Today is a minimum day for four of five pack members. Four goes to a private school and his calendar never syncs with the public school, so he's screwed. Well, we're both screwed, because I don't have time for a half-day. Seriously, they're sending my children home early in the middle of my Christmas shopping?!
The automated recording from the superintendent said today was a "teacher in-service day," but I think they let them all leave early to go catch the Macy's One Day Sale preview. I'm not even sure if there's a sale this week, but I'd bet even money. (Captain? Can you confirm or deny?) I would know this fact if I was a regular shopper at the company that feeds us and pays our bills, but I am not, except for shoes and lingerie. (The Captain just awoke at the mention of lingerie. I meant bras, honey.)
For someone who wears sneakers all day, I sure do like shoes. I'm no Imelda, or even my mother, who has fully embraced her Floridian lifestyle by purchasing a matching pair of sandals for almost every one of her outfits. I usually buy shoes for events. I selected four pairs for the conferences I attended this year, then put them away in the closet next to the ones previously purchased for graduation, first communion, and last year's forty-fifth birthday.
For this year's forty-fifth birthday, I would like motorcycle boots. I do not now, nor will I ever, own a motorcycle. I just like the boots. I have a subversive, anti-authority streak that, at my advanced, fixed age of forty-five, can only be given expression through expensive leather goods, or black toenail polish. Which, truthfully, is about as crazy as I ever got.
I was much more radical in my mind than I ever was in practice. I am a white girl who grew up in a homogeneous, middle-class suburban neighborhood. My father was a police officer, and my mother was a nurse. I wasn't even exposed to dramatically different views until I got to college. Back then, I altered my appearance frequently, dyeing my hair or shaving it off, and I wore lots of thrift store clothes and rosary beads. I owned Doc Martens and a black leather jacket, which shows you how little the counter-culture has changed in twenty-five years.
The Captain used to laugh about how my friends and I were so determined to be "different," but we all dressed the same. Physical appearance was a way of aligning with a group, which is why I find the interwebs so fascinating. The people who read my blog identify with something I'm saying, and I feel a kinship with the writers I follow. We are friends, in the most pure form. There is no judgement made based on appearance, because most of us will never meet. Our community is based on shared ideas or feelings, and the rest is allowed to blow away like useless chaff.
I know there are people who abuse the anonymity of the web. But I, a subversive, liberal optimist, choose to believe it can be the great equalizer, a modern realization of ancient teachings of love, that encourages us to identify with our fellow man. It allows us to walk a mile in someone else's shoes, whether they're motorcycle boots or ballet flats. It's a precious gift, suitable for this forty-fifth birthday and all those to come. I thank you for it.
Now I'm off to use the Internet for it's next-best purpose: shopping. Half-day be damned!