Adults Will Be Adults

Last night I playfully busted the neighbor girls playing ding, dong ditch.  Here’s the routine: they ring the bell and I open the door to quiet giggles in the distance - but of course no one is in view.  So I hide patiently behind the front door, with a smile on my face, waiting for them to tip-toe up the front steps to try it again.  When the bell rings this time, I fling open the front door to catch them in the act and yuck it up with them for a bit on the front porch.  They seem to love it and their obvious goal - to get caught.  I hope these girls are as friendly and chatty when they enter high school but unfortunately, I’m not counting their chickens before they hatch.  These young ladies will probably have to go through an ornery phase, like I did, and do some stupid stuff, like I did, before they turn out to be perfect adults, like I did.  In the meantime, we were able to chat about what they were having for dinner and “weather” or not they’d have school on Monday morning.  4-6 inches of snow and ice falling on Atlanta usually means a day off.  Their fingers, inside their mittens, were crossed.

Even though I’ve never wanted children of my own, I at least try to be supportive and nice to the kids I know.  Okay, maybe I haven’t always wanted them in the house with their grimy paws (just ask Kali), but I’ll eat pizza and play video games with kids (at their parents’ houses) any day of the week. I generally like pre-teens the best - they’re still at that age where they’ll laugh at my Grandpa O. corny jokes and they aren’t too cool for school…yet.

I used to love playing games like ding, dong ditch; kick the can; kickball; Annie, Annie over; spin the bottle (only once Mom!), lets skip school (only a few times Mom!) and of course I loved ALL sports.  Most of the time, the adults in my life encouraged most of these activities.  My parents would let us run free through the neighborhoods – it was safe back then.  We’d meet up with our friends to play street hockey, baseball, go skateboarding and dad would even make us an ice rink in the winter.  My dad also coached my losing 5^th grade basketball team without making us feel bad for not winning.  And my mom cheered for my teammates and me from high up in the bleachers whenever there was a basketball game in the Twin Valley conference (what are the twin valleys anyway?).  Several adults adopted our teams and made sure our pictures got in the local paper.  Numerous teachers gave me breaks because they knew I had a game the next day.  The list of caring adults involved in my youth was thankfully long.

But there are those few adults who I let ruin things for me. 

Could have been my spiritual doorway - but no...(plus, this is not really me)

Like the first time I ever went downhill skiing.  I’m going to guess that I was in 4^th grade yet it seems like just yesterday that I was coming off of my first exhilarating run down the bunny hill.  I was so excited that I wanted to go again and with that, my dad helped me over to the rope tow that pulls you up to the top of the slope.  Apparently I was a bit too anxious and accidentally bumped the man on the tow line in front of me.  "Be careful; you could have hurt me!" he said in a gruff voice - and that was it for me and skiing.  The adult me knows that he was probably having his own insecurities about learning to ski – it didn’t matter then.  I took up cross country skiing later in life but have never been downhill skiing again. 

I prefer strips and no gut, thank you very much

Then there was the time that I went golfing with my baby sister and her then boyfriend.  We were young and new to the game but were careful not to leave too many divots, and we followed the rules of etiquette to the best of our knowledge and ability.  We purposely picked an unpopular time so that we wouldn’t be holding anyone up while we took our extra swings and putts.  Like good sportswomen (and man), we slowed down our play when we came up behind a foursome leaving our putting green for the next hole.  Little did we know there were annoyed adults behind us. From their bloated beer bellies, under the waistlines of plaid pants, they yelled "Hit the ball!  What do you think; you’re going to drive the green?"  So much for etiquette.  I’ve put the faces of those men on many a golf ball at the driving range but haven’t played a game of golf since.  Probably best since it’s so dang expensive not to mention stereotypical (See you at the Dinah Shore in Palm Springs - March 30, 2011?).

He's making 5 million a year, but we're getting a housekeeper, so there!

And finally there was swimming class in Junior High.  The gym teachers would make us strip down, put our clothes in a locker and then get in line outside the swimsuit storage room.  They would eyeball our naked bodies (up, down and around) and then toss each of us a well-worn, navy blue, one-piece tank suit.  My locker room and bathing suit issues started at a very young age thanks to some uncaring adult gym teachers.  From that point on, it always seemed to be "that time of the month," before I even knew what that meant, because that was the only way we could get out of swimming.  But I did, on occasion, swim with Jim Harbaugh, a Tappan Junior High classmate and the new 25 million dollar coach of the San Fran 49ers.  Guess he doesn't have locker room issues.

Time to watch the snow fall!