Pass the pork rinds, Mommy!

     I made an observation at work today.  It’s not a grand observation by any means, but a startling one nonetheless.  You see, I work for Anyol’ School district, in Anyol’ City, MI, where I observe Anyol’ students each and every day: the catalyst for this observation.  Somewhere along the way, let’s say between He-Man and Sponge Bob, a funny thing happened.  Kids got fat.  Not cheek-pinchingly chubby, or even the unfortunate “must have a malfunctioning thyroid” plumpness.  Nope, just fat: the adjective we all used before “curvy” and “thick” became the new buzzwords for the overly sensitive.  Fat.  Just say it slow.  FFFFAAAAT.  It’s obnoxious, huh?  Isn’t that the point?  It’s a state of being for which most of us Thinnies and Healthy-ies harbor disdain, so why not use it?  I love it’s simplicity, don’t you?  It’s descriptive without being exclusive to those who fancy themselves a wordsmith. 

     Back when I was a blithe young  lass of 9, there weren’t too many stout, swollen students attending Johnson Elementary School in Livonia.  Two, three, tops.  They were the last ones to finish the rope climb in gym class.  The ones you didn’t want on your Red Rover team unless they were exclusive to the arm linking role.  The ones you always had a story about while relaying the day’s events to the captive audience of Mom, Dad, lima beans and a side salad at the dinner table (the last two of which you assumed the fat kids knew nothing about).  They were the odd men out,  and I was glad I wasn’t one of them.   There was a reason for their social exclusion at that time, and as kids, we felt it a damn good one: unhealthiness.  We were taught from an early age about the 4 basics, none of which were Lunchables, and how imperative excercise was to a healthy lifestyle.  Why, Jordan Knight even had a poster in our cafeteria touting the importance of sugary soft drink  avoidance:  “Milk, it’s the Right Stuff”.  Surely, he must be on to something and we didn’t want anything to do with those who didn’t heed the warnings of NKOTB.  Now fast forward 21 years. 

     How did we go from the simple equation of “Thin and Healthy=Desirable”, to the perplexing “Healthy, but not necessarily thin because that would alienate too many chunkers, thus hurting their fuzzy little feelings even though we all know maintaining a weight less than that of a Smart car is common sense, but whatev=Desirable”.   It doesn’t help that our blimpy babies are receiving signals mixed more than a Labradoodle bred with a Chihuahound.  Since when did pizza overtake achievement and self-satisfaction as life’s major reward offering?  Teachers, can we please get back to holographic unicorn stickers?  In my 6th grade class, Mrs. Yee would give all well behaved students one token at the end of every successful school day.  At month’s end, one could use this earned classroom currency to redeem things including, but not limited to: 

                                                      *  decorative bookmarks fashioned into the shapes of bald eagles encouraging us to “Take Flight with Books”

                                                      *  Paula Abdul Fanzines

                                                       *  Bubble necklaces

                                                       *  A multitude of seemingly unrelated objects (water bottles, bookcovers) featuring Bart Simpson and his catch phrases skewd toward  the educational. ”Don’t have a Cow, man, stay away from drugs.” or “If you don’t study, you can Eat My Shorts.”

     Nowadays, educators seem to reward everything from “going green” to favorable MEAP scores with a Hot n’ Ready, while poor Carrie Underwood is proudly displayed in the lunchroom with the cutest darned milk mustache y’ever did see.  No wonder our portly lil’ peanuts are confused!

     I didn’t say I had a solution to this problematic observation…it’s actually just that, an observation.  And it’s not actually my problem right now.  I’m sure I’ll have to worry when my tax dollars are funneled into Medicaid accounts supporting 32 year old metro-Detroiters so morbidly obese they are unable to function as productive members of society.  But until then, I’m not fat.  My boyfriend’s not fat, and my children won’t be fat because I will love them enough to avoid the processed cheese food and Pop-tart aisle at the Holiday Market.  Ooooh, Snap to the parents of fat kids!

Lovely weather we’re having, isn’t it?

     

      I’m confident in posting today, that the haze of winter has lifted.  The murky film hovering over our sweet suburban homesteads has dissipated.  Yes, fellow Metro Detroiters, it’s a sunny day.  You’d think that after 30 years of enduring the fickle Michigan weather, one might be adverse to succumbing to this perceived granny-like behavior and just skip the weather chatter all together.   After all, if I start infringing upon this topic usually reserved for those boarding a bus for Soaring Eagle eagerly anticipating the nickel drop into the Wheel of Fortune machine, what will they discuss, confident it’s a topic of their very own?  Indeed, God willing, I will one day reach a ripe old age, thus requiring the limited topic set I’m referring to: bowel movements, getting the paper, 4:30 dinner times, and the neighbors across the street you insist are surveying your every move.  It’s not a dig at the elderly, merely an observation most with parents over the age of 65 would likely concede to.  Talking about the weather is their crown jewel of meaningless discussion.  Their trump card when all other themes previously listed have been exhausted.  It’s the one subject we can all comment on.  We may not be able to expound upon the notion that Alex Trebek’s mustache is thinning,  or  Bill Knapp’s untimely disappearance, but we all have windows.  We can take a quick second to glance over our shoulders and buy a few more precious sentences of polite conversation before the “holy crap, there’s nothing left to talk about” panic sets in.   Yet, here I am, choosing the weather as my primary topic of choice.  Here I am, falling for it again.   Falling for what I not-so-affectionately refer to as: Suburban Ultraviolet Chicanery Knowing Everything Reverts.

     That’s right, we’re SUCKERs.  Undoubtedly, most of us are experiencing the euphoria that comes along with the first few sunny days in Metro Detroit.  We’re feverishly stuffing our turtlenecks and salt stained corduroy slacks into our Spacebags, metaphorically vacuuming winter’s cruel chill along with the air inside.  We’re filling our car wash buckets and soaking our sponges.  We’re dusting off our patio furniture and planning our barbecue menus only to be disappointed when, 4 days  from now, that cruel minx known as Kim Adams crushes our Springtime dreams.  The revelation that a wintry mix is headed our way will dash any seasonal hopes we had had, and garner only “I told you so” looks from the merciless meteorologists.  SUCKERs again.  

     The saddest part is, we continue to seem surprised!  You mean, my homemade shorts cut from 1992 Girbaud’s will have to wait?  My sleeveless car washing attire with “Life’s a Beach, then you Marry One: Daytona 1997″ airbrushed across the front will have retreat back to it’s attic home?  We all know it’s coming, yet we ignore the proverbial angel on our shoulder telling us to hold off on buying those little chili pepper lights for the patio umbrella, in favor of the little devil on the other one.  “Charge it, my dear salesman, and toss in this 12-pack of citronella candles!”

     It’s 1:44 pm as I write this, which means I have between 43 seconds and 5 hours ’til the Alberta Clipper inevitably progressing in this direction rears it’s ugly little wind-chill.  Off to the batting cages to contemplate the realization that I’m one of those people:  My name is Danielle, I’m 30 years old, and I’m a SUCKER.

Posted by Dani on Apr 16, 2009