Jeneration X: One Reluctant Adult's Attempt to Unarrest Her Arrested Development; Or, Why It's Never Too Late for Her Dumb Ass to Learn Why Froot Loops Are Not for Dinner (3 page)

Strike three, Tour de Fat, thanks for trying.

Let’s see… would I like to build houses in Munster, Indiana, for eight hours?

Not with a fresh manicure, I wouldn’t.

Do I want to staff the gates at one of Chicago’s ubiquitous summer fests? Yeah, I’m over forty, flighty, and fluffy—I’d say I’m not ideal bouncer material.

Shall I call BINGO numbers at a local church? Pfft, if those BINGO participants are as vicious as I’ve seen portrayed on television, I’d be better off trying to talk local gang members into voluntarily disarming.

What else… oh, looks like I could teach homeless men to use the Internet through an urban ministry charity. The notion of this intrigues me, but I can’t quite get past my cynicism that the second I teach these guys to do a Google search they’re not heading for
ICanHasCheezburger.com
. This is probably the root of all those Nigerian prince e-mail scams, too. Teach a man to fish and he might just take the opportunity to steal all your lobster pots.

Hey, here’s one about “keeping current.” I quickly scan the description and I see that participants would be tasked with having engaging conversations about current events. Hey, I like current events! I like conversations! I’m engaging! I bet if I did this one, I could practice some of the higher-culture skills I learned for
My Fair Lazy
.

I jot down the contact information in order to sign up. I wonder, would I be working with kids or seniors? If it’s seniors, I’d be fascinated by their take on how the world differs today than when they were young. I bet I’d hear a lot of sentences start with, “In my day…”[
I’d award bonus points for any sentence that ended, “And stay off my lawn!”
] That would be totally enriching; I’m sure I’d get more out of the conversation than they would.

If it’s kids, then I’d have the chance to be the elder statesman and I could talk about what life was like when calculators were the size of bricks and we got only three TV stations (unless you counted public TV) (which I didn’t) and if you wanted to send your friend a message, you needed a pen, a spiral notebook, and the ability to do an origami fold.

I’m about to send the project coordinator an e-mail requesting to join in when I notice a few words I’d previously skimmed over. Turns out I wouldn’t be having these scintillating conversations with youth or the elderly. Apparently I’d be chatting up gentlemen just released from
prison.
And this takes place in a halfway house, so their participation is likely involuntary. Suddenly this doesn’t sound like such a great idea.

To be fair, maybe these conversations are totally beneficial to the ex-cons and perhaps they can’t fully mainstream back into society without being able to connect with regular people. I bet having the civilian perspective helps them right the thought processes that led them down the wrong path in the first place. Yet I know myself well enough to say I’d be far too uncomfortable around these men and that the interchange wouldn’t benefit any of us. Plus, I’d probably try to cross-examine them about their past crimes in order to better judge them, because even though I’ve made the conscious decision to become an adult, that doesn’t preclude me from being an asshole.

Moving on.

Now, hey, this one’s right up my alley.
“Come be surprised by how much joy an animal can bring into someone else’s day. The XY Senior Center is a facility for seniors and other residents who need skilled nursing care. Pairs of volunteers make the rounds with a
friendly cat or dog to socialize with residents in individual rooms. Volunteers without pets can pair up with pet owners.”

Yes! Score! Ding ding ding! I’ve finally found a use for my menagerie! Perfect! I love the idea of having old folks connect with animals. Pets are so therapeutic, at least when they’re not vomiting in one’s shoes[
Tucker.
] or climbing the curtains[
Gus.
] or whizzing on the leg of the pool table because it vaguely resembles a tree trunk.[
Loki.
] I mean, when I’m stressed or sad, nothing in the world makes me feel better than spooning Maisy, feeling her scratchy paintbrush fur against my cheek and inhaling her eau de corn chip scent.

Years ago when I worked for an HMO, I had a few peripheral dealings with nursing homes. All the best ones included pet therapy programs. Lots of places even had big, docile dogs and sweet-natured cats who lived in the facilities; they made such a difference in the residents’ lives.

I absolutely adore the idea of bringing the elderly and pets together. But given the nature of my pets, I wonder if I shouldn’t try to pair up with someone? Maybe I should ask.

I copy down the contact information and shoot the organizer a quick e-mail.

I send my e-mail and await confirmation.

Which never comes.

Damn.

As always, my friend Stacey is a willing partner in crime, which is why I’m able to rope her into an Indianapolis road trip. We’re going to an event with the GlamourGals Foundation, a nonprofit whose mission is to inspire and organize teens to provide complimentary makeovers to elderly women living in senior homes. Julia Porter, the Director of Programs, has been incredibly helpful in guiding me to various volunteer opportunities, so when I have the chance to repay the favor, I’m all over it.

We spend our day giving manicures and makeovers to the elderly residents and within five minutes, I can tell what a valuable program this is. When you’re holding someone else’s hand or touching her face, it creates an instant bond and an intimacy that you won’t find in a garden-variety conversation.

The thing about the elderly is they don’t dick around with a lot of social niceties. No time for that. So I can’t help but appreciate when one of the ladies grills Stacey on her marital status.

“Are you married?” Stacey’s elderly manicure client asks.

“No, but I’m dating someone exclusively,” Stacey replies.

“Are you shacking up?” I have to stop rouging my gal’s cheeks because I have to clap my hand over my mouth to keep from snorting.

Stacey smiles patiently. “We don’t live together.”

“Why not? Time’s a-wasting.”

And then I die laughing until she turns to me and asks why I don’t have kids.

However, these ladies’ ability to be blunt and articulate exactly what they want and need is why I believe this is such an amazing
program. I feel like kids today have trouble expressing themselves, particularly when they can’t hide behind tweets and text messages, and knowing there’s a cadre of outspoken old ladies in hot pink lipstick forcing them outside their comfort zone makes me weep a little less for the future.[
Please go to
GlamourGals.org
if you’d like to help this amazing organization.
]

Unfortunately, with the
My Fair Lazy
book tour coming up and the out-of-town locale, I’m not able to get to other events, so I search for opportunities closer to home.

Stacey and her family volunteer every year at the Glass Slipper Project, a nonprofit organization that gives away free prom dresses and accessories to high school juniors and seniors in the Chicago area. This is another one that makes my heart smile. If
Pretty in Pink
taught us anything, it’s that no girl should ever miss her prom, Blaine. Except Molly Ringwald’s dress was tragic so I’m particularly on board with the idea of needy young ladies receiving a new or gently used dress so they don’t have to bust out their sewing machines.

A few days before the event Stacey calls me.

“What size do you wear?” she asks.

I already dislike where this is going. “Why?”

“Because I need to know what size T-shirt to get you for the Glass Slipper Project.”

I feel a quick whoosh of relief. “Oh, no, thanks. I don’t want a shirt.” In my brief tenure as a professional volunteer thus far, I’ve learned that the shirts are kind of a status symbol. Everyone shows up to volunteer in T-shirts advertising other charities where they’ve worked, kind of like concert tees, only for do-gooding. It’s like
everyone’s trying to one-up another;
I see your 5K Fun Run for MS tee and I’ll raise you one Half Marathon for Habitat for Humanity!
Personally, I choose to break the cycle of one-upmanship by forgoing the swag.

I’m excited about the day because it sounds like fun and Stacey says everyone’s always so happy. Last year she was a personal shopper, meaning she helped various girls find their dresses, accessories, makeup, etc. However, she says the best job is doing checkout because you get to see what everyone has picked, which may work for me because I’m more nosy than helpful. Mind you, I remember her story from a while back when one of her girls didn’t think to wear any undergarments—any,
at all
—and Stacey spent her day functioning as a human shield. So when she mentioned the checkout area was the only place with chairs and I wouldn’t have to see anyone naked, I was sold.

“Actually, you do. Everyone wears matching T-shirts to indicate who’s staffing the event. Kind of like they do at Target.”

Nooooooo! Wearing matching T-shirts is the first step towards donning a costume. I panic a little. “What if I don’t want to wear a stupid shirt?”

Stacey’s all matter-of-fact. “You have to wear the shirt in order to volunteer.”

But I’m having none of this. “You know who made people wear matching shirts?” I ask. “Nazis, that’s who.”

“Is this really an issue for you?”

I begin to break into panic sweat. “Absolutely! One day it’s matching T-shirts and the next it’s me and a bunch of other assholes dressed as Stormtroopers and Ewoks and Yodas and shit going to Comic-Con. Matching T-shirts are the gateway drug to all things Dungeons and Dragons. So, no. No shirt. No, sir. No, thank
you. I’m going to sit this one out.” Immaturity trumps altruism every time.

Every week Stacey and I meet our best girlfriends, Gina and Tracey, for lunch. To say that none of us suffers fools gladly would be an understatement, but no one quite takes this to the extent that Gina does. There’s a certain phrase that Gina reserves for the most obstinate, the most ridiculous, and the most frustrating among us. She reserves it for dire situations, like when dealing with a third-world call center. She’ll take whatever bullshit they spew and simply restates it so that whoever said it first can hear exactly how stupid they sound. Trouble’s afoot when you hear Gina begin a sentence with, “So what you’re telling me is…”

Stacey pauses a moment to collect her thoughts before she says, “So what you’re telling me is that you don’t want to help needy girls with their prom dresses because you’re afraid it will one day cause you to dress like C-3PO.”

I mull this over.

“I’ll take whatever size shirt you get.”

“All righty. See you on Saturday!”

10:15
P.M.
—Hmm, getting late. I should get ready for bed.

10:30
P.M.
—Hmm, getting even later. I should get ready for bed.

10:45
P.M.
—Someone on the Internet is mistaken and I must express my displeasure with many uppercase letters and exclamation points.

11:00
P.M.
—It’s really not getting any earlier, is it?

11:10
P.M.
—Nightly skin inspection in bathroom mirror. Not perfect, but not bad for my age/lifestyle/aversion to sunscreen.

11:11
P.M.
—Hey, what would happen if I used a magnifying mirror during my inspection?

11:12
P.M.
—SWEET JESUS, MAKE IT STOP!

11:13
P.M.
—Reinspect by light of bedside lamp. Ah, all better.