Cryin’

My heart must be made of cold, black steel, because I am not moved by dance. I know many people are, but not me. During the summer, one our favorite shows our family watches together is So You Think You Can Dance. I’m a total fan. The three of us marvel at the physical feats the dancers are capable of. I love all of the styles—modern, jazz, tap, ballet, hip-hop, ballroom. And I admire the grit it takes for each one of those talented, determined dancers to pursue an art form that almost guarantees a life of poverty and anonymity. It’s a lifestyle very likely to throw in career-ending injuries and maybe an eating disorder to boot. Dancers are tough, and they have to be. But, it doesn’t make me cry, ever. Is dance entertaining? Are Fred Astaire and Gene Kelly amazing? Yes, of course they are. So I find it oddly amusing when I see judge Mary Murphy dabbing at the corner of her eyes after a performance and fanning her face with her hands. When she offers her comments to the dancers on their performance, her voice is often thick with emotion, and she looks like she’s about to lose it there on national television. Really? You’re crying? The choreographers sitting in the audience appear to take it all just as seriously, offering their thanks for the honor by touching the tips of their fingers in prayer. Sometimes they’re moved to tears, too. Producer and judge Nigel Lythgoe has the audacity to declare particular performances so moving, they’re “Emmy worthy.”

Oy vey.

OK, before I get too caught up here as the arbiter of what should make people cry or not, let me just say that I can get teary and emotional over really stupid things, too. It’s just not dance. Most movies make me cry, and not just the ones of the Terms of Endearment variety. Frozen made me cry. So did the latest Star Trek movie. And forget it if it’s a beloved movie from my childhood that I get to watch with my kid. Every time I watch Annie with my daughter, I can’t get through “Maybe,” the first song of the first act, without getting completely choked up. Dumb TV can make me lose it too. Like when Zack and Kelly broke up. Yep, I admit that was me reaching for the Kleenex. None of this makes me proud of myself. But for some reason, it seems to be more acceptable to be moved to tears through a reality competition dance-off than a ridiculous sitcom from the early 1990s. One is considered higher art and the other, definitely low. I say they’re the same. No one should be defining for us what’s supposed to be moving and what’s supposed to be trash, though I’m clearly doing that right now. By the way, Two and a Half Men? Crap. Grown Ups? Crap. Grown Ups 2? You get the picture. It’s really all just entertainment meant to help us decompress at the end of the day.

I love Mary Murphy. Sincerely. I think she belongs on the Hot Tamale Train. Dance is amazing entertainment, and I would never be capable of anything like what those dancers do every day. But I’m not going to cry over it.

Show and Tell

A few weeks ago on Father’s Day, my husband, daughter, and I went out to Sabrina’s for breakfast. While we were waiting for our food, Josh and Virginia flipped over the kids menu, drew a line down the center of the page, and started a drawing contest with him working on one side, and she the other. I took a quick photo of the two hunched over the menu with my iPhone and posted the happy Father’s Day picture onto Facebook with the caption, “Drawing contest while waiting for breakfast. Happy Father’s Day, Josh!” Sweet, right? I thought, Isn’t this what Facebook is for? It’s the home of the subtle (or not-so-subtle) brag. See, look at my happy family, celebrating Father’s Day with a drawing contest and a much-too-big breakfast. And sure enough, almost 40 friends and family “Liked” the photo. My mom wished him a “Happy Father’s Day, Josh.” And when a high school buddy asked, “Who won?” I responded smugly, “VA handily won the drawing contest. Josh won the Awesome Dad award.” Yes, very pleased with myself here and our successful Father’s Day Facebook post!

So I was surprised when a few nights ago, while Josh and I were watching cooking shows on the couch after our daughter had gone to bed, he turned to me and said, “You know that ‘Awesome Dad’ comment from Facebook a couple weeks ago? It didn’t sound like you.” I paused, blinking at him, and set down my iPad. “What do you mean?” I asked him. “I mean, you don’t say stuff like that on Facebook. Don’t get me wrong, it was a nice comment. But that wasn’t you.”

I shrugged and laughed it off, but when I thought about it the next day, I realized he was right. He caught me. I don’t say stuff like that. And it’s not that I think he shouldn’t win the Awesome Dad award, I just wouldn’t necessarily broadcast it. We laugh at the “Awesome Dad awards” Facebook posts and #bestdadever hashtags. I’d rather take him out for breakfast instead. Or on a hike in the Wissahickon. I might give his hand a hard squeeze and flash him a teary smile as we watch Virginia receive her 4th grade, move-up day certificate. But I wouldn’t articulate to him that he wins the Awesome Dad award on social media. Not in so many words. That’s not my style, and he knows it. I think the comment wasn’t really meant for him. It was meant for a larger audience, a lot of people I don’t even know all that well, which kind of makes me cringe. It was preening and showing off instead of pure sentiment for the intended person.

OK, lesson learned. And you know what? I won’t be wishing him a happy anniversary on Facebook either.

My Motto

Most of us, consciously or not, have some version of a life philosophy or motto, a piece of wisdom or advice that we hold close to us and dust off periodically to use at certain crossroads. Some mottos are borrowed, such as the Golden Rule: treat others as you would treat yourself or live each day as though it were your last. Don’t take no for an answer. Some are quite practical. My mother-in-law’s motto: “Why cook a chicken, when you can buy a cooked chicken?” My mom’s motto this week is “Don’t break your femur,” because…she just broke her femur. And she’s right. It’s a really inconvenient bone to break even if you don’t have a summer of trips planned and you’re not pushing 70.

My motto? Don’t be an asshole. The language is a bit glib and the idea not original, but I wholly believe in it. It reminds me to think before I say something stupid or act carelessly, whether I’m standing in line at the grocery store, enduring one more committee meeting, or driving in Center City. When a friend is talking through an issue she’s having with her husband and really just needs for me to sit quiet and listen to her instead of interrupting the second she pauses with unasked-for advice, “don’t be an asshole” reminds me that maybe advice isn’t what’s helpful right now. In fact, what’s most helpful is to go with what I know is right: to shut up and listen to my friend. “Don’t be an asshole” reminds me to try harder to treat people with respect and kindness, even if I’m not in the mood or haven’t had enough coffee yet. Wouldn’t the world be a better place if we just checked ourselves once in a while and try to not be assholes to one another? I admit it, don’t always succeed at heeding the motto and sometimes slip up. It can take a lot of physical and mental control to keep my middle finger to myself when drivers fail to merge correctly on I-95, but I choose to believe that it’s worth it.

Futbol Obsession

I’ve been watching a lot of World Cup soccer lately. A lot. Maybe too much. I plan my work days around the World Cup game schedule. Anything that needs 100% of my focus better get done before noon, because that’s when I fire up the modest flat screen TV in my office and eat leftovers in front of the first match of the day. If the game isn’t too close, I can press “mute” on the remote and write or grade papers, looking up every now and then to see if Spain has made any gains against Australia or if Croatia continues to trounce Cameroon. More often than not, however, the games are real nail-biters, and there’s no way I’m going to be able to tear myself away from the game long enough to read through one more essay on Of Plymouth Plantation. And if my home team, team USA, is on board, I’m all in, sweating and shouting at my 30-inch television as striker Clint Dempsey, Jermaine Jones in midfield, goalkeeper Tim Howard, along with the entire US squad, battle it out on the field in Brazil.

One might ask, why would a mild-mannered wife and mom, community college professor and writer, have such an obsession with the World Cup? That’s an excellent question. Sure, I’ve played soccer myself from elementary school through, well, now. At forty-two, every now and then I still strap on my shin guards and lace up my cleats, and spend two 45-minute halves running around like a maniac on the grass in the fresh air, just hoping to cross the ball perfectly from the outside left into our opponent’s penalty box, or to make a clean pass in the midfield, or even a decent touch on the ball on a throw-in. I’m certainly slower and older these days, but I still get the same rush when a play goes right, as I did playing for my club team in high school. And I get a rush when I watch the World Cup, too. These players show us how to fight for it, scrapping for every touch on the ball, down to the final seconds of stoppage time. And for that, I thank every one of them. I can always catch up on work tomorrow.