Back when I was teaching, I had a parent I will call Sylvia, just in case she wanders onto this site. Sylvia was one of those people who was always there for me. I’m not exactly sure why she always there for me, but if I needed to get a committee organized or kids needed help with an after-school event, there was Sylvia. Field trips were her particular specialty.
I grew suspicious of her feelings towards me when her son graduated from our school, and Sylvia kept volunteering to go on all the field trips. And sit next to me on the bus. And carry my belongings. It may have been her fake fur coat, but I began developing rashes on my body when she got onto a bus with me.
Now Sylvia might seem a good resource to have around, but unfortunately, there were more than a few occasions when I wanted to beat Sylvia over the head with something. I felt bad about this after the fact, as she was just trying to help, but it was her unbridled enthusiasm and altruism that all too often nauseated me. Fortunately, I found out that others shared my sentiments.
On one of our class trips to Washington, D.C., a little girl sitting in the seat in front of me was busily wolfing down a large bag of Doritos aboard the crowded, overheated, noisy, smelly bus. As she turned toward me, I sensed the impending doom based on the yellowish pallor of her face, the slight heave to her chest and her seatmate’s cautionary tale, “Mr. Grenfell, I think Ann is going to…” And she did. It was projectile vomiting of an heroic nature. I fully expected her to follow up with a loud, screechy “Marinnnn”. I was, for lack of a better word, inundated with Ann’s bilish Dorito wash. And I hated her for it. Without a morsel of guilt. It always amazed me that when kids get sick, particularly when nauseous, they want to tell an adult about it. The bus bathroom was in the opposite direction, but Annie needed to share first. Thank you, Annie.
Sylvia, who of course was sitting next to me, sprang to my rescue, grabbing a plastic bag and a roll of paper towels. She started to clean me, employing the towels and her fake-fur coat. I moved away from her, sensing that such a scene enacted in front of forty-nine adolescents could ultimately cost me my job. Unfortunately, in my current condition, no one else wanted me anywhere near them. I grabbed the towels and made a futile attempt to remove Annie’s gift from my person. Truly a wasted effort - I was going to smell like a Dorito from Hell for the next ninety miles until we got to Washington.
Annie arrived back from her little sojourn to the bathroom and told me, in all too perky a voice, “I feel much better now Mr. Grenfell.”
I grew suspicious of her feelings towards me when her son graduated from our school, and Sylvia kept volunteering to go on all the field trips. And sit next to me on the bus. And carry my belongings. It may have been her fake fur coat, but I began developing rashes on my body when she got onto a bus with me.
Now Sylvia might seem a good resource to have around, but unfortunately, there were more than a few occasions when I wanted to beat Sylvia over the head with something. I felt bad about this after the fact, as she was just trying to help, but it was her unbridled enthusiasm and altruism that all too often nauseated me. Fortunately, I found out that others shared my sentiments.
On one of our class trips to Washington, D.C., a little girl sitting in the seat in front of me was busily wolfing down a large bag of Doritos aboard the crowded, overheated, noisy, smelly bus. As she turned toward me, I sensed the impending doom based on the yellowish pallor of her face, the slight heave to her chest and her seatmate’s cautionary tale, “Mr. Grenfell, I think Ann is going to…” And she did. It was projectile vomiting of an heroic nature. I fully expected her to follow up with a loud, screechy “Marinnnn”. I was, for lack of a better word, inundated with Ann’s bilish Dorito wash. And I hated her for it. Without a morsel of guilt. It always amazed me that when kids get sick, particularly when nauseous, they want to tell an adult about it. The bus bathroom was in the opposite direction, but Annie needed to share first. Thank you, Annie.
Sylvia, who of course was sitting next to me, sprang to my rescue, grabbing a plastic bag and a roll of paper towels. She started to clean me, employing the towels and her fake-fur coat. I moved away from her, sensing that such a scene enacted in front of forty-nine adolescents could ultimately cost me my job. Unfortunately, in my current condition, no one else wanted me anywhere near them. I grabbed the towels and made a futile attempt to remove Annie’s gift from my person. Truly a wasted effort - I was going to smell like a Dorito from Hell for the next ninety miles until we got to Washington.
Annie arrived back from her little sojourn to the bathroom and told me, in all too perky a voice, “I feel much better now Mr. Grenfell.”
My hands twitched slightly, as I envisioned throttling the child. At this point, Sylvia chirped one of my least favorite expressions in the whole world. “Someday, we’re going to laugh about this.”
No, we are not, Sylvia. I say that now, I said that then. Retelling the event fills the room with the imagined sicky Dorito smell that followed me those three days. At that moment, I wanted to pick Annie up and beat Sylvia over the head with her. What marks civility in a person, what distinguishes you from apes, cretins or cavemen, is not the absence of such thoughts, but the restraint shown in not actually committing the crime.
I guess the moral to the story is that there are lots of things that aren’t going to get laughed off in life, nor should they be. There are times in our lives when we want to feel miserable and we deserve to feel miserable. It’s a grand emotional cathartic. Don’t try to push up the corners of my mouth and call me Mr. Frowny, Little Mary Sunshines of the world! As someone far wiser than I once observed “It’s my party, and I’ll cry if I want to, cry if I want to…you would cry too if it happened to you.” Yeah, Sylvia, try them Doritos on for size.
I guess the moral to the story is that there are lots of things that aren’t going to get laughed off in life, nor should they be. There are times in our lives when we want to feel miserable and we deserve to feel miserable. It’s a grand emotional cathartic. Don’t try to push up the corners of my mouth and call me Mr. Frowny, Little Mary Sunshines of the world! As someone far wiser than I once observed “It’s my party, and I’ll cry if I want to, cry if I want to…you would cry too if it happened to you.” Yeah, Sylvia, try them Doritos on for size.
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