I got out of bed, skipped most of my usual morning routine, and got on the phone with K-mart, Target, even Walmart! None of them had sleds. At last, I tried Toys R Us. "We've got three kinds left, honey." The manager told me. The store was in South Philly, an hour away by bus! As the hours passed, I slowly swerved away from the urgency of my inner directive. Since I'm skipping all that time-consuming stuff I usually do in the morning, I told myself, I could get a lot done! I may as well pay some bills... As the morning wore on, the inner grown up slowly nudged aside the inner child. By the time I got to South Philly, I was starving for lunch. Two blocks short of Toys R Us, I stopped into a diner and had a grilled cheese.
I paid the check, crossed the enormous parking lot and entered Toys R Us. I looked around on every aisle. I saw everything but sleds. Finally, I asked the lone sales clerk in the front of the deserted store. "We're all out." she replied. What? Of course! The first real snow in two winters and a snow day. Children had bought out the sleds since that morning. It just hadn't occurred to me.
"Do you think you'll order more?" I asked
"Probably not." she answered. Duh. Not exactly a seller you can count on in this economy, in this climate.
I huffed out of the place, exasperated. The Universe was supposed to reward you for making effort on behalf of your inner child. I felt unreasonably let down. And embarrassed. How would I ever get over it? And how would I explain such a frivolous disappointment at the Quaker friends meeting at our house that night? We'd be praying for things like world peace, a healthy environment, a better world. But then I thought, why not be upset? In a better world, I wouldn't have to truck all over town to buy a simple toy. A hollowed out thing you could sit in and slide down a snowy hill. In a better world, this thing would not have to be fashioned from petroleum mined in Iraq, manufactured in China, shipped to the United States, and trucked thousands of mile to a store near me. In a better world, I or my neighbor, or at least a neighborhood blacksmith, would know how to make one. They did in Winter Holiday, by Arthur Ransom, the Swallows and Amazons book from 1920's England which my husband and I had just finished.
I thought back to my two years teaching in the Frozen North. Snow came early and often. I had forked out over a hundred dollars of my own money to buy a bunch of plastic sleds for my class. I'd carefully written "Ms. McConnell" in magic marker on every one of the dozen red or purple crafts. Every recess, twice a day, they'd get geared up in snowpants, gloves, boots, hats and coats, like little multicolored eskimos, and carry the sleds to the little slope outside the school. Children from other classes begged to borrow these sleds. No other teacher had placed fun number one on their list of priorities for her class's education. You see, I had to. I wasn't having any fun myself. The best I could do was to offer it to them. I worked long hours preparing to teach. I denied myself meals and adequate rest, and any personal recreation. I remember one weekend, taking one of the sleds to my Mom's house in nearby Massachusetts. "It's my last chance to have fun for six weeks." I had said, insisting we head for the slopes.
At the end of the second year, I left the class in a hurry, in distress, and had left behind most of the nice things I had bought for the class with my own money. That is a story for another day. Walking away from Toys R Us, I cursed my foolishness. Why hadn't I even bothered to take one sled with me. For my own enjoyment? At that time in my life, my own enjoyment did not even make the long list, much less the short one. It was a castle in the air. Something I'd get around to in retirement.
Six years and one major disaster later, I have changed. I have learned that if I make time for my own fun, I am different. Rather than running around like a chicken with its head cut off, trying to fix everyone else, and failing; rather than carrying a grumpy irritable undercurrent with me most of the time, full of resentment when anyone asks for anything; rather, if I make time for my own fun, I am the "Ms. Nice Guy" I always wanted to be. I genuinely have more to give. I get interested in what other people are doing, in things that have nothing to do with my agenda. I am no longer a workaholic.
The day after the sled disappointment, I went into the Waldorf School to substitute in the Kindergarten. I spent the day as I once had, before the job up north, kneading bread dough and cheerfully engaging in domestic work for children to imitate. It was great. They were so sweet and played together so well. I remembered watching my class make up games with elaborate rules and resulting in amazing improvements to their social skills. More than ever, I admired play. I headed home for the day, exhausted, like a tube of toothpaste all squeezed out. I felt pleasant and satisfied. To an extent. But the white slopes loomed, untasted.
As I walked toward the door, I turned around to look at a bulletin board with flyers. There, next to the board, leaning against the wall, was a pile of plastic sleds. There was no one around, inside or out. I picked one up, took it outside, and walked to the top of a slope. My heart was pounding. I sat down in the sled, grabbed the rope, and scootched off the flat place. "Wheeeeeeee," I screamed, as trees flew past me. The world sped by, and I was free.
Yes, I do believe the Universe answers our prayers. Not always the way we want, and not always right away. But on the train home, I found my exhaustion replaced by a sense of peace.
Welcome to blogging! Great first post. Glad you got to sled!
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