Rubbernecking

I've never been much of a risk-taker. Maybe that's why my instinct is to run the other direction when I sense danger. Combine that with my belief that people have a right to dignified privacy and you'll understand why I don't slow down to rubberneck at accident scenes or hurry towards commotion that seems to be well-handled by authorities. (Which is to say that I have put myself in danger to help others in danger, but only until the experts arrive. Then I am sooo out of there.)

I thought about this most often when I lived in Manhattan. There was always some type of chaos attracting looky-loos. I didn't get it. I remember walking home from work one day and seeing a large crowd across the street. I heard someone say there was a sniper on the roof. WHAT?! I didn't wait around to hear more; I took off in the other direction and detoured around the scene to get home. When I told my co-workers about the incident the next day, they couldn't believe I hadn't stuck around to see what happened. Yeah, because I want to push my way right up to the edge of the police tape so I can be squarely in the crosshairs of the deranged guy with the big gun. 

Not too long after that, I saw the bomb squad near the Israeli Embassy. (I later heard on the news that there had been a car bomb planted by extremists.) Once again, people were pushing and shoving to get as close as possible to the action. What part of "bomb squad" and "Middle East" didn't register with them? I generously considered that perhaps there was a nearby meeting of the Hemlock Society and the members were just seizing a convenient opportunity. But no, these people weren't suicidal; they were just STUPID.

What draws people to gawk at messes like this, especially when there is danger present? 
I would much rather focus on something positive (and safe!)
 
I spent too much time on Facebook yesterday and today, reading posts from people I didn't know, about how much they love and support my friend Tara, who is battling cancer and just had a stroke. I was drawn to this outpouring of emotion and couldn't help myself: I read every single post on Tara's page. I don't know why or how Tara recovered from this stroke, a hideous fist-sized blood clot lodged in her brain, necessitating the removal of half her skull to extract the clot. I don't know how she managed to evade extensive damage, damage I was braced for, damage her surgeon predicted. She is alert and talkative and able to move the affected parts of her body. How is that possible? Is it a miracle, brought on by the power of so many concerned people praying for Tara's recovery? I'm sure the situation could be dissected to explain at a scientific and medical level how her cancer-ravaged body was able to overcome this latest assault, but I really don't care. It doesn't matter to me why or how she cheated death; it just matters that she did. Tara is beautiful woman with a kind heart who makes the world a better place. She deserves to keep on living. She is not ready to die and I'm not ready to lose her. I'm not jealous that she is loved by so many other people; I revel in it. I want to rush right up to the edge of the police tape and watch in amazement while Tara fights as hard as a person possibly can to hold onto her precious gift of life. And I want to see the crowd pushing and shoving to offer support and hope and love. I want to know that I am one of a throng, that I can lose myself in a volume of like-minded individuals who care about others and want the world to be good. And then I want us to disperse and all go home safely.

Sexy Legs

Sexy Legs. That's what we called him for a short while, until another one came on the scene and the two were dubbed Sexy Legs I and Sexy Legs II. We quickly shortened their designations to SLI and SLII, both for convenience and discretion. Then there were more, each with a secret nickname known only to the two of us. We whispered about them, passed notes encoded with the secret names.

We weren't the type of girls to gawk at boys' bodies. We were smart. More than smart. We were above all that girly giggling and physical lust. We needed maturity and intelligence to turn us on. But these boys were an exception; they weren't dumb jocks, they were athletes. They were runners. The members of the cross-country team were thin, but strong. They were subtle; their muscles didn't bulge ostentatiously. They were competitive, but often competed against themselves, trying to beat their own best times. They didn't grunt and push and pat each other's asses to make themselves a "team." They were a team of individuals. Smart, strong, healthy individuals.
And they had legs. The best of the best legs in school.

We were the smartest girls around. We didn't stoop to childish behavior. But those legs, who could resist those legs? After all, sometimes girls just have to be girls.

You Never Get a Second Chance to Make a First Impression

She was furious. She had flown over 2000 miles to see her first grandchild, a child so precocious that she started speaking at 5 months. Except that I didn't speak. Not a word. My grandmother accused my parents of lying. They bristled at the accusation, why would they lie? They hadn't asked her to come. Tension filled the house.

My grandmother was feeding me, unaware that I was perfectly capable of feeding myself. She had the routine down: scoop up the mushy food, scrape off the drip on the side of the bowl, and pop the spoon in my mouth. Mmmm. Liquid vegetables. What's not to love? And then I was full. I closed my mouth. "Open up," coaxed Grandma. I clamped my lips together tightly. "Yum, yum. Open, open." I was done. "Mmmm," said Grandma, trying to force the spoon through my tiny perfect lips. Last straw. "THAT'S ENOUGH, GRANDMA!"

She packed her bags and took the next plane home.

For a long time I couldn't understand why my grandmother didn't like me, was always at odds with me. Then I heard this story. And I knew I never had a chance.