As part of a social experiment in 8th grade, our political science class had a general election. As a result I, along with other classmates heavy on charm and short on real action, was voted into office.
Whereupon we were promptly moved to better living quarters.
There, at the front of the class, we lolled about on extra-large desks. Members of the high school football team peeled organic pomegranates for us, and we were carefully talcum-ed before exertion, lest we chafe.
We were, of course, thoroughly convinced that we, the elite, were deserving of these things.
Meanwhile, our constituents were forced toward the back of the room, their desks pushed together in overly friendly and possibly unhygienic groupings. Cries of “heeeeey, no fair” went unheard; teeth were bared in boisterous and vicious acts of aggression; and correct penmanship was disrespected in wanton, territorial displays against the left-handed.
My campaign promises, whatever they had been, were quickly forgotten, not only because I was an eighth grade twit but because those of us on “Mount Olympus”, as our neighborhood was called, quickly came to political differences with those on “Cannery Row”.
Arguments ensued. Friendships were forever altered, but for crying out loud, couldn’t the people in the back of the room see that we deserved all that extra space?
It was a far cry from yesterday’s yoga class.
There I was. Wedged between Amy and The Guy What Smells Like Cheetohs, mere inches from six people, while the row ahead of the row ahead of me had full range-of-motion rights.
Look at them, up there! Why do they get special privileges? How come the sweat around their mats is from them only? Look at them, with their breathable air and their smiley yoga faces!
No fair!
It is part of the practice, of course, to set aside petty annoyances, to tune out that which does not serve us in pursuit of serenity and a good stretch.
I close my eyes, do my best to ignore Stinky and Fuzzy and Sweaty and the other yoga dwarves crowding my mat.
It was then that I remembered Social Studies.
I had this coming to me.
Wendy, wherever you are, I’m sorry that I didn’t work harder to make more room for the desks. I’m sorry that I suggested that if you worked harder that you, too, could get elected and move to Mount Olympus.
And I’m sorry we traded that one time and I kept your painters pants.
It’s been 30 years, but I finally see the error of my ways.<
Whereupon we were promptly moved to better living quarters.
There, at the front of the class, we lolled about on extra-large desks. Members of the high school football team peeled organic pomegranates for us, and we were carefully talcum-ed before exertion, lest we chafe.
We were, of course, thoroughly convinced that we, the elite, were deserving of these things.
Meanwhile, our constituents were forced toward the back of the room, their desks pushed together in overly friendly and possibly unhygienic groupings. Cries of “heeeeey, no fair” went unheard; teeth were bared in boisterous and vicious acts of aggression; and correct penmanship was disrespected in wanton, territorial displays against the left-handed.
My campaign promises, whatever they had been, were quickly forgotten, not only because I was an eighth grade twit but because those of us on “Mount Olympus”, as our neighborhood was called, quickly came to political differences with those on “Cannery Row”.
Arguments ensued. Friendships were forever altered, but for crying out loud, couldn’t the people in the back of the room see that we deserved all that extra space?
It was a far cry from yesterday’s yoga class.
There I was. Wedged between Amy and The Guy What Smells Like Cheetohs, mere inches from six people, while the row ahead of the row ahead of me had full range-of-motion rights.
Look at them, up there! Why do they get special privileges? How come the sweat around their mats is from them only? Look at them, with their breathable air and their smiley yoga faces!
No fair!
It is part of the practice, of course, to set aside petty annoyances, to tune out that which does not serve us in pursuit of serenity and a good stretch.
I close my eyes, do my best to ignore Stinky and Fuzzy and Sweaty and the other yoga dwarves crowding my mat.
It was then that I remembered Social Studies.
I had this coming to me.
Wendy, wherever you are, I’m sorry that I didn’t work harder to make more room for the desks. I’m sorry that I suggested that if you worked harder that you, too, could get elected and move to Mount Olympus.
And I’m sorry we traded that one time and I kept your painters pants.
It’s been 30 years, but I finally see the error of my ways.<
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22 comments:
Power corrupts, absolute power absolutely, temporary power corrupts temporarily
Silliyak, :-) Thank you.
I really was quite a twit...
Aah, painters pants. Tres chic.
Knowing you, Pearl, you probably STILL fit into those painters pants from high school.
(And if you do, please don't tell me, or I'll have to find your house, break in, and take one of the kitties as hostage.)
Hari OM
State of the Globe is what is dished up here. Lightly seasoned with confession and acceptance of what goes around... results in wisdom; at least for 'lerts... YAM xx
It's crummy to be the riffraff. It's also crummy to first be the elite, then be the riffraff. But it's good to apologize about the painter pants. I mean, come on. Those things were fashion gold.
They learn it in eighth grade, and it never goes away.
Karma. Comes right back and bites you on your downward dog. Doesn't it, Pearlie?
I love this & the deeper meaning of it all. Love.
But, you apparently missed the yoga class election, worse yet. You were relegated to Cannery Row without even a vote.
Painter pants? I assume we are not speaking of trousers which have been spattered with paint.
Not only am I confined to Cannery Row, but I am ignorant too.
Slinking off (in the space allowed for slinking).
school uniforms at an all girls high school...i'll say no more, i think you know how dull my life was. xoxoxox
When I was in the 8th grade, I was part of a slate of radicals who decided to take off the school. We were going to run as a team but the powers that be decided that since our conduct grades were a bit south of the Tropic of Capricorn, that we were not qualified, thereby keeping from being corrupted by power but also condemning us to live lives that are cynical and distrustful of authority...
30 years? Must be true what they say, you're never too old to learn. Off to google painters pants.
Ah, if only present "elite" could learn your wisdom, Pearl!
Oh yah, give 'em inch and they take a mile. And what's with the yoga class? They cram as many in there as show up? No class size restriction? How much do you pay for that?
Causing someone to lose personal space is a game changer. :)
And like River said, I have some googling to do on pants.
What can I say other than thanks for the laugh
Yoga dwarves...that's funny!~
Oh gosh! Are you saying girls don't like Guys What Smell Like Cheetohs? I must call my sons and correct something I taught them long ago!
Doesn't it feel nasty when you're not certain the sweat on your brow is yours or not?
Did you ever watch "A Class Divided"? It was an experiment an elementary school teacher conducted in the 70's. She started treating the kids with brown eyes better than the kids with blue eyes, or vice versa, I forget, but it was pretty interesting and powerful. If you can bring painter pants back, I'll vote for you.
Wow. Yoga can make you deal with some serious stuff.
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