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Give and Take

As a child in Colorado Springs, I remember rushing to the radio first thing in my pajamas first thing in the morning, parking my butt on the hardwood floors, and listening to the school closings. More often than not we just got a late starting day, but with my heart in my throat as I watched every snowflake fall, we had to go to school. It helped if the wind was blowing-one winter storm was so bad it blew the snow up to our front door, sealing us in the house (and my God, that was masses of fodder for Little House on the Prairie type fantasies for me). On school closings we would spend the day outside building snow tunnels, which naturally all mothers warned us against and naturally we all did it anyway.

I remember living in Dallas during the winter. If there was any hint of a remote possibility of snow schools would close, businesses would close, and everyone would rush to the grocery store to stock up on milk, bread and bottled water (surely the sign of an impending apocalypse, right?), since if you are snowed in for days at a time orange juice and Ritz crackers won't be enough. I laugh now, but I used to join in the supermarket dash. Looking back on it, I went about it all wrong-while mothers fought to the death over the last gallon of 2%, I should have been stocking up on what you really need if you're snowed in-beer and Oreos.

When I moved to Sweden I innocently asked if they ever had snow days. I got laughed at. Turns out only one person could ever even remember one snow day, and that was in another part of Sweden where the snow was so deep it went up to the top of the trains. That resulted in one day off, but it was snow shovels at the ready and back to work the next day. Kind of a whole 'work is life, comrade' type atmosphere.

It has been snowing here in England since Sunday, and people's reactions haven't changed since my childhood. Although we have had a light ground cover, some parts in northern England have had a few inches. It's supposed to snow through Thursday, and people are really milking it.

Since it's Wednesday, it's my usual London meeting. I have already been warned off by people's possible non-attendance and have been getting calls that most of my team will be dialing in on the call: I will try to come, Helen, but if it snows I just won't be able to make it in. Or: I plan on being there, but you never know what the snow will do to the transport system. And: I want to be there Helen, but I have to go and buy milk, bread and bottled water, so if I survive that I will endeavor to attend.

People. This is not Antarctica. We're talking a few measly inches, pick up the pieces of your shattered life and move on.

To be fair, the normally cantankerous train system gets even more so during the snow. It's like engineers walk outside and, prospecting the train lines, they see a snowflake fall. With a grim look on their faces, they watch the melting snowflake and look up at each other.

'Snow.' One says to the other.

'Aye. We'll need to cancel half the trains, make the remaining half run late, and let's cut the number of train cars on the trains from 8 to 4 and crank up the heat, so the poor buggers that are traveling will feel like they're in hell, instead of wintery Britian.'

I speak from experience on that one, seeing as each time I have traveled the 50 minutes into London the turkey thermometer has popped out of my butt, signaling I have cooked through.

I've been into London all week so far. You see people walking around the city in parkas worthy of a Nepalese mountain expedition, which (in my view) might be overkill. Yesterday I sat in a team meeting, listening to my manager's manager Dirk drone on about our work, our new titles (it looks as though I am about to be a Project Director. Sadly, this does not come with a beret and the right to a temperamental attitude). He is banging on and on about revenue and EBITDAR, and I look outside the window of our 7th floor conference room and see thick fluffy flakes whirling to the ground. It looks like a dance, a ballet, and I feel like just being quiet. I feel like I am back in the green chair in my study in snowy Sweden, and I want to tell everyone to shush and to just watch, to just enjoy.

I look at Dirk and think: We're talking about revenue and percentages. We're talking about all these things that make up this so-called daily living. But look outside the window. Look at the beautiful and haunting snow. We're wasting our lives in here, in this meeting. We could be out there living, instead of having our dreams sucked out by the fluorescent lights.

Not hearing me, Dirk looks at me and discusses the importance of our projects. My other team members nod their heads and agree that my project is the priority, a sentiment which makes my stomach burn. Jeff, having swallowed my project plan, eagerly recites it all to Dirk and I sit there quietly and instead of taking masses of notes like I usually do, I think: Why are we doing this? Shouldn't we be outside trying to catch snowflakes on our tongue?

We take a break as a coffee trolley is wheeled into the room. Dirk turns to me.

'So, Helen.' He says, pouring himself a cup of coffee. 'You're off on holiday next week, right?'

'I am.' I reply. I actually like Dirk, I think he's an ok guy, if a little political.

'Where to?' he asks, sipping noisily.

I tell him and he smiles broadly. 'How fantastic! I am off to Florida next week with my family. I have five kids.' At this he chuckles and looks at his cup, and with a lurch of the stomach I know where this is going. 'Do you have any children of your own?'

Yup. He went there. I hate this question. 'No, no children of my own.'

'Ah, well, you can have one of mine!' he says jovially.

And Dirk has just committed one of my peeves.

I hate it when people say crap like that. It's ok to share, being a bit pink myself I support some ideas of socialism. But it's one thing to share my tax money, and it's quite another when you branch into the unrealistic.

I remember being a teenager with a 38DD bust. I looked like some bizarre red-headed Dolly Parton mock-up. My rack was so enormous that it proceeded me into a room by a few seconds. I once swung around and knocked my cat clear off the bed with those babies. They were so large they were completely insensitive and drove ridges into my back and shoulders from the enormous bras I had to wear.

And I remember, too, the one comment I would always get. It never failed that if I was standing by a little-busted woman in, say, the ladies restroom or at a party or in the reception line for the President of the United States, I would be asked about my breasts. It would be revealed that I hated my big boobage more than anything, and the unsatisfied Little Bust would lament she wished hers were bigger. So I would inevitably get this: 'Well, you can give me some of yours, that'd make me happy!'

Well! I say! Hey, Little Bust, I just happened to bring along my plastic surgery kit and my breast pump, let's hook you right up and pump my fatty tissue right into you! Problem solved! What a great fucking idea!

Oh yeah. Having that breast reduction was one of the best choices I've ever made.

I have heard it many, many times about children, too. With a sarcastic roll of the eyes, the person looks to the ceiling and says in a voice to be envied by Chevy Chase: "You can have my kids!"

I have developed a number of replies over the years:

OK. (said completely deadpan and serious). Where do you want me to pick them up?

Thanks, but I prefer my children to not resemble pug dogs.

Well, I guess you do have three. You know it's true-you really won't miss one of them.

That's great. I have so been planning on getting a maid, so this will solve the problem.

I will love him and squeeze him and I will call him George.

Of course, none of these replies would work for Dirk, so I simply smiled.

I had a very long day in London, and I rode the train home through the snow, sitting quietly and looking out the window. When I got home I made myself some homemade macaroni and cheese (Angus had a champagne reception for his customer at work, so was away). I didn't even feel like playing Sims, I just sat on the couch in my pajamas, a thick blue chenille blanket over my legs, and listened to the quiet. I pushed away my horrible job, I pushed out my stress and my horrible headache, and I just enjoyed the snowfall.

Little things.

My day took, and I gave my head back some quiet time.

-H.

Posted by Everydaystranger at February 23, 2005 09:35 AM .

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