Do kids play in the rain anymore? I recall when I was a kid and it would rain in the summer, all the neighborhood kids would come outside and run around in the downpour. Not in raincoats or boots—it was too damn hot for that in Texas—but in grubby shorts and T shirts and --Gasp!—barefoot. We lived outside town where the roads were covered in asphalt, not concrete, and when it was hot, the car tires—and your feet if you were walking gingerly to avoid being fried on the blacktop—made indentions in the sun-softened tar. These spots made for great water puddles when it rained. Great for splashing in and riding your bicycle through. If you rode through good and fast, you sprayed up a great arc of water and the other kids had to run, screaming, to get out of the way. Or not. Then, with your wheels wet, you could make crazy figure eights on the pavement for a long, long way. Kid art, which quickly disappeared into the steamy air.
I hadn’t thought about playing in the rain in years, until this morning when I took a walk with my dog in a light shower. The downfall really couldn’t be classified as rain, in the sense of Shirley Temple tapping along to “Singing in the Rain,” but it was wet, and it got me wet and the dog wet. When it began to sprinkle, I started to turn back toward home, but decided “Why not keep going? It’s just a little water.” I’m glad I did. The air was different in the rain, more full of grass smells and dirt smells and dog smells. The birds were livelier than when it is hot and dry, with a chorus of chirps and whistles that kept me company as I strolled along. It was a little steamy, but the unexpected water element gave a new perspective to the same old trail I trace every day.
There weren’t many other people out , and no kids. And why not? The adults should know it wouldn’t hurt them to take a damp stroll, but the kids don’t even know it’s a possibility. As parents we don’t send our kids outside in the rain any more, barefoot, to slog through puddles. We probably wouldn’t even allow it if they asked, fearing they might get hurt, kidnapped, or worse: dirty. It's too bad for them, and for us. Going out in a warm rain never hurt anybody--in fact, I think it’s good for the soul.
Miracles Happen!
“Miracles do happen! Lose two sizes in ten minutes!” That’s the promise on the brochure handed to me by a large, boisterous saleslady. “You have to try one of these,” she says, lifting up her own blouse to reveal a stretchy body stocking. “It will help you lose weight!”
I had taken my teenage daughter into a local boutique to be fitted for the dress she would wear in a charity fashion show. Every girl, young or old, secretly yearns to be a glamorous princess, and this store was such a dreamer’s Mecca. Beautiful gowns of every hue and style filled the racks. Silk, tulle, and sequins—Cinderella dresses and red-carpet dresses. The owner quickly chose a fabulous pink and white beaded chiffon strapless for my girl. I helped her zip it up. She was radiant, and we both reveled in the fantasy come true.
The “Miracle” lady accosted me while I was waiting for my daughter to change back into her real-girl clothes. I listened to her spiel—after all, who wouldn’t want to lose two sizes in ten minutes? This sounded like a pretty good deal. I had been working hard to lose weight for the past few months and just that morning had reached a significant milestone: fifteen pounds! Despite my accomplishment, it must have been apparent, to this saleslady at least, that I still have some distance to travel on my journey to a svelte body. She extolled the virtues of the amazing slimmer while I studied the “Before and After” pictures on the brochure. “Before” was a largish woman slouching in dowdy clothes, clearly pooching out her stomach. “After” showed the same woman, allegedly wearing the advertised product under a glamorous, form fitting top, standing tall while now advancing her chest instead of her midsection. The model did indeed look different, though not really thinner. Squeezed is a better description—sort of sausage-like. Now I admit that if I have to choose, I would rather look smoothly large than lumpily large, but let’s be honest here: that model hadn’t lost anything—it had just been rearranged.
Then the store owner chirped over to me. “Would you like to be in the fashion show?” Flattered, I thought: “Surely they must need some real women in this production--after all, everyone is not a size six.” So I answered, “Sure, it sounds like fun. What would you like me to wear?” My eyes lingered on the racks of splendor, wondering which of the glamorous dresses came in my size. I imagined my daughter and me walking down the runway together in coordinated finery. But no. “You could model the girdle,” the owner said, straightfaced.
The Girdle? All the wind went out of my fifteen-pound sails. She wants me to stand in front of a crowd of society women and model The Girdle? In my own clothes? No silk, no tulle, no sequins. Just me in my Mom clothes showing the whole world how I really look, “Before”, and how I can’t breathe, “After.” I picture myself slouching down the runway looking like a matronly frump. Uncomfortable silence from the crowd. Then, Viola! I emerge from the wings wearing the mysterious corset under my tee-shirt and am transformed into a bosom-thrusting Amazon. Gasps of amazement. No thanks.
Uncertain how to react to this affront upon my dignity, I mumbled something about checking my schedule, and got out of the shop as quickly as possible. Later, the humor of this ridiculous exchange began to dawn on me. I decided that I could remain offended, or I could look at this situation in a new way. After all, the ladies were just trying to sell a product, and probably thought they were offering me a real opportunity (to embarrass myself mightily, maybe, but an opportunity nonetheless.) My husband encouragingly said they had asked me because of my height. Nice try, honey. Still, I have absolutely no intention of modeling The Girdle. I’ll cheerfully let some other plus-sized princess have her moment in the spotlight while I hold tightly to my own self-esteem, thank-you-very-much. Sometimes life is so absurd, all you can do is point at it and laugh-- on your way to the gym, of course.
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