I should have listened
to Mrs. Sheridan. She tried to warn me. She told me NOT to do it. I didn’t heed the warning even though it blared loudly through the fog of the afternoon bake.
There she was, in all her glory, standing before me trying to gather my attention, just one more time. Home Economics, Wonder Woman, circa 1967. And again, there I am, the doting fourteen-year old, eagerly listening and equally ignoring her warnings. (You should have seen my sewing project. Others are in the midst of their second and third wardrobe additions and I’m over there trying to get the darts pointed in the same direction on a beautiful, olive green creation destined for the Good Will and a loving and forgiving recipient.)
Things weren’t easy. Well, wait a minute. Some folks worked magic in this class. I didn’t have time for petty jealousy, I was too busy trying to ride their coat tails in my effort to get a passing grade.
After all, failure ain’t pretty. Not everything can be trimmed with a paring knife and a heavy dose of frosting. (And then there are the lights. The camera. The action. Yeah. I know. I should have been listening in that class, too.)
I filled those cupcake tins over that two-thirds mark, imaginary as it is; I did it anyway!
When will I learn?
