So, we’re in class. Loud blast of music from the zumba-or-whatever it is class next door,
Smirnoff sez, “Is that… Moby?”
We are like, “that’s Adele” (because duh, great album, but you can’t swing a frikin cat without hitting some Adele)
So we’re all like, “no, it’s Adele, and-hold the phone- how do you even know about Moby, Old Man???”
Reminded me of this one time when my brother was making a mix tape for some girl, and we were totally giggling because of the High-Speed Dubbing, which made every song high-pitched and fast and hilarious, and this particular one was some Guns&Roses song with lots of cussin’ so it was like The Chipmunks were just Going Off and we were cracking up until we both looked up and saw our Grandpa standing in the doorway, listening, with a funny look on his face.
See, we weren’t even allowed to say the words ‘shut-up’ at home. This was not Grandpa’s rule, but still, how would he react? Were we in trouble? Or worse -would he be disappointed?
Grandpa sez, “Is that… Rap?”
My brother fumbling wildly for the Stop button while I sputter, “uh, no Grandpa, this is, uh, rock? I guess?” (while my mind is starting to thaw out and think, ‘How does he know about rap? He is too old to know about rap’
The stop button seems to be eluding my brother altogether, Chipmunk Axel Rose lets rip with a particularly blue streak, and Grandpa’s funny expression breaks into a full-on grin and then he adds my very favorite old-man-cuss of all time to Chipmunk Axel’s tirade:
“Well… Hells Bells!”
I was at work the day I got the phonecall that my Grandpa had died. Clearly remember my mind thinking, ‘ok, you’ve been sort of expecting this call ever since he fell last summer…he knew how much you love him…he was proud of you…it’s ok…’
Meanwhile my body, without instructions, hung up the phone, walked into the storage room and crumpled into a heap of abso-fucking-chest-wracking sobs beside the box of mint green petticoats.
And my mind kept kind of like raising it’s hand and trying to be all, ‘uh, no really, you are ok with this news’ and my body would be like, ‘Shut up Fool! Nobody asked you! I’m the boss of you right now! Suck it!’
Scraped myself together enough to get up and go back to my table, thinking, ‘ok, that was a good cry, now back to work…’ which was pointless because my work buddy took one look at me and came around my table and folded me up in a big hug.
Now, Gentle Reader, the Adult Beginner is not a great hugger. I tend toward the Military Strike school of hugging: get in, get the job done, get out. And that’s in the best of times. Combine hug-awkwardness with utter embarrassment at finding myself sobbing in public, and,well, it was a bad scene. I was struggling, trying to push my friend away, choking out half sentences like, “Gonna. Get. Tears. On. Your. Shir-ir-ir-ir-ir-irt!!!!!”
My friend ignored all that and just clamped down on me like he was a fucking Hug-Bot3000. (Now with 33% more huggin!) Got me calm enough to get my keys and go home.
Think it scared him a bit though.
Which I was later able to use to my amusement and advantage! As in:
Me: hey, gimme some of your straight-pins!
Him: no way, Lazy-butt, get your own!
Me: uh-oh, feeling very sad that you won’t give me some pins! Feeling a little misty-eyed…
Him: oh, crap, anything but that, here, take them! Take them all! You stay here I’m gonna go get you some more!
Funny how sometimes your body will just take over.
Sometimes in a good way, like you’re in ballet class and you’re struggling with a step and you can’t figure it out and your body is like,’step aside, Brain. I got this.’ and then a couple classes later you’ve got it, like magic.
But then sometimes in a bad way, like when you’re in ballet class and you’re thinking, ‘come on! It’s just a waltz step! Left two three right two three! You can do this, don’t embarrass me in front of my friends!’ and your body is like, ‘Srsly? You don’t feed me right, you stay up all night reading or whatever, you don’t remember to drink water and Now you need me?! Shuh. Waltz my ass. Forget chu!’
And there was this time when I was showing my Grandpa a sort of unofficial portfolio. Pictures of dresses I’d made, mostly for myself. And he said, “Now, Honey, I’m confused. Why do you say that you’re not a designer?”
I said, “well, I don’t make a living doing this stuff…” and he said, “Ha! That has nothing to do with it! Why, if that were the case- do you think I ever made a living from my paintings?” and I said, “Huh. But Grandpa, you are an artist.”
and he said, “yes exactly”
Sometimes I think about that.