My mama used to say I was "born 40," meaning I was an old soul at a tender age. This was challenging at times when I was young, but, now that I'm solidly north of 40 years, I feel I have a distinct advantage. I have experience. I've been middle-aged since I was an infant.
Despite this experience, there are still things I'll never understand regardless of how many times they're explained.
Each year, I carefully pack my Christmas decorations into their boxes and neatly stack them in their little cubbyhole beneath the staircase, and each year, I pull out wads of tangled light strands that envelope me into a sick game of Christmas Twister. How'd they get that way? They weren't put away that way. Are there demented little trolls living under my stairs who get their kicks from tangling cords from January to November? Do they hide and gleefully watch me dance around my living room saying bah-humbug things? And are they the same trolls who keep running off with my remote control?
Speaking of the remote, why do I repeatedly press the buttons harder when I know full well that the batteries are going dead?
And why do we say "going dead?" And why is it OK to say it about batteries, but not about people?
Now, there's another subject that's beyond me. There are several things we commonly say and do at funerals that escape rationale, but the one that gets my goat is folks peering into the coffin and announcing how good the dearly departed looks.
"Oh, Mildred ... she looks so good."
"Doesn't she? Why, Betty Sue over on Fifth Street did her hair and nails and got the perfect shade. Vibrant, but not street walker. Yep, she looks reeeal good."
At this moment, my mind instantly blurts, "Really? 'Cause I saw Mildred last week, and she was lookin' a fair bit better than today. Today, she's lookin' a might puny, if you ask me. Yeah, she's got more color in her cheeks, but there's only so much pink rouge can do."
I usually just think it and pray they don't turn to me for validation because the filter between my mind and my mouth is a bit of an open sieve.
Speaking of the mouth, why do we talk louder to someone who isn't familiar with our language? They aren't hard of hearing. But there we'll stand, repeating the same thing eight decibels louder in a standoff of goofiness until somebody finally gives up, neither understanding what the other shouted.
Maybe in another few years, these things will make sense to me. In the meantime, my live tree is going dead waiting for me to unwind myself from these Christmas lights. We're watching It's a Wonderful Life for the third time because I can't lay hands on the remote control. If I don't manage to free myself before New Year's, please, someone, make sure to say how good I looked.
NAN Our Town on 12/03/2015