Skip to content

Posts tagged ‘humor’

The Great Maxi-Skirt Debacle of 1972

Me and my maxi-skirt in happier times.

The year was 1972. I was a shy, awkward eighth-grader at Fridley Junior High in a working-class suburb of Minneapolis, Minnesota. It all began innocently enough when my mother sewed maxi-skirts for my sisters and me one winter. Maxi-skirts were skirts that went all the way down to the floor and were high fashion in 1972; all the cool girls wore them.

Even though my mother warned me there would not be enough of the red fabric I picked out for my skirt, I insisted she use it anyway. The skirt turned out to be more of a red corduroy maxi-tube than the full, flowing maxi-skirt pictured on the front of the Simplicity pattern envelope.

Undeterred by the fact that my stride was roughly as long as that of a Geisha’s, I wore my maxi-skirt proudly to school that fateful day. I was shuffling down the hallway in a sea of my baby-boomer classmates, school books clutched to my chest when my friend Karen swept by me and gave me a slap-on-the-back greeting. That little push sent my torso flying forward at a velocity faster than my tightly bound legs could pedal. Factor in the weight of the books and my 80-pound frame and, well, you get the picture . . . an object in motion and all.

When I tell this story to my kids I insert a little lesson about the physics of this experience just to keep it educational. “Notice how ‘Turning Point’ becomes both a scientific statement as well as an understatement in this example,” I say.

My books flew ahead of me as I slid down the hallway on my belly. To the fast-moving current of students rushing up behind me, I was a rock in the rapids. They were stumbling and lurching trying to avoid stepping on me.

All the while, the tube-like geometry of my skirt and lack of traction supplied by my fashionable, but not-so-functional, ballet slippers made it physically impossible for me to stand up. I was flopping like a fish and polishing a nice, shiny clean spot on the dusty floor as my fellow classmates began parting behind me like the Red Sea, casting horrified backward-glances in my direction. My popularity, already weak and sickly, suffered its last agonizing death-throes right there in the hallway.

Enough humiliation you say? Oh, contraire my friends, this was just beginning. In the midst of my flailing efforts to stand in this sea of inhumanity, I felt two hands under my arms lifting me up from behind.  Guess what? Yes, it was the guy I had a huge crush on. (My compliments to God and his impeccable comic timing.) He was a big, handsome, popular, red-headed football player who smelled like Brut cologne, or maybe it was HI KARATE.  He was the lead actor in my romantic adolescent daydreams, all of them set to a score of David Cassidy ballads. (Heavy sigh.) What? I’ve already admitted I was not cool. Full disclosure.

After he placed me in an upright position, he steadied me for a moment to make sure I wouldn’t tip over again. He then handed me my books, gave me a quick nod with only the tiniest smirk passing over his dreamy lips before he quickly moved on. I scurried, face flushed red as my skirt, into the nearest girls’ restroom and tried to figure out a way to flush myself down the toilet.

Little did I know when I was experiencing my most humiliating middle school moment back in 1972, this story would become a favorite of my middle school daughter all these years later. She loves to laugh with me every single time I tell it, which she requests I do often. I like to think I am teaching her that seeing the humor in humiliation is all about not taking yourself too seriously, or some other equally noble life lesson.  More likely she just loves a good laugh at my expense.

The moral of this story, you ask? I have no idea, but my daughter seems to find comfort in it during her own awkward middle school years, and that’s enough for me. Fortunately for her, I’ve got plenty more stories I’m saving for her high school years!

Mammaste.

There is so much divinity in the everyday.

Please feel free to share this post, and share it abundantly.

Enlighten Up Already!

I once spent time with a group of serious spiritual seekers who were devoted followers of the instructor leading our week-long retreat–an expert on the practice of contemplative prayer. In the middle of every sacred tourist attraction in Assisi we practiced our meditative prayer in pursuit of a personal experience of oneness with the big “G.”

Later, back in the meeting room, much grousing ensued about all the “tourists” invading our meditative space (read: our group plopping down on floors in front of the main attractions or monopolizing a beautiful view for our personal use while crowds tried not to step on us).  Seriously, how is one supposed to experience oneness with all, with all those pesky people in the way? Can you imagine the nerve of those tourists, at the height of vacation season in Europe, trying to enjoy the sites and gettin’ all up in our spiritual grill? Jesus!

By day three of the retreat, I was referring to our public displays of spiritual entitlement as OCD, “Obsessive Contemplative Disorder.” It didn’t take long for me to be labeled “unenlightened” by my brethren. Many a pitying eyebrow was raised in my direction followed by a dismissive shoulder shrug. “What are ya’ gonna do . . ?” they seemed to say to each other, “. . . obviously metaphysically challenged, poor thing.”  I had misjudged the self-deprecating humor level of the group. I was blind, but now I see. Hallelujah.

I must confess, I have been all the people in this story at one time or another. I have at times taken myself and my spiritual journey way too seriously. I have experienced feelings of both spiritual superiority and inferiority. I have worshiped teachers I believed to be wiser than me and I have judged myself “further along the path” than others. All valuable observations of my ego jockeying for position in an imaginary race to enlightenment–nothing more, nothing less.

What I did learn at my retreat was that a lot of humility and a little irreverence can take you far on any journey of spirit. As a matter of fact, I’ve found my most holy moments often happen in shared laughter—usually at myself—when I just enlighten up a little! I think the big “G” enjoys the laughter as much as I do. Can I get an Amen?

Mammaste

Feel free to share this blog, and share it abundantly!

Laughter is Good Medicine

It’s important to laugh at ourselves, and the universe provides a lot of material for me. A couple of years ago I was suffering from severe vertigo and went to see an inner ear specialist. The doctor’s physical likeness to Eric Stoltz (think Some Kind of Wonderful, not Mask) was uncanny. When I went to sit down in the exam chair in the very small room, I suddenly felt like I was falling down an elevator shaft. I began flailing away, grabbing at whatever was available to keep myself from plummeting to my death. Unfortunately, uh-hem, said handsome Dr. was within reach, at about shaft level . . . We were both mortified as he doubled over in obvious pain after I released my death grip.

Then there was the time I was taking my newly adopted three year old daughter to get her first haircut. She was a beautiful blonde haired, blue eyed, fair skinned child who looked nothing like me. The chatty hairdresser asked, “Wow, her father must be a blonde!” I thought for a moment, trying to recall if it was her birth mother or birth father who was the blonde, before I replied; “Yes, I think he was the blonde one.” The chatty woman went suddenly silent, and it wasn’t until I reached the car that I realized my mistake! I imagine she tells that story to her clients with great relish to this day.

Of course, I can’t leave out the story of the hemorrhoid banding device that misfired in a shot that was heard, if not round the world, at least round the County (reference: Mel Gibson/Braveheart). I shredded that exam table paper like a hamster on speed. Don’t even get me started on the time I passed out during an OB-GYN exam. The scene I woke up to caused me to fake unconsciousness for at least another five minutes.

Laughter, especially at ourselves, is good for the soul. I’ve learned some great lessons on this topic from my lovely, beautiful English Bulldog, Miss Dottie May. She is very hard to take seriously.

Mammaste.

%d bloggers like this: