The Ludicrous Life of a Writer

So, Sunday morning, my husband came in to where I was reading the paper and picked up a different section and started reading alongside me. Co-reading of newspapers is something I highly recommend. You can learn twice as much stuff by listening to the other person's comments as you can when you are reading alone.

The first thing he mentioned was that a woman who had been doing a breast cancer walk had somehow ended up dangling from a bridge that had opened up. "Maybe breast cancer didn't seem like such a threat to her life anymore," I remarked.

He laughed, and then told me that it was Marie Osmond's birthday. "I came face to face with her once outside a restroom," I told him, "but she didn't recognize me."

This sent him into guffaws that lasted intermittently for a half hour.

I was pleased to have tickled his funny bone.

Until I found out why.

"It's just so ludicrous!" he snorted between gasps for air, a half-hour later.

Ludicrous.  Hmmphf!

Well, I'm a writer, and sometimes writers think--and do--funny things.

One night, I woke from an amazing dream that gave me a terrific idea for a blog.  The dream had unfolded in such a superb story-like manner that it would really be a shame to lose it when I fell back to sleep. I didn't trust myself to remember the dream in the morning, so I grabbed the paper nearest to me, which happened to be the newspaper section I had been working a Sudoku in when I fell asleep, and scribbled down the ideas in the margin.

A day or so later, I remembered that I had done this, and I looked for that newspaper.  It didn't take me long to realize that it had been taken out to the recycling bin. I recruited my husband to go out in the cold with me to dig into the four-and-a-half-foot rubber can to find the correct section.

"What are we looking for?" he asked.

"Handwriting in a margin--in the comic section.  It would be folded in quarters with the Sudoku showing."

Well, we pulled out and looked at every piece of newspaper in that can, and didn't find it.I looked a second time, just to be sure. Dismayed, I came back in and hunted through my nightstand again.

And, I found it.

A quarter-size section with handwriting scribbled in the margin next to the half-done Sudoku. Only problem was, the scribbling I'd done was just that--scribbing. I couldn't make anything out of it, and the dream and story and good idea were lost after all.

Fluttering

So, I was at a store, waiting in line for a cashier who kept saying, "I'm not a cashier," which did not much for my confidence in getting back to work before my lunch time ended. She was waiting on a couple--a handsome man leaning on a cane, and a hard-looking woman who clearly loved him.

Or, I should say, they were waiting on her, while she looked something up away from the counter. And waiting, and waiting, and waiting. I thought of giving up, but there wasn't another cash register on that floor, and two of my items did not have price tags, so I thought it would be prudent to be near where I had found them, instead of in a completely different department.

The man told his companion that he was going to finish his waiting in the car. She okayed this, but mentioned that she would like him to be careful on the escalator. She gave him another instruction, too, which I missed.

He smiled faintly and assured her that he would be careful. 

I felt sorry for both of them. More for him, because he was about sixty years too old to be bossed about how to get around, but, also for her, because she was so clearly afraid that he would fall, hurt himself, wrench her heart, and cost them another fortune in medical bills.

"Let me just help you get onto the escalator," she said, taking his arm.

"I'll be okay," he said.

I watched her struggle to accept this. He seemed capable and confident enough to me to find his way onto an escalator without risking life and limb.   Of course, if he fell and hurt himself, it wasn't going to wrench my heart or cost me a fortune.

I tried not to watch this, but I'm a writer.

He turned away to go, and she let him.

At first.

Then, she followed him, caught his arm, and helped him onto the escalator. I watched her watch him start down. She fluttered like a mother bird who'd just pushed out a hatchling. She jumped two seconds later, making me jump a bit, too. I imagine he had had some sort of tiny stumble that he had quickly righted, because she fluttered back to the counter. 

She thought better of that, though, and flew back over to the escalator to peer down it and make sure he got off okay at the bottom.

When she returned, I offered, "It's hard, isn't it?" But she didn't want to make conversation with me. Which was fine. Not about that, anyway.  She was soon complaining about the not-cashier, who had still not returned.

In the meantime, I stood there watching the back of her, wondering how often I flutter and boss and worry unnecessarily. I know I do--every time I ask my grown son to text me when he gets there because I know he is planning to drive across country all night, whenever I repeat to my daughter the rules for being out at night with friends, or when I remind my husband to do something I know darn well he already knows to do and probably didn't forget. 

I have spent three days wondering what, if any, good fluttering does. Did it keep the man safer? Probably not. Did it make her feel better? Probably not. Did it prove her love? Maybe. But, maybe the message he got from it was negative.Maybe, instead of thinking, "Oh, good, she loves me so much," he thought he wished she would stop fussing, would treat him like an adult, or something else.

Does my own type of fluttering do any good? I'm coming down on the side of: probably not.