It's football time in America. Hope is alive and all things seem possible- well, maybe some things. I remember the end of last year's season. Along with Superbowl aspirations for 2011, I vowed my body would readily fit in the snug stadium seats. I swore I would buy a cute Tennessee Titan's t-shirt and sport it on game day. I imagined myself effortlessly strolling back up the long bridge without needing to stop in the middle to breathe before finally collapsing in my car.
A week from Monday is the first home game. I will once again sweat my way through crowds and arrive breathlessly to cram my heaving flesh into a hot seat. I will step on toes and feel my skin pressing into the skin of others as I clumsily work my way into the middle of the row. No doubt, I will drop corn dogs and spill beer along the way (another memory of last year).
I will pray that others around me don't show up and are mired in traffic (certainly the kid who vomited a few seats down last year). I will pray that oppressive summer heat takes a sudden departure and a cool breeze will settle in the night air. I will pray that we really might have a shot at a winning season.
Just in case none of these things work out, I do have another plan that makes me happy. I have enough hope to imagine that the shrieking woman who has occupied the seat next to me for several years has lost weight.
That's the beauty of a real and hopeful optimist. If I don't live up to my expectations, I do hope that others succeed. And do I hope my seat mate has lost weight (or changed seats). If not and we are joined as Siamese twins watching our Titans, I will secretly know that her hips are still bigger than mine and she is half in my seat, instead of me in hers.
Monday, August 16, 2010
Sunday, August 8, 2010
Roller Derby
I think we all have a need to belong; to fit in; to go where everyone knows our name. Places like the bar in the old television show Cheers; places to fit together and form something bigger than ourselves; places where we are united by common goals and uniquely understood. I was not in that place Saturday night. I stood alone in a crowd and stared.
That night, I was a pink lipsticked southern belle in the middle of a sea of black gathered to cheer women’s roller derby. I watched the crowd watching women bearing names that wouldn’t be found in any pastel pink or blue baby book. This crowd of the night wore tattoos. They wore lip rings, nose rings, and tongue rings. They wore dyed hair as art --standing tall, cropped, shaved, formed and shaped as sculptures for an exhibition. They wore glitter. They wore just enough strategically placed clothing scraps to possibly avert arrests. They wore stockings with seams; with rhinestones; with holes. They wore each other in the hallways and bathrooms.
There were cheerleaders. I’m well-read, articulate and even eloquent according to some. Allow me to simply say – I’ve never seen such. I felt certain I was not like any of these people. Wearing a judgmental attitude and a headband, I stood on platform sandals looking down at these fans of roller derby.
Maybe it was seeing the old man sitting in the chair that helped me gaze around with different eyes. Generations older than the crowd’s median age, he too stared. He couldn’t take his eyes off the roller girls. I imagined that perhaps he was someone’s grandfather. Perhaps he was a former Olympic speed skater who taught a young girl to adore roller skating when she couldn’t ice skate. Perhaps he financially supported the team or maybe he was to roller derby what Hugh Hefner is to many,many, many women. So I looked around the crowd and saw that everyone was someone’s daughter or son; brother or sister; mother or father. I looked beyond the chain smoking pregnant girl and saw her within a family of tourists taking pictures of themselves and the beautiful skyline. I heard the discussions of hot dog or nachos amidst the rattle of chains at the concessions. I saw the love among couples waiting in the perpetual line at the women’s bathroom.
That night when I got home, I looked in the mirror. I looked at the piercings in my ears. I thought about the trouble I took with my hair earlier in the evening. I thought about my hair dresser who I visit every three weeks. I washed the makeup off my face. I took off my new jeans and white cotton shirt.
Under our costumes, masks and jewelry; we are more alike than different. We want those we love to love us back. We want to find a bit of ourselves in others; to fit in; to belong. We want to find a place where we are special.
We can find that place anywhere. We just have to look hard enough.
That night, I was a pink lipsticked southern belle in the middle of a sea of black gathered to cheer women’s roller derby. I watched the crowd watching women bearing names that wouldn’t be found in any pastel pink or blue baby book. This crowd of the night wore tattoos. They wore lip rings, nose rings, and tongue rings. They wore dyed hair as art --standing tall, cropped, shaved, formed and shaped as sculptures for an exhibition. They wore glitter. They wore just enough strategically placed clothing scraps to possibly avert arrests. They wore stockings with seams; with rhinestones; with holes. They wore each other in the hallways and bathrooms.
There were cheerleaders. I’m well-read, articulate and even eloquent according to some. Allow me to simply say – I’ve never seen such. I felt certain I was not like any of these people. Wearing a judgmental attitude and a headband, I stood on platform sandals looking down at these fans of roller derby.
Maybe it was seeing the old man sitting in the chair that helped me gaze around with different eyes. Generations older than the crowd’s median age, he too stared. He couldn’t take his eyes off the roller girls. I imagined that perhaps he was someone’s grandfather. Perhaps he was a former Olympic speed skater who taught a young girl to adore roller skating when she couldn’t ice skate. Perhaps he financially supported the team or maybe he was to roller derby what Hugh Hefner is to many,many, many women. So I looked around the crowd and saw that everyone was someone’s daughter or son; brother or sister; mother or father. I looked beyond the chain smoking pregnant girl and saw her within a family of tourists taking pictures of themselves and the beautiful skyline. I heard the discussions of hot dog or nachos amidst the rattle of chains at the concessions. I saw the love among couples waiting in the perpetual line at the women’s bathroom.
That night when I got home, I looked in the mirror. I looked at the piercings in my ears. I thought about the trouble I took with my hair earlier in the evening. I thought about my hair dresser who I visit every three weeks. I washed the makeup off my face. I took off my new jeans and white cotton shirt.
Under our costumes, masks and jewelry; we are more alike than different. We want those we love to love us back. We want to find a bit of ourselves in others; to fit in; to belong. We want to find a place where we are special.
We can find that place anywhere. We just have to look hard enough.
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