A little perspective…

The Muppet Fur jacket

So, Little Ginger and I went off to story hour at the library… it didn’t go well. Apparently “The Wheels On The Bus,” can be very offensive. Who knew? She has been in peak gremlin mode this week.

One of the unforeseen benefits of counting down to forty is looking back on earlier adventures in my life and realizing with a decade or more of cushioning, they become pretty hilarious. They also can lend a heaping dose of perspective when needed. I realized this earlier today as I was trying to convince Little Ginger that she does not need to wear her favorite jacket (the one that looks like we skinned a Muppet to clothe our toddler) all the time. Outside, yes, inside, it gets a tad warm. As I was considering strategies, I flashed back to my first adulty job out of college…

My first after college job was working in the activities and fitness program at a Continuing Care Retirement Center. This could be the point where I launch into a heartfelt retrospective of how working around so many senior citizens gave me a total zest for life and amazing insight on aging. This could be that point, but it isn’t. I’m sure I’ll write that post someday, but right now I want to tell you about nude paintings and golf carts.

When this story took place, I had steadily worked my way up the ladder and was the manager of the Activities and Fitness program for the community. It was an insane interesting job, perhaps best described by one of the Activity Coordinators. I was filling out some paperwork and had to describe my occupation in a sentence or two; she told me that was easy- just write “crap magnet.” It was tempting.

One of the hazards of the job, (fueled by the fact I was so young and eager please) was when anyone higher up on the food chain was visited by the good idea fairy I was often going to be collateral damage. It would usually fall to me to make the idea a reality. For this particular episode, the director of the community had decided that we needed a gallery wall off the main entry way of the building because we had so many residents who painted, drew, etc. When she brought this up the first time, I did my best to keep a poker face and give a bland reply while inside I was saying a prayer to the gods of interior decorating that it was a passing fancy. It wasn’t. Ten days later I had all of the boxes for the hanging wires in my office and a strict deadline by which I had to have the paintings up on the wall. Defeated, I proposed we invite all of the resident artists to submit their favorite work for a group show for the first month, then we’d feature individual artists. It was agreed upon and I got to work getting the word out and visiting residents to pick up their artwork and get it ready for display.

One of my favorite residents who was a regular in my water aerobics class (seriously, it was a weird job, I don’t know how they wrote the descriptions for my replacement) was very excited about this. She agonized for a week over which painting she wanted to display. She kept saying they were all really big. We agreed that I would come out to her house in one of the golf carts and being the previously mentioned Activities Coordinator in case I needed help. The Activities Coordinator was even younger than I was (I was maybe 24) and very conservative. This will be important in a second.

So, at the appointed time, we hopped in the golf cart (one of the perks of the job- I loved any excuse to drive the golf cart. I think this fact might illustrate the job better than anything else I’ve written so far…) and headed to the resident’s house. She was lovely, as always, and offered us a cup of tea. We chatted for a few minutes and she brought us into the study to show us the two choices of paintings. Let me just take a second to mention that up to now, I had been amassing a mixture of still life, landscapes, and the occasional animal portrait- all done with varying levels of skill. Suddenly, I found myself confronted with two huge paintings of reclining male nudes who looked suspiciously like a younger version of the resident’s husband. It was about as far from what I was expecting as you could possibly get. Not daring to make eye contact with the Activities Coordinator (who was speechless and possibly catatonic) I managed to say in a rather squeaky voice that it was definitely a tough choice. She didn’t need to know I was referring to my choice to not collapse in hysterical laughter as I envisioned explaining this to my bosses when this went up on the wall. After a bit of discussion, we decided on the one in dark blue tones. My reasoning there was hopefully the dark shades of the picture, combined with the lighting in the hallway, would make the subject matter less obvious. We hauled the painting it to the golf cart, and realized it wasn’t going to fit in the main part of the cart. The only solution was for me to sit on my knees and holding the painting in a death grip over the back of the seats while strongly encouraging my art procurement buddy to drive very slowly. I realized, as several residents watched us drive by from their windows, and two wound up behind us on the road, that this was probably not a moment where I was projecting the professional, in control persona I usually strove for. I can confirm that there is really no way to look like you know what you’re doing when you’re hanging onto an enormous painting of a nude blue man (not from the group) out of the back of a golf cart.

We all survived the trip back to the main building and I somehow got the pictures hung. I would be lying if I said I didn’t enjoy the face the director made when she saw the display. Really though, what could she say? This was all her idea. The display was up for a month and every day I walked out of the office, there was the painting. Right. There. The resident artist was overjoyed and was eager to discuss scheduling a show of all her work. I wondered if I’d get caught if I raided the happy hour cart or if I could plead just cause.

All of this considered, I’d rather be doing hostage-style negotiations with someone who isn’t three feet tall and clearly thinks I’m about to steal her best Muppet-fur jacket. Or get through a story hour that doesn’t go as planned. I’m not hanging out the back of a golf cart with a nude painting. Perspective.