It looks the same, the sky, the ground, the trees, ok not really the trees, but it looks the same from inside the glass. But then I was outside. And it was different. It was cold.
Now the problem is that it really wasn’t cold. It was forty-eight degrees. Forty eight degrees in the Midwest in the Spring means that you wear shorts, irrationally but in celebration of the end of the sh*t that is Winter. And yes I capitalize the seasons because they are significant.
I have become a California wuss. I pulled my hands into my sleeves when I should be throwing a football around. The orange beauty of the Fall leaves meant nothing because I hurried my gait and couldn’t appreciate them. My blood has thinned, as I was warned. Or maybe my skin is thinner, I am certainly no longer thick-skinned. All I know is that it’s embarrassing to my former self who is snarling at me from some other time-space where the wind chill is twenty degrees below zero and it really is cold.
Here’s the thing, I didn’t think about it. I knew on the flight from Los Angeles to Chicago the temperature would drop. I was prepared with a sweater for the car ride. But that’s it. I didn’t go outside. I went from the airport to the car to the house. Until the next day. When I wanted to go for a run. That’s when it hit.
The pretty day from inside the glass was so deceptive that I almost wanted to don shorts and a t-shirt. That’s what I usually wear. That’s what I wore two days ago when I was a spoiled brat Southern Californian. That’s what I’ll wear when I go back.
Here’s my fear. That I won’t toughen up in two weeks. That I’ll go back and take it for granted that it’s eighty degrees and sunny in November. That I’ll complain when it drops to sixty and I need a sweatshirt at night. That I’m actually going to turn into one of them that thinks there are seasons in Los Angeles. That I’ll believe that the occasional sprinkling is actually rain. And that when it does truly drop to the forties in the middle of the night I’ll believe that it’s Winter. It’s not. It’s winter.
Nope, won’t let it happen. I can handle this, I spent over forty years living through it. It’s only dropping to thirty-five tonight, where’d I put those electric socks?
“Louis, what’s the matter?”
“All my life, when I was growing up. I didn’t want my mother’s cooking, I wanted peanut butter and jelly. She’d say ‘one day, when I’m gone, you’ll regret it.'”
“My mother said that too.”
“And then when I was older and she’s try to give me another helping, I’d say I don’t want to get fat and she’d say ‘one day, when I’m gone, you’ll regret it.'”
“She wouldn’t give up.”
“No. But it was true. And I missed her cooking for years after she was gone. And now I get here and she can’t cook for me.”
People take selfies in singles and groups. Women take pictures of their boobs and butt and men take pictures of their biceps and junk. And people take pictures of their toes in the sand.
But nobody takes Thumbies. Til now. Get in, it’s trending. #thumbie
Weekly random thoughts. Since I’m self-employed it’s my version of water cooler talk: no one to talk to so it goes out to cyberspace.
I took the road less travelled which meant that there was no one to ask directions when it turned out I was hungry for Jack in the Box.
I wonder if when the Beatles were at the height of their popularity whether they regretted naming themselves after a bug?
For years I’ve been stealing candy from babies in the hope that it would seep out into the rest of my life, but all I’ve gotten is a few dozen less obese children.
I believe they may be right when the kids at Hogwarts really think they’ll never need math.
I personally don’t understand it, because fantasy football to me is nachos and just cheerleaders in nothing but jerseys.
I wonder if little kids, in their attempt to learn the world, now do impressions of emojis instead of animals.
I wonder if Buzz Aldrin practiced his famous phrase for a few weeks prior every time he went to the bathroom?
Last week I found myself continuously pondering a video clip I’d seen where Alfonso Ribeiro, on Dancing with the Stars, talked about doing the Carleton, a dance he performed as a character on the Fresh Prince of Bel Air, and how he was bringing it out to give “America what it wants.” I don’t remember thinking that and I’m an American. So who wants it? And what else does America want?
And then it struck me. Today we celebrate a federal holiday to honor a man who landed on the wrong continent. He was looking for India. But it’s kind of fitting. We’re honoring our accidental discovery, which makes us the adopted kid. Every July 4th we honor the runaway. We’re a combination of the two, which means we simultaneously want a hug and we want to lash out. We don’t know what we want.
Which is perfect! We are all in the position to go to therapy, to figure out why we lash out, why we are always trying to either be like someone else or chastise them for being the way they are, to stop being mad at our parents.
America is in a position to learn how to get along better with everyone else. By examining our own issues we can realize our true identity and act genuinely. If we all act the best that we can be and the way we want to be instead of spending the time criticizing the others, I’ll bet we’ll get more done in government, in business, and in charity. We’ll balance this country out by all acting the way we should.
Alfsonso Ribeiro knew it. He did what made him popular. He did the Carleton. So let’s all do the American.