Thumb Rings and White Gloves

The sun outlined her long, blond hair and body in gold as she entered the room. Bracelets jangled and earrings danced down her neck. She confidently wore her unique style from her headband down to her tanned legs. Expressive eyes sought me out and she quickly finished her text conversation and hurried over to meet for lunch. We really didn’t know each other. I met her during a time when I was confined to live from dusk to dawn before barely making it home to rest. While I couldn’t make up for lost time, I could now spend my time with people I imagined would connect in heart and laughter and spirit. Some two hours later, I left the restaurant with a new friend and a commitment to buy a thumb ring.

A few days later, I attended a regional meeting for an organization I recently joined. Some 300 women gathered to honor the noble cause and seek ways to further unite together in time-honored traditions. I was the only one wearing blue jeans –- black to be exact. I was dressed from head to toe in black -- black cotton shirt above black jeans and my favorite black platform sandals. Big silver hoop earrings jangled above a beaded necklace my sister made and my long wavy hair was barely contained by a lace black headband. For lunch, I seated myself at a table with two elderly women. With disdainful tones, they described the relaxed dress code and spoke with animation about the upcoming state conference during which white gloves and dresses would be worn. I broke into hives.

On the way home, I thought about my two different lunches with these separate women. Stopping at a jewelry store to purchase the much anticipated thumb ring, I pondered the white gloves. I had no doubt that my new friend, sporting her own thumb ring, would have white gloves. Maybe I would have the guts to wear my large silver thumb ring on top of the crisp gloves I could borrow. Maybe I would wear it under the gloves. Maybe I would not wear it at all in deference to the honor and respect the white gloves portrayed.

What I do know is that it feels good to have discovered someone who owns both white gloves and jangly bracelets and earrings. A friend, who lived on a farm, loves her own thumb ring and suns at the pool. She is a Mercedes driving, free-spirited woman who lives life on her own terms and wears her hair as she pleases and would be perfectly comfortable lunching at my organization’s meeting.

The key is not to look for a perfectly labeled and categorized box, filled with groups of people who are just alike, and have the same personality and interests, to fit within. The secret is to learn that the box isn’t for people. It’s for the assortment of clothes and jewelry and shoes that we can pull out and put on as we float through the universe embracing all that life has to offer. The secret is to look for one person at a time and see if their box contains and assortment of life’s sparkles and glitter, boots and hair clips. That’s when we start finding ourselves. The self capable of wearing both the white gloves and the thumb ring; conforming as needed; rebelling as desired. And then, what fun we’ll have together along the way.

Football Aspirations

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.