I’m starting to think that I’m either not paying attention or I make too many assumptions. A few examples from recent days:
- Sitting at a stoplight, heading to work. I heard Rasta music coming from the car next to mine. I expected to see an Islander with long dreds and colorful, cultural garb. Instead I saw Whitey McWhiterson, bald, wearing a hockey jersey. Bobbin’ his pale head. Apparently I’m a racist. Dammit.
- Thanksgiving. I ate the traditional plateful of deliciousness and then, when the desserts came out (typically accompanied in my head by blinding heavenly light and a chorus of angels), I forewent any sweets of any kind. I mean I didn’t so much as nibble a cookie to be polite. I don’t even know who I am anymore.
- Sunday football, Eagles v. Patriots. The Birds scored a touchdown in like the first three minutes of the game. Given their vastly inconsistent play this season, I suppose one couldn’t rule out that it would happen. But I certainly didn’t expect it. Nor did I expect the Redskins to beat Seattle, even though everybody expects to beat Seattle.
- Yarn. I was talking to a coworker who likes to knit, and she was telling me that she had gone to her local yarn store on Black Friday when it opened at 6am. The store has a maximum capacity of 42. But how many people could possibly occupy a yarn store at once, right? The line was around the block. I was stunned. Also, she said a sweater could take up to 15 balls of yarn to make, at a cost of maybe $150. This, to me, defeats the purpose of making one’s own clothing; now I’m all for nine-year-olds in sweat shops. I’m kidding about that last part. Sort of.
- The Geico Caveman. I realized when I saw that pouty “I’m taking the bus, and you will not see me at the pancake social!” commercial last night that this guy reminds me of a former (short-lived) boyfriend. Huh.
I love how I qualified the relationship as short-lived, like that makes this realization less horrifying.
All of this revelation makes me a little scared of what I’m missing. I’m now afraid that when I see Jack tonight, he’ll tell me he’s seeing another woman. Or that Ron Paul will become the GOP nominee for president. Or that an American Idol winner will outsell the runner-up. Or that Neptune got kicked off the end of the planetary whip chain like Pluto a little while ago. What narrative will I use to remember their proper orbital order now?! (Hey, what happens now when Pluto and Neptune do their little do-si-do and switch places in the line? Is Pluto now just That Thing That Comes Between Uranus and Neptune?)
By the way, the Eagles lost, in the end. At least that was predictable. Phew.