I’m sort of crotchety. I imagine that one day when I’m a ripe senior citizen I will fully be allowed to celebrate my crotch-iness. I’ll be able to openly complain to the produce man about how grape bags never zip. Why put a zipper on them? And seconds after my rant, I’ll tell him about my bad bladder. When I shuffle away, he’ll mumble “Oh that crusty old Mrs. Ray.” And shake his head like people do towards salty old people. The neighborhoods kids will run past my door to avoid my negative ramblings about shitty fundraisers. I feel like a seasoned old crotchety woman trapped in a mid-thirties body. One day, I’ll be able to be authentic to the core. God willing, I’ll get my day.
The PTA at the boys’ school put on a craft fair. Yes, I’m crafty, but am I really someone who does craft fairs? No! I don’t have a stash of products. I didn’t prepare even though I was laid-off and had months of notice. But I should participate… “Wanna split a table?” one friend asked. “Ok. I can handle that.” I spent a week thinking I could muster up some products. Fabric was pulled and the machine set-up. A few were made, but dread set in. “I can’t. I just can’t.” I responded.
Another woman asked and we settled on a three woman table. The name Misfits was thrown out and there you go. But I still bitched and moaned about making products. I dragged my feet on finishing items. Didn’t prep any products. Got crotchety about spending my Friday night setting up and all-day Saturday at the craft fair. My inner salty old hag reared her head.
Shame on me. I should know better.
I spent Friday night with the hardest working women I know. I spent all day Saturday with the same hardest working women. I was able to chew off a teacher’s ear about Coop and didn’t even make an appointment. I watched my kids roam the hall with their good friends. I met their new friends. I discussed homebirth plans. I bought a new bread crock that I can’t wait to use. I sold some stuff. Once again I realized that not all PTA members are brimming with perfect Momminess and unicorn piss. Didn’t have to parent for a very long stretch. I knew I’d get an afternoon nap. I gossiped, laughed, and talked all day. The early wake up on a Saturday was rough. Tear down is never fun, but it was a great fundraising day.
My inner crotchety senior citizen is louder than my realist middle aged woman. Because the latter would have said, “Listen you old hag, it will be fine and it’s for the kids! Quit your bitching.” Because in the end, it happened exactly the way I figured it would. I knew I’d have a great time. I knew 8-3:30 would fly by and would be filled with good times. I knew this day would unfold with the warmth and spice our community brings each time it rallies. I knew I’d be reminded that we’re really lucky to be apart of it all.
2 :: 30
Like another PTA member said: I found the right PTA. (I think someone had jokingly told her to Fuck off) The name Misfits just fits.
**I’m not proofing this cause I’m tired. Don’t bring missed words to my attention, Mark Ray.