On Saturday, a young man came to our home, took down our old satellite dish, installed a new dish, removed our old receiver, connected a new receiver, and made my husband the happiest man alive.
Yes, he has a new love, HDTV.
We have had the televisions capable of such a picture for over two years now, but we had never upgraded. Bless his heart, he said it was okay, that we didn't need to spend the extra money. Yet, when I said he should call to get it done, he moved faster than I have seen him move in the over three years we have been married.
I left early that afternoon and returned later that night, after my girls' time, and I don't think he knew I was gone.
"Can you see the difference?" Not really, I want to say. "Yes, sure, dear. I can see the armpit hair on the UFC fighter. That's neat."
"Football tomorrow. mmmm. Good."
He has resorted to grunts for conversation as he ogles the crisp picture.
At least he is happy with it, which makes me just grin. He deserves it, and I really can tell that it is much better than what we had, even though I am the girl who was happy with my fifteen-year-old Funai T.V. when we were first wed. Yes, I know, you ask, what in tarnation is a Funai? Exactly.
Monday, January 25, 2010
A true friend tells you when you have a booger in your nose and other tales of honesty in sisterhood...
Once upon a time there was a woman who wanted to join a dance class.
As the instructor of said dance class told the woman about this new opportunity, the woman felt her stomach fill with butterflies in anticipation. "It is good if you can kick up to your hip at this point," the instructor told her. Well, I can kick up to my shoulder easily, the woman replied in her head, flipping her hair to show her confidence. "We will be learning one eight count a week in class." Five, six, seven, eight. She counted in her head, envisioning herself picking up on the moves so quickly that she was assisting others with their own learning. "If you can keep your arms and hands positioned correctly, you will be ahead of the game." Who? Me? HA! I was cheerleader captain for THREE years in high school, thank you very much. "We will be performing in May at the dance recital I hold for all of my classes." What?! Are you serious? I am going to shine! Look at me! Look at me! "We will change formations often, so the same women aren't in front the whole time, so nobody is self conscious." Whatever. I'll stay in front the whole time. Me and my cheerleader smile. "It would be great if you would join us." There is not a doubt in my mind that I will be there. I will be your star student. Look at her, you will say. Watch her. She knows how to do it.
Oh, the butterflies were about to take over the woman's body, but she retained her calm, cool exterior. "Let me talk with my husband, and I'll get back to you," she told the maker of her day, her year, her decade. Whatever, let me talk with him. I am doing it. Woohoo! Five six seven eight. She danced back to her seat.
She sat down next to her friend. She shared her great news, bouncing up and down as she spoke, trying to release those internal winged flappers. "And, and, and ..." She told her everything, waiting for her support, her excitement to match hers, her nodding head. She waited for that response. And waited. And waited.
Chirp. Chirp.
"No. You. Are. Not." was the reply she finally received.
"What?" The woman shockingly retorted. "Why not?"
"Um, you are not going to dance in front of everyone."
"But, but, but..." The tears swelled in the former cheerleader's eyes.
"No. You are thirty-seven years old. That is for little girls. Little cute girls."
"But I am cute."
"You are a WOMAN."
"I am going to do it."
"I will drive by the dance class to see if your car is there. If it is, I will go in and drag you out by your hair."
"Then I will just get a ride."
"Um. No. That was twenty. TWENTY. years ago. Grow up, and let it go."
Silence. Bubble burst. Recycled dream squashed like a little gnat.
Her friend was right. What had she been thinking? The leg kicks would hurt her hip, anyway. She got tired just thinking about the number of eight counts they would be doing. That part of her life was over long ago. Now, she just danced for herself in front of the mirror. Or for her son occasionally. Sometimes an interpretive number to an Enya song for her husband after a particularly inspiring episode of So You Think You Can Dance. But not in front of a crowd of people who had come to see their little girls, with pigtails and without other developed parts, perform.
She flashed her never-to-fade-no-matter-how-many-years-pass cheerleader smile at her true friend, the one who slapped her back into reality and back into 2009, and she said, "Thanks."
As the instructor of said dance class told the woman about this new opportunity, the woman felt her stomach fill with butterflies in anticipation. "It is good if you can kick up to your hip at this point," the instructor told her. Well, I can kick up to my shoulder easily, the woman replied in her head, flipping her hair to show her confidence. "We will be learning one eight count a week in class." Five, six, seven, eight. She counted in her head, envisioning herself picking up on the moves so quickly that she was assisting others with their own learning. "If you can keep your arms and hands positioned correctly, you will be ahead of the game." Who? Me? HA! I was cheerleader captain for THREE years in high school, thank you very much. "We will be performing in May at the dance recital I hold for all of my classes." What?! Are you serious? I am going to shine! Look at me! Look at me! "We will change formations often, so the same women aren't in front the whole time, so nobody is self conscious." Whatever. I'll stay in front the whole time. Me and my cheerleader smile. "It would be great if you would join us." There is not a doubt in my mind that I will be there. I will be your star student. Look at her, you will say. Watch her. She knows how to do it.
Oh, the butterflies were about to take over the woman's body, but she retained her calm, cool exterior. "Let me talk with my husband, and I'll get back to you," she told the maker of her day, her year, her decade. Whatever, let me talk with him. I am doing it. Woohoo! Five six seven eight. She danced back to her seat.
She sat down next to her friend. She shared her great news, bouncing up and down as she spoke, trying to release those internal winged flappers. "And, and, and ..." She told her everything, waiting for her support, her excitement to match hers, her nodding head. She waited for that response. And waited. And waited.
Chirp. Chirp.
"No. You. Are. Not." was the reply she finally received.
"What?" The woman shockingly retorted. "Why not?"
"Um, you are not going to dance in front of everyone."
"But, but, but..." The tears swelled in the former cheerleader's eyes.
"No. You are thirty-seven years old. That is for little girls. Little cute girls."
"But I am cute."
"You are a WOMAN."
"I am going to do it."
"I will drive by the dance class to see if your car is there. If it is, I will go in and drag you out by your hair."
"Then I will just get a ride."
"Um. No. That was twenty. TWENTY. years ago. Grow up, and let it go."
Silence. Bubble burst. Recycled dream squashed like a little gnat.
Her friend was right. What had she been thinking? The leg kicks would hurt her hip, anyway. She got tired just thinking about the number of eight counts they would be doing. That part of her life was over long ago. Now, she just danced for herself in front of the mirror. Or for her son occasionally. Sometimes an interpretive number to an Enya song for her husband after a particularly inspiring episode of So You Think You Can Dance. But not in front of a crowd of people who had come to see their little girls, with pigtails and without other developed parts, perform.
She flashed her never-to-fade-no-matter-how-many-years-pass cheerleader smile at her true friend, the one who slapped her back into reality and back into 2009, and she said, "Thanks."
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