Where are the Olympics when we need them? I’d even take a good Red Sox-Yankees pennant race over the tension of wondering how the November presidential election will turn out, not to mention the endless commentary I can expect over the next 2+ months. Or possibly 3 months if we repeat our road trip to the Supreme Court. At least Jon Stewart and Stephen Colbert will have plenty of material to offer up for entertainment.
So I will go back to fantasizing about the Olympics even if I need to wait for 4 more years to fulfill my Olympic dreams. As a child I idolized Cathy Rigby—‘Cath’ as my sister would use to taunt me while I tumbled on our front lawn. Actually, more often on my neighbor’s front lawn so I could avoid the rampant Chestnut burrs across my front lawn. I imagined myself swinging around the uneven bars, flipping on the beam, landing each dismount without a wobble.
Many years later, here I am still fantasizing about excelling at the Olympics. Like a mid-life career change, however, my fantasies have shifted. Now I imagine orchestrating a fantastic technical presentation, with fireworks and music and performers and lights and color and illusions and more performers all mixing into one stupendous visual extravaganza. Oh, wait, I think that was done. I was in awe. My whole family was in awe at both the technical feat and the human triumph. Despite the cover-ups, the Opening Ceremony was no less mystical and inspiring. Perhaps our presidential hopefuls and their cadres of staffers and supporters will align in perfectly concentric circles while we watch in anticipation each unifying step. My fantasies know no bounds.
While You Were Sleeping
Waking up to learn the Barack O’Bama is selecting Joe Biden as his running mate was definitely a ‘While You Were Sleeping Moment’. My first thought, with sleep still lodged in my right eye, was what a lackluster choice for a candidate who has built his campaign on Hope and Change. My Second Thoughts (I was feeling a bit like Tiffany Aching) then piped in, reminding me that Biden is a Democratic version of McCain. So if I was contemplating a O’Bama versus McCain choice, then now I could get the benefits of each presidential candidate with one vote. Surely I don’t know any of the candidates the way the armies of pundits claim to. However, much of voting certainly comes down to perceptions. And if I perceive Biden to embody a similar personal honesty and global understanding as McCain then I can confidently vote for O’Bama/Biden.
Weight Is Incorrect for Item Scanned
The grocery parking lot is large enough to require number markers placed on poles to help shoppers locate their cars. Okay, it’s not airport size, or even a Costco, but we’re not talking a dinky grocery store. So on a busy Wednesday morning, I did expect more than 2 check-out lanes, especially with a four cart line-up at each of those lanes. Thinking the intercom would crackle with, “would all available cashiers please report to the front of the store” at any moment, I considered briefly waiting in line. But I quickly discerned that no one had any intention of summoning additional cashiers.
Fine, I decided, I’ll use the self-scan lane—3 were open and only 2 in use. I am no novice at self-scanning, I use it occasionally in the grocery when I’m running in for a few items and I’ve scanned my share of light switch plates and grommets at Home Depot. However, these self-scanners seemed intent on foiling my efforts and with a half full cart of groceries, the scanners had plenty of opportunity to point out my errors.
For starters, I had brought my own canvas bags. Placing these upon the ‘bagging area’ immediately caused the first scanner error. The roving clerk came over and swiped her card to clear the system. Bags in place, I started over.
Scanned orange juice, “1 dollar 99 cents”. Placed orange juice in bagging area. “Weight is not correct for item scanned. Please remove item from bagging area.” The roving clerk returned, swiped her badge and I continued.
The scanning voice kept up a non-stop patter. It broadcasted the price of every item as if shoppers in aisle 4 needed to know the price of everything I scanned. And the canvas bags apparently threw off the weight of my items in the bagging area. So price points intermingled with “weight is not correct for item scanned” as I continued to swipe and the roving clerk continued to swipe and shoppers started lining up behind me, possibly more for entertainment than for making a quick purchase. Two shoppers actually stood right behind me, watching my every move, probably thinking that if I wasn’t unnerved at the talkative scanner, then perhaps they too could self-scan and thought watching me might enlighten them in what to avoid.
It became a game. Could I scan the next item before the current item's price was broadcast? More rapid than an Olympic sprinter I grabbed two items in an attempt to scan them quickly in sequence. No go. The grated cheese bag wasn't flat enough to scan in one smooth swipe. Next I tried two yogurt containers. Success! The watching shoppers appeared quizzical at my glee.
“75 cents… weight is not correct for item scanned…please remove item from bagging area… 75 cents…2 dollars 99 cents…75 cents…” I felt elated at properly balancing three consecutive items in the bagging area.
Then came the produce. Generally, I can name all of my produce more accurately than the high school cashier, I know when I have purchased cilantro not parsley or that I selected a mango, not a large avocado. So other than the incessant “weight is not correct for item scanned. Please remove item from bagging area”, this phase did move right along. Until I got to the watermelon. Clearly the photo of the whole melon on the produce list did not match my cut and wrapped quarter melon. After ‘W’ for watermelon I tried ‘C’ for cut melon. No go. Then Q for quarter melon. Where was that roving cashier? With the line now 2 deep behind me (5 at the regular cashiers) I decided I didn’t really need the watermelon. I collected my bags and headed out.
So Long Summer Camp
How is it that on the eve of collecting my daughters from camp I am all choked up, my eyes brimming with tears? Most adults must think I am a severely damaged specimen of a parent. Is it because I am closely linked to my children's spirits and feel their pressing sadness as they pack their trunks and hug their closest friends? Or is it perhaps because my soul is tightly linked to that place and time where I most painfully felt the irreversibility of time passing? Each year as camp concluded an annual ache would return that felt like I was peeling a layer of myself to leave behind in a treasured moment at summer camp. A piece of me left behind to rediscover many years in the future as my children tripped over the same rocks, dove off the same dock, sailed in the same boats, sang in the same dining hall.
My heart aches as I imagine my daughters watching the end of camp slide show, laughing and crying over all their golden moments. Then tomorrow, the
painful departure. My youngest prefers to pull bandages off quickly, to say her goodbyes, move on and deal with the tumult of the transition in her own space. My older daughter needs each goodbye and holds onto each hug as if she can personally stop the second hand from ticking forward by embracing her friends more tightly. Each has found her own way to say farewell.
And I can only look on, keeping the tears from my eyes as my heart aches, watching them each shedding a layer of their childhoods that perhaps they too may rediscover many years from now.
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