Silly Socks

Sitting in the park the other day, I observed a woman walking past me wearing black and yellow socks that definitely looked like bumblebees. She wore ankle length pants so the socks were quite noticeable.

I saw as she went past that she was otherwise clad entirely in typical NY black. Hmm I thought what do those socks say about her? Is this a style statement or some indication of an inner desire to break loose form drabness perhaps not only in her clothing but also in her life?

The other question I asked myself is why would she wear the darn things. They were to my mind close to ridiculous. Was she a very serious person maybe a judge or social scientist with an inner silly person?

I have seen any number of women beyond the carefree years of youth wearing socks which looked pretty much like munchkin attire. Or maybe like those Oompa Loompas from Willy Wonka.

Invariably these women dress otherwise quite conservatively.

What does it mean? Are we to view socks as a means of self-expression.

I asked a friend for her thoughts and she said, "Well its what they are selling nowadays. And I guess you have to buy what’s out there. It's a merchandizing scheme to get people to spend more money.”

I agree with that totally but it doesn't explain why this particular advertising campaign has been so successful. You see silly socks everywhere. There are even some that look like old library cards. I’m a librarian but do I want people to identify me by my socks? The id being Old Librarian.

If you see clothing as a means of self-expression, just what is being expressed?

Maybe silly socks reflect a wild unconventional streak that usually remains hidden and can only reveal itself through socks?

I have come to the conclusion that socks are an American version of the French woman’s scarf, which she uses to make her clothes more interesting and appealing.

We go to the Wizard of Oz for inspiration. The French look chic we look silly.

Do these socks say we aren’t in Kansas anymore?

Of course they don’t. Nobody in Kansas would wear black all the time.  I bet they wear actual colors like blue and green. With silly socks?

I'd like to think that those bumblebee socks said something about the lady’s inner personality.  She returned and passed me going in the opposite direction.  She had silver-gray hair done in a kind of bouffant up do that was quite arresting. Almost as much as her socks.

I bet she could sting.  

*As I sit here in front of a rain splashed window wearing purple and green striped socks I wonder at the nerve I had in writing this piece. Its kind of like how I feel about Amazon: I can tell you every thing that is wrong with the company yet I still order stuff from it. I have excuses - oh lord do I have excuses but I haven’t stopped buying certain things.  I tell myself that I only buy things I can't find elsewhere.

If I had the courage of my convictions I would do without those things.
Right.

And I wouldn't wear these silly socks either. But they are so warm and cozy, just what I need on this chilly morning. And I feel a tad more cheerful wearing them

So what is the silly sock thing all about?

It’s really pretty simple: it's a cheap way of wearing something fun and kind of cute. They make you feel a little fewer drabs. (I really wrote a little less drab but the grammar tool changed it. It’s worth noting that someone, if only an app, gets the difference between less and few even if it is goofed up in the end.)

After all I do wear black ninety percent of the time too. What's wrong with lightening it up a little?

My Necklace

I won’t go so far as to say I feel guilty but I do wonder why I didn't give that little girl my necklace.

It would have been the nice thing to do. It was obvious she wanted it. Why didn't I?

My mom would have given it to her without a second thought. Why couldn’t I?

Anyway, the little girl was about three and her name was Lydia. She wasn't exactly cute. What she was was gorgeous. Like a little movie star. Really.

We were on a two-hour boat tour of Maine oyster beds on the Damariscotta River and most people were there to eat oysters and drink wine and glance occasionally at the shore.

Not a lot to do for a three year old.

She kept looking at me from across the deck as I was chatting with a couple who were wowing me with the fact that they spent two months each summer in Maine.

Lydia came progressively closer and closer and it became clear she had her eyes on the necklace I was wearing: A cheerful blue green and yellow plastic affair that is lightweight and great for travelling because it seems to go with everything I wear.

With it there was no need for thinking, I could just put it on and go. It wasn’t expensive. I had found it in a museum store. It cost less than $20.

It looked like candy drops.

I liked it a lot.

So did Lydia.

I thought, “Oh dear the nice thing to do would be to let her wear it while we on the tour. But what would happen when it was time to give it back?  I would probably give it to her.”

I just didn't want to.

It was mine. My toy.

I wanted it.

I turned this little episode into a stupid drama. What was going on? Could it really be as simple as the fact that it was the one of the few pieces of jewelry I had with me for a two-week trip?

Or was I jealous of this child. She was absolutely stunning with sun-streaked ringlets, a perfect tan, a little rosebud mouth and incredibly intense blue eyes.

I did think “Oh my gosh she doesn't need my lousy twenty dollar necklace with those looks she will get what ever she wants. She doesn't need it.”

I made it into a whole existential crisis.

I was pulled out of it when the woman I had been talking to said, “Don't give it to her. It will just end up in the bottom of her toy box.”

So I didn’t give it to her. And she was still staring at me as we all climbed off the boat.

Sticking with my Shift

In the last year not one but three people have asked me why, at my age, I continue to drive a manual transmission car when there are so many excellent new automatic shift cars.

New cars feature signals to tell you if you are wandering out of your lane. There are beeps to give you warnings about how you are applying the brake and if you are not braking quickly enough, the car will stop for you.

I was sort of offended, especially on the age thing, but my reasons for sticking with stick sounded lame even to me. I answered that I get better mileage and that its safer to have the added acceleration it gives small cars when entering highways. I think newer cars have overcome these issues.

So I have come up with the argument that studies show adding technologically advanced safety warnings makes drivers less attentive. Drivers tend to let the car make decisions for them. (My son told me he feels that way.) I think that we need to be even more attentive not less as we age as drivers. I feel like the more I have done for me the less I do for myself.

This is strange coming from a person who adores most laborsaving devices. Dishwashers are a gift from the gods and I could but don’t want to live without a microwave, self-cleaning oven or a frost-free refrigerator. (I do live with one of those and I hate it.)
Currently I am looking into buying Roomba vacuum cleaner. What could be more fun than watching a little robot cleaning my floors?

But to get back to the car thing …

There is something even stronger than safety keeping me driving my manual car. It’s an art or a skill I have mastered and I am proud of it.

There is nostalgia involved. As a little girl, my father let me help drive his truck. I would shift the floor gears while he manned the clutch. I was thrilled.

Then there are the happy memories of the boys in high school and college who loved teaching me the finer arts of stick shift in their bargain clunkers, although I do remember one who had a red convertible with fins.

Anyway, I learned how to listen to the engine and how to let it tell me when to shift. Never to ride the clutch, I mastered the nerve-wracking skill of waiting on a hill and shifting without backing into the guy behind me. I can rent a car in Europe without paying premium prices for automatic.

And then there is my very satisfying memory of taking my car to have it washed and being paged from the waiting room because none of the men knew how to drive it on to the cleaning ramp.

So it makes me feel like a bit of a jock.

Allow me my small pleasures, please.

Aisle Rage

Is it really possible that I could have developed a deep and abiding hatred for a fellow Fairway shopper just because she parked her shopping cart in the middle of the aisle so I couldn't pass?

You see, I waited a little bit for her to notice me and move and maybe even say “Sorry”. I then said, "Excuse me" and she gave me an annoyed look and a dismissive hand gesture indicating that I could have gotten by if I had wanted but what I really wanted was to make her feel bad.

So I spent the rest of my shopping time angry and annoyed at her and at myself for letting her get to me. I began to have fantasies of accidentally ramming her cart, so I carefully avoided whatever aisle she was in.

This is not the first time I have experienced aisle rage: the feeling of being in the wrong because you don't want to wait until someone has blithely perused seven types of tomato sauce while you just want to get to the pasta. They don't even notice you are there until you say something and then they look all innocent and betrayed.

So I ended up feeling like one of those crabby impatient horn honkers at a traffic light.

By the way, did you ever notice that the one not moving is not the bad one. The bad one is the person who asks him to move, who must be some kind impatient car jock who thinks only of herself.  

The dawdlers holding up everyone are usually in some existential daze, looking at a cute blonde or a bird or texting some vitally important message while the guy behind waits and waits and then finally interrupts them by beeping. The idler often looks irate, even makes an impolite hand gesture as he sails off, just making it through the light that everyone else invariably misses.

A soon as got home I called my daughter, Amy, to tell her the story and ask her if she  thought I was irrationally angry and probably turning into an old curmudgeon.

Amy just sighed and said, “I know just what you mean.”

Words delightful to my ears.

“Mom, I experience that all the time at my food co-op where everyone is supposed to be so co-operative. No way. It’s everyone for himself or herself. Lookout. I’m shopping here. I’m not in your way. You are in my way. You wouldn't believe how testy everyone is. It’s dog eat dog.

And speaking of dogs, do you know how many people don't pick up after their dogs? Its really disgusting!”

“And if you remind them Amy, then you are the bad guy, right?”

“Right.”

My daughter. She understands.

I felt a little better.

But later that morning, I spoke with my son Tony and told him about my aisle rage and do you know what he said?

“Oh mom, they might be perfectly nice people in another context.”

“I don't know them in any other context!” I spluttered, “I just know what they are in supermarkets. Anyway, I hate it when you are so kind.”

“Mom, here’s the thing,” he said. “Remember that visit to Cincinnati a couple of years ago visiting our cousin? Sweetest kindest person I’ve ever met. Couldn't do enough for us. Right? Drove us everywhere.”

“Yeah, of course. My niece is the best.”

“Do you remember how she drove?“

“Oh my gosh yes,” I responded, “I’ll never forget that terror. I couldn't believe how fast she drove, weaving in and out of traffic, passing everything that moved. Scared me to death!”

“Well, Mom, ever since that visit, whenever some jerk tries to cut me off or passes on the right at 90 miles an hour or tailgates me, I just say to myself, that’s not a bad person. That could be my cousin.”

Words to live by.

Or not.

Being There

I’ve wanted to see the Alhambra for a long time.

I first saw the famous palace in a photo layout in a travel magazine many years ago. I was captivated by the timeless beauty and serenity of the ancient palace built by Muslim princes in the 9^th century. It was magnificent.

I finally got my chance to visit the Alhambra on a recent tour of Lisbon and Andalucía in southern Spain.  Our group of 20 had been travelling for eight days seeing some very beautiful places. We had visited Lisbon, Cordoba, Seville, Rondo, the Costa del Sol, Malaga and Gibraltar. I loved the tiled buildings of Lisbon, the overwhelming Mosque-Cathedral of Cordoba. The flamenco troupe we saw perform in Seville was 10 times better than I had expected. I loved the beaches of the Costa del Sol and the Picasso museum in Malaga. In other words it was a great tour but the 6:45 wake up calls, the long hours on the bus and miles of walking each day were getting to me. I was extremely tired and my problem knee was hurting.  I just wanted a comfy chair and a nice glass of rioja or maybe a whole  pitcher of Sangria. 

But the Alhambra was what I most wanted to see.   I had to experience it.  So, of course I wasn’t going to miss the Alhambra. I pushed on.

The palace just outside Granada was indeed spectacular. I couldn’t believe the intricacy of the wall carvings, the courtyards filled with silent trees and elegant fountains. But it seemed as though I was just looking and not really experiencing any of the amazing rooms. I trudged through a seemingly endless array of gorgeousness.

There were so many people there! They wandered everywhere and took endless pictures of each other posing in in courtyards in front of fountains. I was right there with them pointing my camera at every astounding corner of every astonishing room, taking pictures of my friends and asking them to take pictures of me.

The trouble was it was just too much. Too much to see and absorb and too much to truly enjoy. Photos were not enough. It was as though I was looking but not seeing.

I wasn't exactly disappointed but I wasn't exactly moved. I felt like I was going through the motions. I also felt as though we had been walking for miles. I started to realize just how tired I was and how much my knee was aching.

When emerging from the Winter Palace into a perfect rose-tiered garden, the guide announced that we had covered about 60% of the palace. I was truly dismayed. He pointed to the Summer Palace across a kind of gorge, which seemed very far away and very much an uphill climb.

So when he mentioned that anyone who wished could remain at a designated point and wait for the group to return, I seized the opportunity.

I was the only one of our group of twenty to take him up on the offer.

“So I'll miss the Summer Palace but maybe I’ll make it through the rest of the day” I told myself.

I sat down on a bench on a long tree lined avenue amidst school groups of rowdy teenagers and playful grade school children. Many, many people passed by me - old and young from so many cultures - all full of excited talk.

After a while, the numbers seemed to ebb and subside into a quieter flow of visitors.  There was now enough room on my bench to put my knee up on it. It seemed that as the numbers diminished I could begin to actually see my surroundings.  Across from me was a view of the city of Granada, a cascade of creamy yellow buildings tumbling down the hills that surrounded the palace. I began to notice that a bank of orange poppies lay next to one of purple irises. Flowering trees gave off a subtle scent I hadn’t noticed before. The poplar trees lining the avenue were swaying in the breeze and I could hear the far off sounds of a fountain and recognize that the birds were gentle in their calls. I could see that the garden was precisely planned to delight the weary traveler’s eye and soothe his soul. I was soothed and delighted.

This is what the Alhambra is about, I thought. This is why Muslim princes chose this spot to build this grand palace. This is why Spanish kings did not destroy it when they had ousted their enemy.  This is why they left it in all its Moorish glory. This is why thousands of tourists clamber over it. Just hoping to catch this moment I am experiencing right now, not by trying as I had by dutifully looking into every wall and corner, but by allowing myself time to experience what I was seeing.

And this I realized was what I really needed to do: just stop and wait for the Alhambra to come to me.

When my friends returned from the Summer Palace, they told all me about what I had missed.

I didn't tell them that I felt that I hadn’t missed a thing withdrawing from the tour.  I had just spent one of the most delightful hours I could imagine. I was given the gift of not just seeing but truly experiencing what I had been longing for.

It was an experience I won’t forget.

Househusband

“So Jim,” I said, “I finally got an idea for an essay that might actually work.”

“What is it?”

“Well I would need your input. Your side of the story as it were.”

“Yessss?”

“Remember the year I went to graduate school and you were househusband?”

“Vividly.”

“Well I thought it might be fun if we each gave our side of the story.”

“You mean how I worked myself to the bone while you were off hanging around in some library?”

“Not exactly. I mean how I was grinding away at five graduate level classes while you were playing with the kids and reading the newspaper and letting the laundry pile up.”

“You mean how I did all the cooking and the laundry and the dishes in addition to childcare and my awful part-time jobs that fed and clothed us?”

“No, how I did all the cooking and cleaning and washing up in addition to childcare and writing papers and attending class and doing lengthy assignments that required me to work in the library hours on end.”

“While I just dilly-dallied?”

“I wouldn’t say that.”

“Just what would you say?”

“You were always yelling as you went out the door, ‘Don't do the dishes. I’ll do them when I get home.’  Or when I started to clean, you would say, ‘Stop. That's my job. I’ll do it later!’ Later never came.”

“You never gave me a chance. You always went ahead and did them.”

“It was so silly of me I would promise myself not to do and leave the mess but there came a time I would need a pan or a plate or a diaper or just a path to the door through the toys and I would end up cleaning.” 

“You didn't have faith in me.”

“Of course I did. I had faith that you wouldn't ever get around to actually doing the chores.”

“That's cold.”

“You had wonderful intentions. And the kids had a good time. I do remember how sweet it was every time I came home from class to wade through the mess thinking I was going to kill you until I would find you and Amy and Tony hiding in the living room closet. It was always the same closet.”

“It was the only closet big enough for the three of us.”

“You would all yell ‘Mommy’s home! Yay yay!’ And I would forget the mess.”

“Mess?”

“Well yeah. There were toys and laundry and newspaper all over the place.”

“That's not how I remember it. I remember changing diapers and making kid meals and making dinner and washing incredible piles of dirty dishes and going to the laundry with both of them and vacuuming constantly and cleaning bathrooms and going to the park with a bunch of toys and snacks.”

“Funny, that's just how I remember it. Only it was me doing it.”

“Maybe it was both of us.”

“It was pretty crazy.”

“When did you have time for your jobs?”

“When did you have time for your classes?”

“Those were the good old days weren’t they?”

“Yeah. Lets not talk about it anymore.”

And maybe this isn’t such a good idea for an essay.