not for the power of the blankie, but for the power of love- something even stronger.
It’s been on vacation with me and it’s chilled out at home with me. It’s been to every marathon expo with me, and waited for me at the end of each race. I’ve laughed in it and cried in it. It’s been with me when I cleaned my house, cleaned my yard, and tried to clean up in Las Vegas. It’s my ratty, old, blue shrunken sweater covered with pulls and pills. And although I’ve lost track of its specific origin, I estimate its age at over 20 years – longer than I’ve known most of my friends, and about the age my child would be if I had one. Its been washed and worn so many times it’s almost transparent, and now requires a shirt to be worn under it in public; which is just as well as it has shrunken so much it barely covers my belly bulge. If I were in grade school, I’d draw a heart and write inside of it Beth + Sweater = TLF (true love forever). Why do I love this sweater so much? I have no idea. I just do.
From a very early age, we develop an attachment to materials that bring us comfort, starting with the blankie. Blankie goes everywhere! Blankie makes us happy! Blankie + me= TLF! Which is all good, until something very bad happens to blankie. I’ve heard horror stories of blankies falling apart in the wash, falling out of a carriage or falling out a car window, but I’ve never heard a story about a baby falling out of love with one. Its appeal is undeniable, irresistible and inevitable. My blue sweater is the adult version of my blankie, and I’ll bet you have one too.
My late Uncle’s “blankie” was his orange plaid shirt, so much so, it’s hard for me to picture him not wearing it. Literally, as he is wearing it in almost every family photo over the years. He had a highly responsible job, and his orange plaid shirt signaled the simple things in life that made him happy: family time, leisure time, his yard, the sun and his shirt, not necessarily in that order. And I’m sure if you monitored his blood pressure, it would be lowest when he was wearing his signature shirt. Much like my sweater, his shirt took quite a beating over the years, so my Aunt did what any proud family matriarch would do. She tried to replace it with a new one, which anyone who has ever tried to replace an original blankie knows is an exercise in futility. My Uncle’s love of his ratty old orange plaid shirt became the stuff family legends are made of, with my favorite story being how that shirt mysteriously found itself buried in the bottom of the trash one day, only to come back on the back of my Uncle as he calmly watered the grass in it the next morning.
I’ve seen many examples of blankie-like comfort clothes over the years, from the “power tie”, worn as a security blanket to big negotiations, to “fast socks”, superstitiously worn to important races and even “lucky underwear”, worn for reasons I’d rather not know. As logical adults, we know clothing does not have magical powers, and even Superman was still super without his cape. Still, certain pieces of clothing trigger such strong memories and emotions that they become almost impossible to part with.
Hanging in my attic, there is an old XXL sweatshirt, its neck and wrist bands barely attached by a few threads, full of holes and covered with stains, soft from the many washings in an attempt to remove them. It has escaped the trash for 12 years only because it was a favorite of my late brother Stephen- his version of my beat up, beautiful, blue blankie sweater. I’m tempted to put it on to see if its magical powers can be transferred to me, but the magic was in the man, not the clothing. So I keep it not for the power of the blankie, but for the power of love- something even stronger.
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