And some of us just flounder around.
Today, for some reason, I am drawn to a variation on a theme. Well, more like what a dear old friend of mine would call a "bastardization" rather than a "variation", but hey, it's my blog, I can call it whatever I want.
Shelly, on her blog, has a feature called "Only the Good Friday". On Fridays, she writes about something good. It's that open-ended. And she invites others to join her. It's a really nice idea. Good attitude, good karma, good energy.
It's so not me.
I'm thinking maybe Judgment Friday would work better for me. That way, I could save up all the judgments I have, all those things that make me feel like qualifying that I'm not really a nasty person (but which really indicate that I am really just a person, since who among us doesn't have any judgments? come on....) and on Friday, I could share maybe one, maybe two, of 'em. Let some of the steam out.
Being the nerd I am, I'm thinking...oh, what if some other clever blogger (because clearly they would be clever) has had this idea, much as Shelly has come up with her more virtuous version.
I don't want to be stealing anyone's thunder. So I checked. Lo and behold, I found this. He calls it Value-Judgment Friday. I can work with that.
I always encourage comments, mostly because I love conversation, and without comments, well, this is sorta one-sided. This time, I offer a little guidance. Please feel free to leave your own judgements. Every Friday. Whether I post on that theme or not. I'll try to remind you. It's cleansing, kinda like going to confession, which I know nothing about, but it seems like a good metaphor. It's freeing, kind of like posting on Secret Spineless Whine. And you'll make me feel better. So (not to mix religious metaphors), it's a mitzvah.
On the flipside, don't bother telling me that I'm like, so judgmental (or intolerant, or politically incorrect or whatever). I know. That's the point.
Here's my judgment for today.
So my daughter recently started running with a track club that is offered by my town's fabuloso rec dept. She's been wanting to do this for a long time, she loves to run, it's been great. She usually likes me to hang out to watch. It's spring, it's that beautiful time of evening, there are bleachers--I usually do stay. So do several of the other parents.
One of the parents who waits has three children (she could have more, I only see three). She has a son in track, and two younger girls, who appear to be about six and four years old. They wait with her every week while their brother runs track, picking dandelions, and walking up and down the grey weathered wood benches of the bleachers. They seem to play well together.
Here's the thing. (deep breath)
I know I probably live in a bubble, and it's a twisted bubble at that. Maybe it's a bubble inside of a bubble. But I honestly didn't know that in 2009, there were still children that routinely dressed like these two girls. Or, to be more accurate, children that are dressed like these girls--because it just seems impossible that it is purely by their choice. Or maybe it is. What do I know?
Every week now, I have seen them. Every week, their matching page boy haircuts are adorned with colored bows made of shiny ribbon, and each child is wearing a semi-starched cotton dress, the kind of dress I would not call a "playdress" by any stretch of the imagination, but the type of dress that I would expect to see a young child wear to a summer wedding. On one occasion, the two were wearing the same dress, or I suppose I should say matching dresses, since okay, they weren't wearing the same dress (happy now?). This week, one of the dresses even had a petticoat sort of poofy thing under the skirt. No, I don't think there are shorts underneath. Little white socks, nice shoes, perfect dresses, perfectly clean, phenomenally neat and unwrinkled, bows in hair. Girls in white dresses with blue satin sashes. You get the idea.
They wait, and play patiently and relatively sedately, while their brother runs track.
I feel sorry for them.
I know. It's so none of my business. Their mom (who seems very nice and far more neatly dressed than I) probably doesn't know there are 9 year old girls who only wear boys clothes, and probably finds that just about as mind-blowing. I'm good with that.
Okay. Your turn. You know you have em. Hand 'em over.