Broken Hearts and Christmas

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“Somewhere there’s someone who dreams of your smile, and finds in your presence that life is worth while. So when you are lonely, remember it’s true: Somebody, somewhere, is thinking of you.” – Unknown

Christmas is the season of hope and miracles. Festive lights and decorations are everywhere. There is absolutely no escaping it. No matter where you are, music is playing. Wishes for snow and gifts are plentiful. To-do lists and errands seem miles long. Hustle and bustle. And exhaustion – all in an effort to have everything “perfect.”

For weeks I have been asked: Are you ready for Christmas? Are you in the holiday spirit? Don’t you love this time of year?

No. No. And this year, no.

For the record, I am not a Grinch. Most years, I am as wound up as a five-year-old waiting for the big day. Though no longer a child, I do believe in Santa. On Christmas Eve, I search the sky, looking for the jolly ol’ elf. And I believe in Christmas magic and the hope of this season. The Babe in Bethlehem is my Salvation.

But I am not really into Christmas this year.

I have freely admitted this to many people, and save for a few, I am greeted with shock and horror. Some people look at me like I am crazy.

But I am normal. And I don’t need a therapist and I don’t need an anti-depressant.

I just need people to understand that, for me, this is a difficult holiday season. I am going to smile. And I am going to laugh. And I am going to cry. And those tears are healing. Those tears are okay.

Christmas will be different this year. That doesn’t make it bad – it doesn’t make it good. It makes it different. I never wanted it to be different.

I wanted it to be perfect.

At some point in our lives, how we celebrate Christmas changes. Children grow up, family members move, dads pass away. Maybe, for the first time in my life, I really have come to understand that there is no such thing as the perfect Christmas.

I overheard a conversation that resonated with me. Two women were discussing the emphasis on to-do lists, and shopping and baking, “all for one day.” The older woman hit the nail on the head – that the emphasis is on the wrong place.

“All you need to be ready for Christmas is to be surrounded by the ones you love.”

Yet, this year, there will be very dear ones missing from our celebrations – but because of my I love for them, they will be in attendance, for they are always close in my heart. Always.

Undoubtedly, Christmas will be different. Acknowledging that difference and that I won’t do all the same things this year relieves me of some of the pressures of “perfect.” I won’t have to pretend I am happy if I am having a sad moment. Different will make previous memories more precious, and new moments memorable.

Different will give me an ever greater appreciation of what I have been blessed with, which will go a long way towards healing my broken heart.

Different will also force me to look outside of myself and share with others – hard as that may be – even if all I can do is muster up a smile or be polite.

Maybe different will cause me to become different – but in a good and more thoughtful way. Maybe it will give me a greater compassion for the lonely, the hurting or for those experiencing loss.

Maybe, just maybe, different will one day feel perfect.

“It is the personal thoughtfulness, the warm human awareness, the reaching out of the self to one’s fellow man that makes giving worthy of the Christmas spirit.” – Isabel Currier

How are you helping yourself or a loved one this holiday season?

© 2012 – Lynne Cobb

For the love of Louie, please make it STOP!

“Win or lose, we go shopping after the election.” Imelda Marcos

Really, I am not trying to be arrogant here, but I believe that I speak for people across the globe when I say folks world-wide can’t wait for the polls to close here in the United States on Election Day.

Not that I think we are pro-actively wishing our lives away. Not at all. But whether you are a conservative or a liberal; a Democrat or Republican; a Coke or Pepsi drinker; a wine sipper or beer guzzler; a Target or Wal-Mart shopper; a vegan or carnivore…or what ever else separates us from one another, I believe we can all agree on this:

We can’t wait for Election Day 2012 to be over.

Have you ever felt so mentally weary?

Right now, I am thinking that giving birth without an epidural is less painful than this election. A root canal? Bring it on. We can safely outlaw waterboarding – just tie the bad guys up and force them to watch the past few months of election coverage. They’ll cry like babies and sing like canaries.

The madness is completely inescapable! My brain hurts from the barrage of negativity. Not one side can claim innocence on the continuous beating of this election drum. The droning is everywhere you turn: pundits on the local news, national news, billboards, yard signs, radio, TV. My home is no longer a refuge as the land-line and cell phones continue to ring off their proverbial hooks. My email inbox is jam-packed with junk, just like my mailbox. How many poor trees have died for this election?

If all the money that has been spent on this year’s election – both on the national and local levels – would have gone toward the bazillion dollar National Debt, we may have been able to pay that off AND go on a wickedly wild shopping spree.

For the first time in my life, I want to poke out my own eyes and stick large wads of bubble gum in my ears just to keep the election noise out.

And social media? Wow is all I can say. The rudeness factor is off the chart! How many friendships, work relationships and arguments at the family dinner have been caused by the mean-spiritedness found on Facebook, Twitter and the like. Folks, it is okay to have differing opinions – really, it is!

Campaign Finance Reform… yeah, that is laughable. It didn’t go far enough and it certainly isn’t enforced. (Gee, was it because it was written by those who abuse it? I digress…). If I was Queen of the World, my idea of reform would be that politicians couldn’t spend a dime to get elected or re-elected. (I know, I know, some of you whose livelihoods are dependent on advertising revenue and printing just cringed and gasped!) So maybe we can set a very low, and I mean very low, spending allowance on running campaigns. And once it is gone, it is gone. Oh by the way, the window for campaigning would be shortened, too.

Think of the creativity this would inspire! Talk show hosts and news anchors would have to find something else to talk about – what a concept! And how refreshing!

Closing my eyes, I think of how uncluttered our lives would be. Our brains wouldn’t be so taxed and we wouldn’t be so anxious. We could retain useful information. We wouldn’t have an ad created each time a candidate made a small mistake or when they sneezed the wrong way.

The bad moods would be elevated. Stress would be alleviated.

Why, we’d actually be able to think! Before we voted!

What a concept.

Looking forward to Wednesday…how about you?

© 2012 – Lynne Cobb

Bruised bumpers and the Blues

“There is a fountain of youth: it is your mind, your talents, the creativity you bring to your life and the lives of people you love. When you learn to tap this source, you will truly have defeated age.”  – Sophia Loren

A few events over the past week brought me to this “A-ha!” moment: With age comes wisdom.

Heading to lunch with my husband, I was busy reading email on my phone when a huge thud jarred me: figuratively and literally. Some debris, either from the car in front of us – or kicked up by said car – walloped our front bumper. Talk about being shaken.

It was then I realized that my calmness, as well as my husband’s, was a sign of the times. In our younger days, we would’ve been madder than a wet hen at the young driver. She was completely oblivious to the fact that either she hit something or lost a large part of her car. With her tiny dog in her lap, I noticed the dents and dings in her car. She was completely unphased, and we couldn’t get her attention – as hard as we tried – to let her know what happened.

I didn’t even think to yell or scream at her. Maybe I envisioned one of my own children, having car trouble that could cause a major incident, and hoping that an encounter with another driver would be educational and not dangerous. Even when we reached our destination and looked at the damage, we were both surprisingly calm. Back in the day, not only would we rant and rave, we’d wring our hands and wonder how we’d pay for this mess, that was no fault of our own. Instead, we were thankful it didn’t break the light-housing or come flying through the windshield, which would surely caused injury to one or both of us.

With age comes wisdom.

Last weekend, we had the opportunity to attend an art gallery opening. The featured artist, whom we never met, is the husband of a colleague and friend of mine. She and I chat several times a week online and meet for coffee when we can. To be able to see her husband’s incredible art was a moment in our lives that we felt truly blessed to be able to share – alongside them and many others.

Exactly a week later, we had another great opportunity. Our neighbor and friend has been in the fight of her life. Diagnosed with a very aggressive, late-stage form of breast cancer, this woman has been a courageous inspiration for many. And just as it seemed that surgery, chemo and radiation had done their job, the bad news came. This fighter now had to face even more extensive surgery, just as she thought she had gotten back to her life. After six weeks of healing, doctor appointments and rest, this trooper was on back stage last night. And we were in awe. I firmly believe that The Blues were written for her to sing. Confident, smiling and blowing us away, she beat the crap out her cancer, and we were there to watch her comeback gig – completely in awe of her amazing talent. Who knew that this tiny little powerhouse could sing?!

But the most amazing thing happened after both of these events – and it was the humbled response of these artists. While we were so thankful for being invited to share in one of the most memorable moments of their lives, they thanked us for attending!

Hmmm…I think I am beginning to get it.

With age comes wisdom.

Back in the day, when I was a younger woman and desperately trying to seek fame and fortune through my writing, my focus was completely wrong. Please don’t take this as a judgement call, but in our twenties, many of us embraced our gifts as “ours.” We didn’t share – we had what I will call an arrogant talent. What will my talent get me? Some of us foolishly pitched that gift when it didn’t bring us the income or fame we thought it should.

Additionally, some of us shelved that talent when we started having families and felt pursuing a dream was a waste of time when there were kids to raise and an income to earn.

But as we got closer to or reached that half-century mark, the talent that was buried for various reasons began to sprout back to life. Maybe because we now have more time to nurture it, but maybe, I think, we have just come to realize how important that gift is.

We realize how fast time is ticking. I think, too, that we become confident in our place in life. Maybe we are a little less shy in sharing certain aspects of our lives.  Seeing that life has smacked all of us around by the time we hit this age makes us more humbled for sure, and most often, kinder to others. We have felt the sting of loss;  whether it was a job, a house, a loved one, or health. We embrace good news, and to celebrate accomplishments and talents of those around gives us time to pause from the mundane and experience joy.

We also change our attitudes when it comes to our talents. Instead of wondering what we get from it, we are more concerned about what others get from it. Our motives don’t revolve around making it big – they revolve around making a difference.

Will Doug’s gift of art inspire someone to experience the smell of paint and the feel of a brush meeting canvas? Will Annie’s gifted voice inspire someone to sing, take a dance class or play piano? Most likely, yes. But the biggest gift of all came from these artists sharing themselves – putting themselves out there for all to see. To bare their souls, not because they are awesome (which they are), but because of their choice to share their gifts with others.

God has graciously gifted everyone. Some have the gift of art, music, photography and such. Others have the gift of service; some have the gift of teaching. Still others can build and repair anything. Then there are others that can turn ordinary grocery items into the most extraordinary meals. Or grow beautiful flowers and delicious produce.

Our gifts are endless.

No one could have ever convinced me that going into decade number five would be one of the best times in my life. And, admittedly, there are days I long to be in my twenties again. (Sometimes it is because I long to see myself minus the little wrinkles forming around my eyes, or so I can wear short shorts because I’m not sporting these awesome varicose veins!) Seriously, though, revisiting my twenties is more because of my want to go back in time and smack that twenty-something me in the head, then bestow upon her all this wealth and knowledge and insight that I have today.

With age comes wisdom.

Here’s to settling down and not flying off the handle over the little things in life. Here’s to enjoying your older, wiser self. Here’s to sharing with others. And if you are burying that talent, unearth it today. I double dog-dare you to share that God-given gift of yours with others. In doing so, you will experience a joy that can’t be described.

© 2012 – Lynne Cobb

Homemade Applesauce with Cinnamon

When the fall weather is crisp and sunny, as it was yesterday, we usually try to grill outside, as we know our days of doing such are numbered during this fickle change of seasons.

Pork chops were on the menu, and they would be wood-fired on the grill to perfection by the BBQ King – who, by the way, was recently overseas and “wowed” his fellow service members with his now world-famous ribs! Hail to the International BBQ King!

What will round out this delicious fall meal? Warm, homemade applesauce, simmered with cinnamon, plus freshly steamed broccoli.

The applesauce is beyond simple to make. In fact, it is so easy, you may never buy a jar of it again.

Enjoy!

Homemade Applesauce with Cinnamon

Peel and slice 10-12 apples (I usually use macs, and these were from our local Farmer’s Market).

Place slices in a pan with about 1/3 cup of water.

Give a generous sprinkle of cinnamon (don’t go overboard, as too much cinnamon  can taste bitter) and add two or three generous tablespoons of brown sugar.

Bring to a gentle boil, stir, then turn heat to low and cook until thickened. (Just add water or a little apple juice if you prefer a thinner sauce.) This step will take 30-45 minutes, depending on your preference for a thick or thin sauce. At this time, take a taste so you can adjust the cinnamon and brown sugar in your applesauce.

Most of the apples will cook down, but there will be a few pieces of apple that you can leave as chunks, or mash it all down with a wooden spoon if you prefer.

Serve warm or cold.

That’s it – simply perfect for a simple autumn meal.

© 2012 – Lynne Cobb

When my world stopped turning

“Where were you when the world stopped turning, that September day?” – Alan Jackson

Where was I on September 11, 2001? Dropping my youngest daughter off at preschool. My memory of that day is as clear and crisp as the weather was that morning.

It was a perfect day, and I found myself lingering outside, chatting with a friend. Her youngest son was in my daughter’s class, and her older son was a classmate of my oldest son. We shared so much – even the fact that we had been military spouses. We spoke of how we were blessed to be military spouses during peaceful times, excluding a brief stint during Desert Storm.

Our conversation stopped only because of our need to accomplish our morning routines while the little ones were in preschool. Our time was precious – the hours would tick quickly between drop-off and pick-up. If we wanted to accomplish anything, we’d have to leave now and continue to chat later.

I jumped in my van, half-listening to the news. A plane crashed in New York. Sad, but nothing too odd, I thought, except that Bryant Gumble was on air. Hmmm, I thought, it must have been a big crash, because it was all I heard on every station. I stopped pushing the buttons, and eventually shut off the radio. I did continue to ponder why a TV host was live on the radio.

Being gone a little longer than I planned, I had messages waiting for me when I got home; more than usual. Putting down my purse, the phone rang. I was interrupted by a hysterical call from my sister, who shouted, “Put on the TV! We’re under attack!”

What? I still get goosebumps from that slice of memory.

Grabbing the remote, I put on the TV. In disbelief and horror, I changed the station. Over and over each broadcast showed the same thing: a plane blowing through the World Trade Center.  In shock, I saw the camera replay as plane number two sliced through the other tower.

My head was spinning, reeling, trying to process this? Are we at war? Who did this? Who is next? Do I go get the kids from school? I couldn’t reach my husband on his cell. I wanted to turn this off, but I was drawn to the images coming in from New York.

Not wanting to be alone, I left and sought sanctuary at the church we attended. My pastor was there, and we grieved with others who also sought refuge and wanted to pray. I had never seen this man as disheveled as he was at that moment. He and his family had recently vacationed in Washington D.C. and in New York. He was stunned, reeling like everyone else.

The surrealism of the day continued into the evening, where our front porch began to fill with neighbors, friends and family, several whom were veterans. We all tried to make sense of the day. Located not too far from a small airport, the stillness of the silent skies added another layer of surreal to the day.

The smell of coffee, beer and cigarettes permeated the air, and we were getting updates from folks driving by, sharing their experiences of waiting in long lines at gas stations and grocery stores. We kept a very watchful eye on our kids. Nothing felt safe anymore.

Surrounded by so many people, yet feeling so very alone. I think we all felt that way.

No one could comprehend at that moment how our lives would change forever. How we would cling to each other. That we would find the love for our nation that seemed buried. That pettiness would be shoved aside for the greater good.

I wouldn’t have dreamt that, because of that day, I would become a military spouse with war zone experience. Or that because of that day, I would be one of many military moms losing sleep because their baby was in a foreign land, defending our nation.

I wouldn’t have dreamt that, because of that day, here, 11 years later, we are a nation so divided politically that it breaks my heart. Like we forgot how to be united. Friendships are being taxed by the divisiveness. Warring words from political camps and pundits fill the airwaves like a continuous assault.

If I could pick one blessing that came from that tragedy on 9/11, it would be that we, as a nation, stopped the bickering. That we raised our flags and helped where ever we could. That we were united.

As a military wife, as a military mom, and most importantly, as an American, I pray fervently for God to bless America, and that we remember how just how good it can be here in this country when we are a nation – united.

© 2012 – Lynne Cobb

So which team am I going to cheer for?

“Football is like life – it requires perseverance, self-denial, hard work, sacrifice, dedication and respect for authority.” – Vince Lombardi

Fall. Sunny days and cool, crisp evenings. Football weather. The chance to reconnect with  friends at the stadium. Hoodies printed up with team logos, marching bands, brats grilling, whistles blowing – Friday nights under lights across the U.S.

Memories flooding. Some folks may feel torn. Some may be ambivalent. Some, like me, find the irony a bit comical.

High school, and once again for me, it is a bit awkward. Why? Because, should I decide to go to the game, who will I cheer for?

This week’s football game is an “us versus them.” Only for me, “us” is my kids’ high school football team going up against my old high school, who is now “them.”

If I let it, it could prove to be quite a dilemma. The school that helped shape me, that educated me, that housed friendships and memories.

My past.

Days of teenage angst; feeling like I didn’t fit in. The square peg in the round hole. The one who didn’t measure up against my peers…

I haven’t been to that football field since I graduated. But since then, I have met up with some classmates I graduated with, and we have had a great time together at each gathering. Life has beat us all up, and we’ve dealt with stuff we would have never dreamed of when we graduated and parted ways some 30-plus years ago: deaths, deployments, divorces, downsizing… none of us unscathed by life.

But it makes for better friendships and deeper conversations than it did back when we were teens.

I would love to root for my old alma mater.

But I can’t. It is the past.

I am in the present.

In the here and now, I have to cheer on my new home team, which boasts of some pretty good guys. The young men who, I swear just yesterday, were about half the size they are now, goofing off and eating pizza in a classroom party I helped host.

Some of these young men have been over to shoot hoops in my driveway. A few of them were here to help with a science fair project that consisted of putting Mentos into diet soda in anticipation of pop shooting all over the sidewalk. (They weren’t disappointed.) Some of these young men were loud boys who needed to be reminded to be quiet at 2 a.m., because, yes – even in the summer – parents have to work. One of these young players has a good throwing arm in part because he and my son tossed bricks to each other to practice (until I shrieked for them to stop!) Many of the guys on the team have grown up with my son; they are some of his closest friends, and their parents are now among my some of my dearest friends.

I will cheer for my new home team because it boasts of a lot of young men I have watched grow and mature over the years.

I will cheer for my new home team because it is the team my son cheers for.

I will cheer for my new home team because my youngest daughter, a JV cheerleader, will be there, rain or shine, sleet or snow, for her home team.

I will cheer for my new home team because each week they bring the hope of a win, a reason to gather, a sense of community.

While I am not forgetting my past, I am putting it behind me where it belongs, while enjoying the present.

To my new home team, and to your young fans, I cheer for your future. I hope that the bonds you make today with your friends continue to grow deeper with time. When you part ways at graduation, I hope you stay in contact with each other. When life beats you up and you have mud on your face and you’re up against hardships that you never knew were possible, I hope that you will find yourself grounded and firm because of your home team.

When you graduate from college or trade school and have a family of your own, I hope the values you learned growing up in this town stay with you. That you welcome a yard full of kids, running, swimming, shooting hoops, squirting each other with hose. (But for Heaven’s sake, please don’t let them toss bricks!)

And after a few years, maybe even a few decades, when you meet up with your classmates, I hope you will find that your friendships are stronger and your conversations are better.

And if you find yourself in an awkward spot on a Friday night, please know that it is okay to cheer a new home team.

Even if it feels a bit odd.

The new home team will appreciate it, and the old one will understand.

Trust me on this.

© 2012  – Lynne Cobb

Newsflash – Batman is a senior

Wasn’t it just yesterday that he was three-years-old, donning a costume and zipping around our house as the cutest caped-crusader ever?

Wasn’t it just yesterday that our neighborhood street was safe, all thanks to him, cruising up and down the sidewalk in his very own, battery-powered Batmobile? (Undoubtedly the very best gift Santa brought him. Ever.)

Wasn’t it just last Halloween when I asked, “What do you want to wear for trick-or-treat?”

Wasn’t it just this last birthday that he requested a special cake?

Wasn’t it just yesterday that it didn’t matter whether we were choosing a birthday theme, a gift for a friend, a Halloween costume or a Christmas gift, his answer was always the same, year after year after year:

Batman.

Wasn’t it  just yesterday that my little boy was Batman, wearing his cape everywhere? To preschool. To the grocery store. To his grandparents’ house. (But not to church. He had a polo-style shirt with a Batman logo embroidered on for those special occasions.)This little superhero had more Batman-themed clothing, toys and accessories than one could ever imagine.

Wasn’t it just yesterday, that I’d iron out the wrinkles in his overly worn cape, making sure it was perfect for the fall costume parades at school?

So how did it happen that today I was pressing a dress shirt and freshening a tie for his senior pictures? And when did he become old enough to drive off in my car, not his Batmobile?

Because somehow, some way, time flew by and Batman is now a senior in high school.

Wasn’t it just yesterday that he entered kindergarten, and his oldest sister graduated from high school?

Wasn’t it just yesterday that he played in the sandbox with his older brother, making roads and rivers and forests with mud water and tree branches?

Wasn’t it just yesterday he watched cartoons with his baby sister as they drank apple juice from sippy cups?

Oh Batman, how I miss you. But I am so proud of the young man you have become. Go forth, my son. The world is at your feet. Be respectful. Be kind to others. Be empathetic and sympathetic. Pray daily. Never take those you love for granted. Work hard, to the glory of God. Always do your best, especially when no one is looking. Give generously of yourself and of your gifts.

When the world seems harsh and knocks you down, get up, brush it off, keep going and remember that you are loved.

And if all else fails, just quietly whisper to yourself of something you’ve always known…

“I’m Batman.”

Love, Mom

© 2012 – Lynne Cobb

 

Dressing rooms, blue jeans and a midlife crisis

I have been accused of being “too picky.” Personally, I prefer “selective.” A perfectionist? Maybe.

That could be why I detest shopping for clothes.

Especially blue jeans.

I can’t seem to find the perfect jeans, which is why when I find an acceptable pair, I wear them over and over. Honestly, I could just kick myself for not buying several pairs of the acceptable jeans, because they became my Favorite Pair – and now they are way beyond fixing. Not too long ago, and totally pushing my luck, I did indeed wear Favorite Pair to the store. Just a quick dash in and out, I told myself. But then, I ran a few more errands. And, when I got home, to my horror, I noticed that somewhere along the way, the patch that held my jeans together fell off.

Yikes! I’m not sure I want to know how many people saw the gaping hole in my jeans. I am not a teenager anymore.

But I digress.

Knowing that this search and try-on process is going to take me to where I don’t go mentally, I decided to arm myself for battle, and make things easier by wearing my awesome, comfy yoga pants instead of my back-up pair of jeans, which I don’t care much for. Plus, they were in the laundry pile, since they have been overused with the demise of Favorite Pair.

Ah, my yoga pants. I use them for exercising and as my errand-running back-ups. And, well, when I realized Favorite Pair was probably going to become further worn-out with household chores, I started wearing my comfy black yoga paints. To clean. With bleach.

Thank goodness that a black Sharpie marker covered my mistake.

Anyhow, back to the hunt.

I dug through piles of denim, like a dog digging for a bone. My favorite style of jeans has to be here, I thought to myself, as panic set in.

Nope. My favorite style is gone. History.

Which meant finding a replacement.

Great. I became overwhelmed at all the choices, but marveled at all the fashionable opportunities available. Why, with a little luck, maybe even I could look like that mannequin!

So, as with any change, I embraced a new look with an air of excitement and a bit of apprehension, plus two sizes of style of jeans, because, Lord only knows which clothing manufacturer’s styles and sizes are going to fit. I dashed off to the changing rooms, with anticipation of my new look.

After the first few attempts, I started to get worried. Nothing fit. So, accepting that I probably gained a little weight – though Favorite Pair never let me know that – I started looking at other sizes. And other brands.

No luck.

Getting frustrated, I literally wanted to cry. In a sea of clothing, I was drowning in waves of panic. Nothing fit ME. Negative thoughts started popping into my brain, like the clothing manufacturers having a “thing” against me and women my age. The dream of looking like the mannequin – gone, just like the youthful body I once had. I felt old and washed up – as if I couldn’t do anything right. Negativity was oozing out of every pore, and I started thinking of all my failures, especially my chosen career path. How could I have known that my favorite industry would change, and be replaced with a cool, new style that, no matter how hard I tried, I just had the hardest time getting a good fit? Like my faded old blue jeans, I guess I miss my “faded” old career.

Tears of frustration welled up in my eyes. So, this is midlife, huh? Well, the fighter in me came out, and had a smack down with my toxic emotions. And I got back into the ring.

Yes, I was getting older, and my body was changing – that’s life. Yes, there has been some serious grief and loss and change in the past few years, but there has also been great growth and love and joy. There are going to be frustrations – that’s life, and that’s not going to change. And it is a good life, so keep moving along.

Wiping my tears, I stepped out of the changing room and put the all of jeans that didn’t fit on the “don’t want” rack. Seriously, I had tried on at least 16 pairs of jeans. I apologized to the woman who had to restock them. She smiled and said “No problem.” I think she saw the mascara smudges from my tears.

“There is a perfect pair for you out there,” she said, and pointed me in another direction. “Just keep looking.”

She was right. Not just about finding the jeans, but by reminding me to never give up.

© 2012 – Lynne Cobb

You can’t be my friend – ever, ever, ever!

Do you remember these quotable quotes?

“I don’t like you. You’re just mean.”

“I’m not gonna be your friend anymore, so THERE!” (said with tone, and then sticks tongue out.)

The sweet sounds of playground banter.  A broken Barbie. A foul erroneously called a strike. Not getting to wear the princess gown first. Someone stealing a Hot Wheel car… So many reasons to break up a friendship – at least for a day or two.

What I loved about that time, though, is that once hot tempers cooled, a wise parent, or, something even better – a wise friend who felt stuck in the middle – would remind us that we really didn’t want to end a friendship over such trivial matters. We patched things up, shook hands or pinky-promised never to hate each other again.

Oh sure, once we hit junior high/middle school, the hating started again. Sometimes it was trivial, and sometimes it was downright vicious. Sometimes friendships ended – for good.

Once in a blue moon, someone changed, and the friendship was re-kindled in high school or college. But one fact remains, especially for my age bracket: after graduation, we didn’t have a lot of contact with our classmates, sans the occasional reunion.

Until Facebook came along.

All of a sudden, people we didn’t even acknowledge in the halls or on the playground became our new online friends. And the passing of time was good – it healed wounds as we grew up. We could see everyone’s kids, commiserate over lost jobs and life’s curveballs. We felt like we had come home. We connected.

But then, polarization started. People started getting mean. Political, religious and social rants appeared, and some postings were not so nice. Apparently, folks didn’t like how their friends changed through the years. Snide comments began to appear – basically, if you don’t like someone’s views, they are wrong, or dumb, or hosting their own pity party, or whatever.

And then, you get un-friended.

Wow. Just like when we were little kids. Only this time, it’s worse, because we should be the wise ones. We should be leading by example.

But we don’t. We don’t enjoy a good, hearty debate. We don’t agree to disagree. We decided that a friend is not a friend it they don’t agree with us.

That is not such a great teaching moment for our kids, is it? We’re basically saying that if someone doesn’t agree with us that they have no worth. Lord, have mercy if that’s our message.

At this point in my life, I am pretty secure with me. My personal journey got me here, shaping and molding my values, my beliefs, my views.  So, if you don’t like what I say or what I believe in, then un-friend me. I honestly don’t care. But quit making blanket statements about people in general. Don’t lump me into a group and call me stupid. And don’t insult me or call me foolish or feel that I am less intelligent than you. Because I am not.

I am just different from you.

And if you don’t like it, then just take your stupid toys and your arrogantly superior attitude and go home.

Because  I have other friends who love me for me, who don’t care what I believe, because they know it is all part of the yarn that knits me together – making me, me.

So THERE! (said with tone, and then sticks tongue out.)

Patience – it’s really not my virtue

My lack of patience must be genetic or something, because there is no real clear reason for it. It is such a character flaw, that it has to be inherited. Certainly someone in my family tree coined the phrases, “Are we there yet?” and “How much longer?”

Oh sure, I can wait for bread dough to rise. I can sort of wait for the first layer of paint to dry. A wet floor – sure, I can wait – especially if I am the one who mopped it. Waiting on a robust cup of coffee – no problem. I’ll even patiently wait for a good cup of tea to steep.

But sitting in a waiting room at the doctor’s office – not so much.

Normally, I have my knitting with me, a dual project of trying to keep my nerves calm and to get lost in time. But seriously, you can’t really knit when you are constantly interrupted.

“May I see your insurance card?”

“Ma’am, can you sign this?”

Not only do I have to sit and wait, I am constantly interrupted while I do so.

This is how last evening went for me: I find out at 5 p.m. via a panicked text from my darling teenage daughter that she HAS to have a sports physical for cheer. Today. Sports registration is tomorrow.

“But mom, know one knew it!”

Apparently, this is the year that the district is enforcing registration. And she was right – I got the email – today was registration.

So, right after practice at 7:15 p.m., off we go to an Urgent Care that offers sport physicals. And, bonus, “We’re not busy right now, so it’s a great time to come in!” says the perky receptionist.

Score!

Ten minutes and several reams paper – in the tiniest of print ever – we are ready! Woot – she can get her physical and we’re outta here!

Except that, in the time it takes me to deliver the paperwork to the front counter, sit down, go back up with my ID, sit down, and run back to the counter to sign something, sit down, and bring my credit card and swipe it, someone comes in to the Urgent Care, and she needs stitches.

Luck is also a genetic trait I inherited.

To pacify me, they stuck us in an exam room to wait it out. Maybe that is the front desk’s way of making one feel like they have progressed in the Waiting Game.

Looking around the a-typical exam room, I strolled down memory lane, remembering comforting my little girl during well-baby checks. Such a bland, sterile environment that is creepy. Back in the day, I could usually calm her with a mass of cotton balls made into things.

Except, now, I was the one who needed the calming. My patience was pushed to the max. Was there really only one doctor in this clinic?

Yep.

I leafed through a parenting magazine, looked up, and saw a box of exam gloves.

You know what happened next.

Giggling like a girl, I blew the glove up like a balloon, posed it and took photos of it modeling in the exam room.

And my darling daughter, why, she gave me the best compliment:

“I gotta hand it to you, Mom, that is pretty funny!”

Yep, sometimes you just have to laugh.

© 2012 – Lynne Cobb