Wedding Hair Rage from danielle buckley on Vimeo.
One thing I will not miss, however, at all, in any capacity, is the trotters. The trotters are the women in high heels who trot on the sidewalks to get in front of you in order to trot up the stairs before you do, so they can clunk down the escalator before you do, shimmy through the turnstyle before you do, and trot across the platform and push themselves into the last inches of space left on a full subway car, all before you do.
The constant little click-click-click-click-click-click-CLICK-CLICK-CLICK that follows me down the sidewalk has been eating away at my commuting soul and I can no longer handle it. Every time they slam their little spiky shoe onto the concrete chips away at some happy place within me, the happy buffer I have wrapped around my heart of Rage is diminishing.
And why don't you just leave your house like, oh, I don't know, 10 seconds earlier? Because it's not a constant trot that propels these women in front of me (which is actually not what bothers me. As many people who want to may walk in front of me, get on the train before me, whatev. I'm over that. I leave my house at the right time so that no matter what happens, I don't have to hurry. Or trot.) it's 7 trots and then regular walking for a few seconds and then like 4 more trots and then regular walking. And seriously, it's the stupid little noise that kills me.
Oh, and don't even get me started about the people who are transferring and run with abandon up the stairs onto the platform like hungry dogs just to stand in a line.
I mean, I get it that it's important to be on time for work. But geez! If you have to be to work at the same time everyday, get your shit together and stop showering before work, duh. Because that's how I make it to work on time. I don't ramble out of the bed with an hour to get ready, fry me up some eggs and pancakes, check my email, and leisurely shave my legs and then take my time pulling on my ridiculous stilettos only to trot it to work. Heck no. I am sleeping until the latest possible moment, giving myself a maximum of 7 minutes bathroom time which includes morning pee, washing face, brushing teeth, applying extra coats of deodorant, making sure I don't have boogers in my nose, and possibly doing something to my hair. Also, mourning the fact that yet again, I will walk out into the world with only one eyebrow because I didn't remember to pluck those suckers. Add about 2 minutes to sniff my clothes to figure out if I can wear them again before pulling them on and heading out the door.
That is how you avoid trotting. Or, you could just not wear high heels. If you wore awesome silent-soled shoes that didn't do the clicking noise and feel like the equivalent of a paper cut filled with lemon juice on my ear drum every time your child-size foot slammed into the ground with trot-force, you could run, sashay, tap dance your way to the subway and cram yourself onto that car every day if you wanted to and I wouldn't say a word. Okay, maybe like one or two words, but it would not warrant letting The Rage out to play in the sun. Negative.
Although I am still not totally on board for hiking through the Himalayas for two weeks (this is the husband's dream and I'm just following him and praying that perhaps I can take some strong drugs to make the time and pain pass more quickly), I am ready to be there. Because there are no high heels in the Himalayas. And I'm definitely ready to be in India for a few months. And there may be high heels there, somewhere, but not where I'm going. And being in the States, where there are plenty of high heels, many of them on my friends and family, will not bother me because we do not find ourselves trotting to the subway on sidewalks in the South. Praise God.
However, yesterday it was Andrew who hugged me as I was sitting in the floor. Then, he leaned back, still in my lap, and with his hand rubbed my left cheek. He crinkled his nose a tiny bit and made a sound kind of like when you accidentally get something just a tiny bit gross on your fingers. Like, "ehhh-eeewww-uuuhhh." He looked surprised and his eyebrows attempted to leave his forehead. He rubbed my cheek again.
"Teacher! Look!" He grabbed my hand and made me rub my own face. Then he took my hand and made me rub his face, which is of course beautifully soft and smooth. "See?"
"Okay, yes, thank you Andrew. I see that your skin is perfect." And of course, I am also aware that mine, compared to a child or most people on the street, is rough and scarred and a little bumpy in places.
I was relaying this story to Kenny and he said, "Andrew is so mean!" And I told him, no, he wasn't being mean. Sometimes, Andrew is mean and he knows it. But he wasn't being mean. He was just discovering something and honestly sharing it with me. And I started to think about that. How children honestly observe the world and then tell people about it without that inherent meanness that seems to lurk in every adult criticism, even the constructive ones. I was lying in bed thinking, perhaps if we were all honest with each other, but honest with kindness or just with observation things would be different.
For example, there would be none of the first however many weeks of American Idol airing awful auditions. Some kind and loving friend or family member would have encouraged the contestant to pursue something else. "Dear friend, your singing makes me really happy because I love you. Not because you are the next Mariah Carey. But the way you fix my computer/braid my hair/support me/write stories/tell jokes/give good massages/etc.- now that's your talent!"
Because whenever these people are auditioning and we are shamelessly exploiting that beautiful confidence they have in themselves as a person and in their passion, I am thinking, "Who encouraged you to do this? Who are those people who stand outside that door waiting for you to come out of that room? And why didn't they honestly tell you that you couldn't sing if your life depended on it? Whyyyyyyy?
photo from here
Also, someone would have gotten through to Amy Winehouse- albeit a fight through the jungle of drugs and that hair- to let her know that her eye makeup is doing her face a disservice. Her face is perfectly lovely and despite the fact that she will probably continue to decay before the public's view, her friends coudl at least summon up enough guts to inform her of her beautiful face and let her know the liner is NOT HELPING.
I mean, I understand that appearance is rarely worth anything in the long run- we all get old, saggy, and senile. But I'm not necessarily talking about honesty only in regards to appearance, which seems to be something that we can no longer muster, even with our family and friends. But an honesty not designed to hurt each other, but to do a kindness, even if it is honest in a negative way. Being honest in love with each other about our individual gifts, our abilities.
Yes, you are able to do anything you'd like, to pursue any dream you choose. But should you?
If you want to attend, but don't know how to get there and the directions are too small, send me an email or leave a comment with your email address and I'll send you the directions in English or in Korean, if that's how you roll! Also, if you click on the image, a larger one should open up for you.