Shameful Saturday

There's nothing quite like waking up at 5 am, finding oneself still fully clothed in yesterday's work outfit, laying face to face with an infant. Oops, I did it again.

Also, if it's true that the state of your home is a reflection of your inner self, I'm the emotional equivalent of pile of junk mail and unfolded laundry, with baby toys and wet towels scattered around the perimeter.

That reminds me of a guided meditation we had to do in secondary school years ago. All of us gerruls jammed into the refrectory at the convent, a sea of green wool jumpers and knobbly knees. It was meant to be a treat - a break from the stress of exam prep. We were told to close our eyes and imagine ourselves walking in the woods. Along our way, we were told to find some kind of drinking container, and an animal. It was up to us to decide what those items looked like.

The drinking container I imagined was a partly-crushed plastic water bottle with dirt mushed into the creases, and I could see that there was some grit rattling around inside in the small amount of water that was left. I didn't imagine myself drinking from the bottle (would YOU?) The animal I pictured was a deer.  I didn't pet it because I could see that it had ticks crawling on its body. Realistic, right?

At the end, we were asked to share what we'd imagined. The other girls had not grown up in North Dakota. Irish-born, they had spent their childhoods frolicking on blue flag beaches and mixing with organic farmers from Germany, so they had imagined beautiful stone bowls and chalices filled with spring water, noble elk pausing in the distance or remarkably tame horses who came up for a nuzzle.

Heh. Cute. Then the home ec. teacher shared the meaning of our imagined objects. I think you know how this is going to go... The animal represented how one imagined oneself, and the drinking container was how one envisioned love.

Ah. Righteo, then.

With that, it's Saturday. The sun is shining, and the baby is yodeling at his father. Bring on the coffee!

The flop of shame

Yesterday, I went to the grocery store in sweatpants. Not just any sweatpants, but the stretchy, black workout leggings that everyone is wearing these days. 

This wasn't the first time I've worn them out in public, but I don't make a habit of it. Every time I do, however, there always seems to be a reminder waiting. Some invisible mirror being held up, perhaps by a complete stranger, showing me that I used to be different from how I am now, no matter how subtly.

I found my reminder easily enough, rounding the corner of the cereal aisle: two young women, standing in beautiful linen summer dresses, reading aloud the sign hanging overhead labelled 'jam, peanut butter, pickles.' They had Scandinavian accents. Foreign women, looking like real grownups in public.

A mother in jogging shorts flip flopped by with a young child, also in jogging shorts and flip flops. Flop flop flop flop flop flop.

Standing there in my stretchy black leggings, my Irish self inwardly frowned at my American self, remembering Fiona, the Boston girl from my undergraduate English tutorial group in Dublin. Fiona, who would appear for small group discussions in sweatpants with words printed across the backside, a hoodie, flip flops, and a huge bun leaning over the side of her head. Pajamas, essentially. She'd fold herself up, legs under her in her hard backed chair, like she was watching a movie in her living room, instead of discussing literature at the same university that James freaking Joyce had attended. She would drawl out her words in a half sing-song as she offered her analysis on the week's novel.

"I don't knoooow, you guuuuuuys, IIIIIIII just thought this book was kind of boring?"

Oh for feck's sake, Fiona.

That was not how things were done, and her extravagantly casual way embarrassed the bejaysus out of my American self. To be honest, I worried that my classmates would equate me with this groggy creature swathed in comfy fabrics and shod in plastic.

And then, on a sunny Tuesday afternoon, there I was, standing in a prairie grocery store aisle in flip flops, stretchy sweats and a tee shirt, with a big messy bun perched on my head.

sigh.

Oh well. I pulled up my elastic waistband, casually flip flopped past the Scandinavian girls, and made my way to the checkout counter.