So I tweeted the other day about people (people RAISED IN A BARN) who leave unused time on the microwave. It went like this:
Perplexed by those who are able to leave unused seconds of cooking time on the microwave, unhaunted by inner whisper of: “Clear. CLEAR.”
I had quite a giggle over it and then when like EIGHTY (ok, 6) people “liked” this status on Facebook and then like NINETY (ok, 5) people commented on it, I thought I was SO AWESOME.
And this, my friends, is why you should never, ever spend time thinking about how awesome you are or how your parents raised you right (i.e., NOT IN A BARN): because then you will immediately fall flat on your face (apparently I had to learn this lesson twice). Which in my case means finding that I have left unused seconds on the microwave TWICE in the last four days! True, it was just at home, where only Fred & Ethel could be annoyed by the microwave’s incessant failure to return to its resting state as a clock, and as far as I know, they can’t tell time (except feeding time, but even their knowledge there is sketchy as they seem to mistakenly believe it is, oh, about a half-hour before I actually wake up), BUT STILL.
In other news, I got a hair cut. Or two, rather. The first one I hated because my stylist, usually awesome, underestimated the thickness of my hair and I looked like a mushroom (also, if we are being honest, just amongst ourselves you understand, it might also, just maybe, have been, oh, BECAUSE HE CUT IT THREE INCHES SHORTER THAN I TOLD HIM TO).
The second I made him do because I couldn’t go around wailing to people (again) that I’d been shorn of my one beauty. Or looking like a mother, mine in particular. And now it is better. Still three inches shorter than I wanted it, but respectable.
Well, respectable, but apparently, according to the 8-year-old daughter, B., of the man I’m seeing, E., cupcake like. I am not sure what she means by this exactly, poofy from lots of layers I think. But what’s funny if that E. had told me I looked like a cupcake? I would have died a little inside and spoken in monosyllables for a half-hour while I recuperated. But for some reason, hearing it come out of an 8-year-old’s mouth didn’t bother me at all. I could acknowledge my hair’s resemblance to a cupcake easily; I didn’t rail against it the same way I might if it had come out of E.’s mouth.
I don’t know why that is. Maybe because out of a child’s mouth, calling someone’s hair cupcake-like isn’t an insult. Everybody likes cupcakes. Or maybe it’s because my perception of myself isn’t as bound up in her perception of me as it is with E., or any man’s, perception of me. It’s not because I discount her opinion because she’s a child; children see a lot, and she’s a very smart girl.
Anyway, I just thought it was funny how much more leeway I gave her in expressing her opinion without feeling threatened or hurt. Maybe that’s the difference. You trust a child not to judge more than you do a lover. Not because you should. But because (your own personal) history teaches you not to trust the latter. Sadly, and to the detriment of your relationships.
Which has nothing to do with time on the microwave, or glass houses, or barns even. Except a shared theme of judging. And the need to do less of it and be more trusting.
Less judgment, more trust, more cupcakes!
Everybody loves cupcakes.
Sunday Undies 