Mable Clyde Navigates Life

This is a bit of a bedtime story for grown-ups... 

Mable Clyde woke in her cozy old bed,

it was Hate the World Monday and she covered her head.
Quite forgetting her mantra from the evening before,
she grunted and pounded her alarm to the floor.

In nine minutes time it sounded again,

with a violent and biting monotonous tone.
Momentary relief for Mable’s frail brain
found it muffled, top-side-down on a robe.

But psychotically crafted alarm clocks crescendo full bore

so Mable reached and she patted from mattress to floor.
She grasped it and cursed it and squeezed out its last buzz
then stomped to the bathroom door. 

Things did not improve as Mable rushed through her day

trying to play corporate in an ethical way.
She questioned as instructed by those who instruct-
but the questions she questioned were inappropriate.

So she found herself frustrated with what she should do

but she doubted her ability to find something new.
In only one day Sunday’s optimism was gone
and she trudged home resenting her position as pawn.  

Two different Tuesdays and two interviews

both filled with the same patronizing howdy-dee-do.
One said, “Thank you for your time and for your motivation.
You do have experience and enthu—siasm,
but for someone that holds your current position    
this is not at all the typical progression,
what I mean is to say it’d be quite the promotion!”

At this Ms. Clyde envisioned smashing her head

and wished for a lolli-pop and a pat on the head
instead of a grammatical abomination telling her why
this position was some unobtainable prize.

Instead she smiled and thanked him for taking the time,

said she appreciated his advice on her corporate climb.
She shook hands with more oomph than he had put in
and acknowledged her knowledge of his embarrassed chagrin.

The other provided a bit more to her credit,

at least taking time to mention she had a right to present it,
“Your ideas are certainty enlightening, and you’ve invested your time
focusing on the highly favorable aspects we find…

“Oh groan,” Mable thought, “Here comes the script-

I’ve lost another one to locked-in-a-box politics.
I’ve got to get out, I can’t do anything here!”
Mable stood and she smiled and her intentions were clear.

And again she found home this time curled in a quilt

then wasted a Wednesday surrounded by the self pity she built.
She grumbled that the world had turned crazy, lazy and mean
and hypocritically admitted that she found it obscene.

But this was not the type of person she thought she’d become,

all cloistered, defeated, despondent and dumb.
In her heart raged a demon of great diffidence
and she feared it succeeded in stifling her sense.       

With gritted teeth Mable glared into the mirror-

her own angry face with a flicker of fear.
She felt her heart burn and the reflection felt double-
she pounded the counter and pushed down her trouble.

Then straightened to standing as she pulled at her hair,

she pushed at her head until clarity got there.
When the simplest inkling of inspiration set in,
Mable smiled and sighed and allowed a small grin to escape,

it had been hidden, locked tight-

the solution was there, it has to be, right?
The solution to relief from this mundane existence,
this soul-sucking funk, this rot on your ass persistence of procrastination
and abusive self-reflection…

Mable looked into her eyes and had to take action.

She solicited an untapped selection of brain
and her exhausted reflection did much of the same-
she drew another deep breath and shuddered and sighed,
she’d need to wake up tomorrow and find Mable Clyde.

With clear-headed ambition and a stern look in the mirror

she concentrated hard until her old Sunday mantra was clear.
She prepared herself right with a voice strong and steady,
“Good night, Sweet Pea”. She said, “Dream Big and wake up ready.”

Three weeks of Thursdays and only one of them rough

saw Mable Clyde ready and emotionally tough-
she woke up each day and remembered her name,
she recalled some old faces and she let go of her shame.

Mable folded her quilt for her old snuggly cat

and put on her boots and a snazzy new hat.
She found nice conversations and danced in the street
thankful for the freedom to follow her feet.

She started to listen beyond the same walls

And sought out a profession where she could stand tall
Then found the right fit far away from the greed
and worked with a diligence to help small business succeed.

By the time each next Friday came Mable Clyde’s way

something wonderful happened on each glorious day -
weekend or weekday, vacations or not,
good days, bad days, cold days and hot-
all of the days in Mable Clyde’s life,
were just that, all days in her life she could count.

And counting is one thing but to add living is better

when living has loving, has laughter, has letters.
So Mable dreamed big all the nights of her days
in her cozy old bed in cozy old ways.

She woke through the seasons prepared for the weather

taking time for learning, for Orion or to study a feather.
She woke from big dreams for self, family and dear friends,
remembering always to be ready for what lies ahead.

A Few Words About Basketball

My husband recently decided I should be into basketball. It's a surprisingly common opinion among family, friends and complete strangers because I stand at (a quarter inch shy of) six feet.

 

I am not now, nor have I ever been aware that height comes with, not only unquestionable basketball playing ability, but an obligation to participate in the sport. Truth is, I've never played- I guess I'm a rebel or this is what some of my earlier teachers may have meant by not achieving full potential.

Now, I've done the required dribbling drills and free throws my 80s public education required of me, but that's where I left it. Too much thud-thudding and shrill sneaker squeaks in an acoustically unfriendly environment. No thank you.

 

But, why let my personal feelings be the end of it? Not when I'm as tall as I am and I have a spouse who likes the sport as much as he does. Never mind my complete lack of interest in the 20+ years we've known each other. Why all of a sudden? Why is basketball now a great activity for us to not only play together, but to watch as a family...? Why deprive our tall daughter the opportunity to play just because I never did is his strongest argument to date. So, why the heck not... let's give it a whirl.

 

This is how my basketball education began and ended in under a week:

 

1. I bought a pink women's ball. If this education and activity is really to better my understanding and interest and provide tutelage to my daughter, why should we not use a pink women's ball? Apparently this was wrong. All I have to say is, if one loves basketball so much, why don't they have their own standard color man-sized ball already so the presence of said pink ball would not be so offensive?

2. I threw in some hope. I nailed the label the court diagram. Without help. This may have sent mix messages that I was interested in learning and lead to the downfall of the overall plan. In my defense, it was a bit like a test, so I did my best. I think a bit more encouragement and a bit less overall surprise would have benefitted the continuation of the plan more effectively.

 

3. I did not take our "play around" time in the park seriously. I was just trying to figure out who passed to whom and when. It seems there are base rules and court etiquette that should be followed even when one is just trying to wrap their heads around the fact that they are on a basketball court to begin with. It guess there is no giggling in basketball.

 

4. I was not serious enough about mastering play formation. When it was decided I needed a more tactical understanding before taking it back to the court, I laughed too much through my tutorial of the rules and strategies of the game. But, really, this is the visual- I find it hard to believe anyone could interpret this, let alone keep a straight face during the design phase.

 

All that said, take heart as another sport’s season begins! Though your television may be monopolized, you can still catch up on reading- or writing- over the sounds of couch-side coaching. At least hockey is back…