Not Sherry

It was late at night on September 19th when my mom slipped away from this world. She was 81 years old. Three days shy of her 82nd birthday. We had been waiting for it, actually wanting Jesus to take her, releasing her from the pain that was tormenting her. It was curious how I could want something for her, and yet be so afraid of it, and what it meant.

A year and a half ago my mom was diagnosed with Non-Hodgkins Lymphoma. My sisters and I knew then that she would not fight it with anything other than a sheer force of will. The three of us accepted her decision, and came to terms, each in our own way with what that meant.

In that time it became easy to pretend nothing was wrong, as life seemed to go on as usual, and then suddenly Mom became tired, really tired. She complained of pain that went beyond her normal arthritis, and she couldn’t pinpoint what hurt. She retreated more often to bed, and I took to searching for answers online. This had to be the cancer, and it was.

Overnight she made the decision to enter into Hospice. My heart skipped a beat as I read the requirements, “…terminal illness, when taking its normal course, would likely end in death within 6 months”. Okay, time to get my ducks in a row and get to Arizona. I suspected we would lose her somewhere close to Christmas. What I didn’t expect was that in fact, we had a week!

It all happened so quickly! There was no delay! She entered Hospice one day, and then fell twice the next, which required assistance from 911. The following day she moved into my older sister’s house, and that same day I got the call that I needed to come. Two days later I was there. That morning she had gotten up, with help, and then received “Last Rites”. The church doesn’t call it that anymore. Technically it’s called the “Anointing of the Sick”, but when you have cancer, and you’ve progressed to Hospice, we call it what it is, “Last Rites”, and it meant this was serious! By the time I arrived at the house, just after noon on Saturday, she no longer had the strength to get out of bed.

My sisters and I were blessed. We spent the next couple of days talking to Mom, and she to us. It was a struggle for her, but we were able to share memories, laugher, and tears; each of us saying goodbye in our own way. We bathed her, fed her, gave her fluids, and medication. And with each day a little more of her slipped away; one foot in two different worlds.

We meticulously gave her pain medication. Carefully recording each dose. Increasing it each day, until finally we were increasing it by the hours. We gently massaged her feet, her head, her hands, because our touch, no matter how light, would elicit a grimace of pain. Our goal of keeping her pain free was out of our hands, but we did the very best we could. Cancer, such a heartless beast!

However, in those six days we gave Mom the best gift we could ever give her. She died how she wanted. She was at home, with her three daughters by her side. Her hospital bed in the family room where we sat, talked, ate, prayed…all the things you normally would do as a family. We physically and spiritually took care of her. We gave her 100% of ourselves, until Thursday night, at 11:00 p.m. when she took her final step from this world into the next.

And now I’m in a dense fog. I can’t focus. I have no energy. Every task makes me feel like I’m walking in quicksand. My feet being sucked from beneath me. I’m having anxiety attacks. I cry a lot, feel out of control, and oh so sad. This is the darkness of grief. Grief will not be cheated. It will not be ignored. I cannot hide. I am forced to face it head on. In time I will move through it, for grief is a desert to cross, not a place to live. I will never get over losing my mom, just like I never got over losing my dad 17 years ago. But to honor them, I will get on with it, and continue to live as long as I’m alive.

On our way to our daughter’s house we drive by several soccer fields. This time of year we begin seeing those fields occupied by children of varying ages, along with their parents cheering them on, as they run up and down kicking a soccer ball toward one goal or the other. It reminds us of a time gone by when our kids were young, and our Saturdays were not our own, but predestined by the game of soccer!

We didn’t mind that our kids played soccer. They were having fun. The exercise was good. The skills they learned were valuable from just the gameplay, to the sportsmanship. The first season was fun. The second season was fun, but I’m pretty sure by the third season I was over it!

First of all, both Ben and Mariah played, which meant two games every Saturday. And it wasn’t just the games. It was the practices too. There was at least one practice, sometimes two a week, multiplied by two kids, and before we even got to the weekend I’d been observing some form of soccer four times already! Saturday games sometimes overlapped, which meant Kim and I had to split up, taking two cars to town, so that I could attend one, and he the other, or simply so one of us could leave one game in the middle to get the other child to their game. After game “snacks” required a schedule, so that all moms took a turn at providing something for the team, plus their siblings. You can’t give a popsicle to a child on the team, but not to their brother and sister watching. The anxiety of always worrying whether you would have enough for every child who showed up at the cooler was more stress than I needed on any given Saturday.

Kim coached Ben’s team one year. He was great at it, because for him it was simply a game, and his goal was for the kids to have fun. When the opposing team’s coach came out with a white board, drawing diagrams to show his seven year old superstars plays before the game, Kim rose to the occasion and taught the boys a chant! I don’t remember if they won or lost, but I do remember they enjoyed yelling that chant at the top of their lungs.

Ben and Mariah played for years. I don’t know if they did it because they liked the game, or because their friends played, or because there seemed to be this implied expectation that you were suppose to play soccer in the fall, and then again in the spring if you were really serious. That “really serious” part only happened once, thank goodness! They only played on the Parks & Recreation teams. Kim and I were not interested in them joining a traveling team, though the parental pressure to do so was strong. “If they want to play in high school they have to play on a competitive team now!” Those kids lived and breathed soccer, and so did their parents. Those kids also hosted a Mother’s Day Tournament which lasted “all” weekend. The moms said it was fun, because the dads would set up camp stoves near the field and make pancakes for the moms. If Kim wanted to cook breakfast for me, good for him, but on Mother’s Day it better not involve me having to drag myself out of bed early, get dressed, and balance pancakes and syrup on my lap, as I sit in a camp chair in the middle of a soccer field, scarfing them down quickly, as they rapidly become cold in the chill of morning mountain air! I don’t care how those moms would spin it, I wasn’t convinced, and truly, I don’t think they were either.

By the time Ben was in the 8th grade he decided he was done with soccer. While I asked the obligatory, “Are you sure?”, inside I was cheering “Yes, yes, yes!”, and doing a happy dance! Mariah decided she was done as well. Thank goodness! Now Saturdays could be Saturdays. We could have a plan for the day, or just roll with it. Free at last! Free at last!

So fast forward to the present. We’ve informed our kids that if they want to enroll their kids to play soccer that is their business, but MeeMaw and Paw would not be attending every Saturday morning game. Don’t ask, it is not going to happen, and we refuse to feel guilty. We will make a few games during the season. A specific number to be determined by Kim and I when the time comes. Besides, in Florida who knows how long soccer season is. This isn’t snow country. You can play year-round here, God forbid! We are not bad grandparents. We try to attend as many things that our grandkids are involved in as possible. There’s swimming lessons, gymnastics, Gymboree, and preschool activities, but we can’t be there all the time, and truthfully we probably shouldn’t be. This is their time. We did our time. Er, um, I mean, we had our time.

 

 

 

What is the deal with public restrooms? Who designs those things? I’ve been in upscale restaurants and museums where they are quite nice; very comfortable, above and beyond useful, but all I really care about is that they work, and they’re reasonably clean. Well, maybe that isn’t quite true. User friendly might be considered when someone, whoever they are, designs them.

I can only speak of women’s restrooms, as I have no experience in the men’s room, but I have a few helpful suggestions. I realize we are talking about maximum occupancy in a small space, but come on people! You shouldn’t have to be Flat Stanley, or in this case, Flat Sandy in order to use the facilities. I was in one recently that I had to literally lift my leg up and over the toilet in order to make enough room to open the door, so I could get out.  I am not tall, more of a Hobbit than an Amazon, so this is tricky. I’m not sure a seven year old girl could actually squeeze by this door, but even with the acrobatics, I still had to wedge myself between the stall door and the wall, pushing and pulling, and holding my breath to get by. I know I’m not alone. I’ve seen other women performing this maneuver from time to time as well. We all laugh at the ridiculousness of it all, but it’s frustrating more than funny, and so unnecessary.

As for the door only clearing the toilet by one and a half inches, I have two suggestions. Make the stall deeper, which I have seen, so there is actually enough room for an average adult to walk in, turn around, and close the door. The other option, if there isn’t enough room, have the door open out! Now there is a concept! Rarely does anyone ever bolt out of a restroom stall so fast as to knock over anyone standing nearby, unless it’s overflowing, and then everyone is running. And by the way, if you are standing that near to a stall door, you shouldn’t be, so back up!!

My second pet peeve is the toilet paper roll, or rather the industrial size holder. You know the one; big, black, circular plastic thingamajig that holds 4 or 5 rolls of toilet paper. I appreciate the attention to quantity, but placement leaves me baffled. They are always placed at shoulder height. Why? That means that you must pull your shoulders in while using the facilities, because there is no room for them, leaving minimal clearance for any movement right or left. You are sandwiched, especially if it’s a particularly narrow stall! Here it would be advantageous to be a 10 year old girl the size of a pencil.

How hard could it be to place the toilet paper dispenser say, slightly above head level of the average person? We have arms you know. Reaching up for toilet paper can be just as easy, possibly easier than reaching down. With your shoulders pinned as if in a strait jacket, you only have the rotational use of your hand, along with a very slight movement in your forearm to actually reach the toilet paper.  Even head level would work, but shoulder level appears to be someone’s idea of a solo twister game.

Attention architects! Don’t keep doing something just because it’s always been done that way, or just because you can. Why don’t you actually use the restrooms you design, and see if you still think it was a brilliant idea!?  I have no idea how mothers can manage to get themselves, along with one or two small children, into a single stall while shopping, or traveling alone. Unless of course, their names are Candy, Stanley and Sandy, all members of the Flat family.

It’s been awhile since I’ve written a book, yet after more than a few starts and stops, “Mom do you have time to do….”, and “Sheri, when you get a chance can you…”, and then there’s that nasty interruption of a “real job”, which I only do part time, but still it’s a day not writing. And if I’m honest, there’s the days I’m just too lazy to write. Nevertheless, I finally got this one finished. It’s available at Amazon on Kindle, and in paperback if you prefer. You can access it by title, or my name. I do hope you enjoy it.    

“Where Was I Going?” is a short story taken out of the pages of my own life, told to you as if we were enjoying a cup or two of coffee in your living room. I take you on my journey, however one that is familiar to all parents. The kids are growing up, and it’s time to give them wings. It’s an exciting time, but there is a sadness as well.

Watching them fly means parents get let behind, and mothers especially can wonder, where was I going before I got here? If you are a parent, you can relate. If you are an adult with children of your own, you will hear the clock ticking. Whether or not you have children, you will come to better understand what your parents went through when you left to make your own mark on the world.

In this book I tell of my own emotional surrendering of a time gone by all to quickly. I weave the tale of the search for colleges, and two separate cross-country trips with my kids when they were college bound. I share with you the adventures we had on the road, the vastly different landscapes, and the diverse cultures we encountered along the way.

The story is sometimes humorous, yet you’ll feel the underlying sadness, and raw emotions that rise and fall along with the passing terrain, for every day we drew nearer to our destination. As the ticking of the clock grew louder, I wrestled with wanting to hold on, yet knowing that I must let go, and seek out my own path.

It’s been many years since this life voyage took place. My kids have long since completed college, began careers, and now have families of their own. The emotions I felt then are hushed, yet still entangled in my heart, woven into the very fabric of who I am. Every step we take in this life leads to another, and then another, so “Where Was I Going?”

 

My husband, Kim, and I were tasked with contacting the Social Security Administration on behalf of his mother. They had sent a letter stating that they didn’t have a current address. They didn’t say a current address for what? Her residence? They sent the letter to her residence. The bank where they have always sent her check? That didn’t change, but they didn’t specify. What they were specific about was that she wouldn’t be getting her social security check until they got that address.

Okay, no problem. We’ll give them a call and get this straightened out. What I didn’t realize was that we were out of our league. We were dealing with a government agency. You remember them? People assigned to work for the people, of the people, and by the people. Right now I’m not even sure they are people!

Naively we called the number provided on the letter. Of course it was automated with two options. We could say the name of the person we were trying to contact, or dial their extension. Nobody signed the letter, and there was no extension listed, but it did clearly say we could call them. We figured if we didn’t do anything the system would be forced to connect us with a person. We figured wrong! It was just an endless loop letting us know of our two options and there was not a third.

Knowing there was more than one way to skin a cat, as they say, I went to their website and found the “Contact Us” option. There I was told they don’t publish the numbers of your local social security office. Why not? Why all the secrecy? What are they working on? This isn’t Area 51 stuff! This is our social security! You know, the little card that allows you to get a job. The agency that takes money out of your paycheck so you can get it back when you retire. Unless of course, you can’t reach them to validate your address, which as you recall, they already have!

Options narrowing, I chose the generic 800 number. Again we were greeted by automation, but this one was hopeful as we were told the call would be monitored. That’s a good indication that at some time we would talk to a human. After stating the reason for our call to the computer, we were told that our wait time for an agent would be approximately 28 minutes! Good thing we don’t have a life! There was a choice to leave our name and number and we would be called back. That sounded more sane.

An hour later we did receive a call back. The computer told us to stay on the line and we’d be connected to an agent. An agent promptly came on the line, or at least I think it was an agent. It was a series of clipped static. You know the kind you’d imagine you’d be receiving if you were communicating with someone on Pluto! This went beyond a bad connection. It wasn’t continuous static, but static where obviously words should have been. Kim kept telling them that he couldn’t hear them; letting them know all we could hear was static, and they needed to call back. Yet the alien static continued in response. We had no idea if they could hear us, but assumed they could not because Kim kept repeating his request for them to call back; that their message was nothing but static, and yet the transmissions continued. He hesitated to hang up for fear they would not call back, but he had no choice. Before Kim could terminate the call on our end we heard the computer come back on the line, asking him to stay on the line to answer survey questions about our call with them today. I nearly flew out of my chair trying to stop Kim from hanging up. I thought at least we could leave a dissatisfied survey, but Kim has no patience for foolishness. He hung up, yet it was impossible not to laugh at the absurdity of it all.

In case you were wondering, there was no call back, though we waited for it. Instead Kim called again in order to get back in line to talk to someone. This time the automated computer asked for his name, the social security number he was calling about, and the reason for his call once again. After Kim gave it to the computer he was informed, “All agents are busy at this time. Please call back”, and with that he was disconnected! If it wasn’t so serious, it would be funny.

Ronald Reagan said the most terrifying words in the English language are, “I’m from the government and I’m here to help.” I’m sure about the first part. They are from the government, but here to help? Not likely. So, now what? I don’t know. We can’t seem to get by the computerized centurion at the gate. However, we are not without skills and Yankee ingenuity. It might be time to mobilize the forces and storm the gates. When we do, I wonder “who” or “what” we’ll find behind the curtain of, “Leave your name and number. We’ll call you back”.

 Returning to Naples, after a weekend in Melbourne, we were greeted on the freeway by some serious reminders that we had quietly slipped into June and with it, the beginning of hurricane season! You have to appreciate Florida. If you aren’t prepared for the possibility of a showdown with Mother Nature you have either been procrastinating or in a coma! These signs, normally designated for important travel information are now being used as big bold reminders of things to come!

I do stay alert with a daily check of the National Hurricane Center website. I confess, though, that I am behind on getting that hurricane kit stocked up. It is on the “Must Do” list for this weekend, when once again the toy bin for the grandkids is transformed into a container, not for Play Doh and Lincoln Logs, but peanut butter, tuna fish, flashlights, and batteries. The toys will take up new residence in the laundry hamper, and the laundry will have to move to a basket. Cases of water and Gatorade will be stacked in the lanai with hopes that we will sail through until the end of November without so much as a tropical storm to show for it. Only then will the extra food and water be consumed until next June when we start all over again.

Knowing that in 2017 we had a plan that went to Hell in a hand-basket, this season we’ll have a plan, a backup plan, and a back up to the back up. From afar it’s easy to say, “Get out!”, but in execution that isn’t always easy. Unless you’re retired you can’t just pick up and go at the first threat of a hurricane coming your way, but you can prepare to evacuate. Most of us have to wait, plan our escape, and then hope there is enough fuel along the way to actually get out, and a refuge to go to once you do. You might be like my neighbor, and lucky enough to get on the last flight out before they close the airports. If all that blows away in the wind, like it did for us in 2017 with Irma, not because of poor planning, but because of a baby, you have no choice, but to batten the hatches and hunker down with those large bins of non-perishable food, cases of water, and prayer.

Florida isn’t the only place to get hit by the fury of Mother Nature, and hurricanes aren’t the only weapons in her arsenal. We’ve all seen this past year just what she can do when peeved; mortifying fires in the west, horrendous flooding in the heartland, and  devastating tornadoes of the midwest. Mother Nature can unleash a ferocity of energy second to none. Wherever you live, whatever you face, all you can do is prepare for the worst, hope for the best, and be alert.

I plan to add pen and paper to my kit this year, so I can jot down all the things I “wish” I had, but don’t when disaster strikes. In the aftermath of recovery the brain seems to shut down all non-essential systems, and suddenly you can no longer remember those things that during the storm you said, “I wish I had….”. This year, I plan to be prepared for a brain freeze! And thankfully this season, nobody is expecting a baby!

God bless us all!

I just received notice on my iPad that my screen time was up 48 percent from last week. Hmmm, I do not remember adding an app to my iPad allowing it to monitor my screen time. Did I hire a nanny? No I did not! Who does my iPad think it is overseeing just how much screen time I have used, and whether that’s a good idea or not? It’s not even a “who”. It’s a “what”! I’m pretty sure at my age I can make that decision for myself. Who is it going to tell if I ignore its nosiness, my mother?

When did our devices decide to insert themselves into our decision-making? I thought they were tools for us to use, much like any other tool in our life, such as a mop, a shovel, a hammer, a broom, and the like. I don’t recall any of those tools giving me any feedback about how much I’ve used them in the last week. The shovel and hammer are normally ignored, and the mop and broom get more than their fair share of the chore detail, yet I have heard no lip from them. 

My computer and my iPad are linked, so what I do on one is recognized by the other. I work online. I use the computer to write my book, I’m employed to score standardized tests online, and I write a blog. You can see that the computer is a huge part of my life. Right now I’m making the final push to publish my latest book. It’s also the middle of the school testing season, so I spend eight hours a day online reading student papers and scoring them. Because of that I suppose my screen time this last week has increased. Has anyone else been admonished by their device that they are spending too much time at work? I didn’t think so.

Then it gets a little schizophrenic. I get the message that my screen time has increased, followed by a reminder that my NotSherry readers haven’t heard from me in a while. “You might want to write something.” Well, what do you want you crazy little machine!? You want me to write online, or go to the beach? Make up your mind!

I am being badgered by HAL! You remember him. That ever watching, conniving computer from 2001 Space Odyssey. Last night Kim and I were discussing getting a new mattress, and the next thing you know, this morning on Facebook I had several ads for mattress choices. He doesn’t have a Facebook account. I do. I wasn’t searching on Facebook for a mattress. I wasn’t actually searching at all. He was, but on his phone. Exactly who is listening….all the time?

Watch yourself my dear, sweet little iPad. Mind your own business, or I’ll turn you off, and then what are you going to do?

Just some advice. Don’t ever buy anything that says, “unscented” on it. I made that mistake and discovered that there is no such thing as “unscented”. All that label means is they didn’t add a scent to it. I thought, well that might be good, not to be overpowered by an added scent. So, I bought it.

I’m talking about hairspray here. I don’t care how you feel about hairspray.  I live in Florida and I need it! Most women, perhaps men too, suffer from crazy curly hair in humidity. Me, just the opposite. I look like a half-drowned puppy, so a little hairspray to keep my bangs from drooping into my eyes like an English Sheepdog is necessary. But unscented hairspray doesn’t mean you smell nothing. It means you smell just the ingredients they put in it. So I looked. Just what am I smelling, because it smells awful!!!

First is water. That’s probably not the culprit. The second ingredient is Dimethyl Ether. Ether! Isn’t that the stuff they use in spy movies to knock someone out? Actually, that might be the offender. I did a little checking. That’s the propellant in aerosols, but it’s also the stuff that makes up biofuels. A little heads up on that would have been good! Unscented would mean I smell like gas! Then there is a long list of other stuff I have no idea what it is, and unless you’re a chemist, neither do you.

Toward the lower third of the list is, “Fragrance”. Well, that’s a little vague and since it is clearly printed on the front of the can, “Unscented”, why is one of the ingredients, “Fragrance”? Is fragrance even an ingredient? According to the dictionary, Fragrance is the quality of having a pleasant scent. I don’t think “quality” and “ingredient” are interchangeable words. And if the maker of this so-called “Fragrance” thinks it is in any way pleasant, they have serious sinus issues!

Way down at the bottom of the list we have White Lily Bulb Extract, Green Tea Leaf Extract, and Rice Protein. Okay, I don’t know if this combination just smells bad, or there is really not enough of them to push through the other 13 mystery ingredients to make a difference. Perhaps their presence here has something to do with hairspray, and not an attempt to add a scent to an unscented product. That’s what “Fragrance” was for.

When you buy anything from flowers, to fruit, to houseplants don’t you smell it first? Our sense of smell tells us we’re walking through a beautiful flower garden, or someone is having a barbecue. We can smell the aroma of pine needles warming in the sun, and salt in the ocean breeze. Smell also warns us of a fire, or a gas leak, or rotten eggs. So what made me think to buy unscented hairspray? From now on it’s nothing but rose, or lavender, or citrus, because unscented is really not unscented and smells more like that ethanol we talked about earlier, or perhaps worse, that mysterious “Fragrance”.

I am getting ready to publish another book and was looking through boxes of photographs for the ones I was hoping to use. Yes I said boxes. I have eight or nine photo albums, not including my wedding album, and the rest of my pictures are in plastic boxes. Some day I’ll get around to putting them in albums, or something better than just tossed in a box. I can also pretend I’m going to organize them, but probably not! If they get put in an album I’ll raise my arms in victory! However, the subject at hand is not organization, but identification.

Whoever said that a picture is worth a 1000 words did not anticipate boxes of photographs with nothing written on the back to identify where we are, or when we were there. Most of the time I could tell who it was of. Obviously I know my own children, though it would have been nice to know how old they were in the shot, instead of having to guess. I did run across a picture of a German shepherd that I have no idea who he is, or to whom he belongs. All I know is, he wasn’t mine.

Remember back to the days of film, which is why we have all these photos, Wal-Mart would offer double prints for the price of one. Great idea! The grandparents would love to have this picture! Perhaps, but probably not all 36 images on the roll! While looking through handfuls of snapshots I’m wondering if there wasn’t a mistake made, and Walmart actually printed quadruple pictures, or did we actually take four photos of our son and daughter singing the same verse, in the same song, in the same Christmas pageant? I swear I ran across a dozen images that were nearly identical! I could have culled through them and thrown the copies, and near copies away, but then what are my kids suppose to do when I die? This will make them wonder what craziness drove me to take so many pictures of exactly the same thing, and give them something to talk about. I’ll be sure to leave a note in the box, because you know that’s exactly where they are going to be, letting them know their dad was the one with the camera. Blame him!

But, it really wasn’t pictures of people that was the huge problem, it was the scenery pictures. With nothing written on the back, mountains are mountains unless they are extremely identifiable, like the Grand Teton, Half Dome, or Everest! A mountain meadow is a mountain meadow, and if you think they look different in Colorado, Utah, Wyoming, France, or Italy, you would be wrong! It doesn’t end there. Beaches are just as bad. Now there is a little hint that comes with beaches. If the water is a blue-green you are probably looking at white sand in shallow water, so Florida, the Bahamas, or the Caribbean. If the water is dark blue it’s probably California, or Hawaii. Waves most likely indicate ocean, and flat probably a bay, or the Gulf. However, I caution everyone on the use of such words as always and never, because there are “always” exceptions to “every” rule and you could really be looking at anywhere in the world.

So, here I am with three boxes of “Where was that taken?”, and “When was that taken?”, along with “Why are there 25 pictures of my kids diving into their grandmother’s pool?”. Digital may help, but if my phone is any indication, probably not. I flipped through the other day and saw six pictures of my granddaughter sitting in the rocking chair we gave her for Christmas, and another four of my grandson reading a book. Which ones should I delete? None of them! They’re adorable! Now, to figure out how to add not a 1000 words, but perhaps 3…Who, when, and where.

Have you ever been shopping for a dress, or a T-shirt only to look at the size and find these words, “One Size Fits All”? Well first of all, that’s a lie! You don’t need to be in the fashion industry to know that there is no way one garment is going to fit everyone from a size 2 to a size 18. I don’t care how much spandex and lycra you put in it. What it means is that the people on both ends of the sizing spectrum are either going to be drowning in folds of fabric, or trying to squeeze into two constricting bands someone calls yoga pants! Either way, both are left gasping for air! I believe “One Size Fits All” is a euphemism for “One Size Fits Next To No One”!

My daughter recently suffered a severe ankle sprain. We were advised to get her a lace up brace from the local drugstore. I sent my husband, Kim, out to snag one. When he returned I asked him what size he got. He said it’s, “One Size”. Uh huh, we’ll see about that.

Mariah has been blessed with her dad’s bones. They are not big people, but their bones are solid! You could snap my bones like a twig, but Mariah and Kim, well you’d have to run over their ankles with a truck to break them, so I was skeptical, at best, with this “One Size” moniker. When we opened the package I noticed an immediate problem. You could loosen the brace, to a certain extent, but the support band that went under the arch…that was one piece. In order to put it on you had to point your toes, slide them in, and then tug it the rest of the way onto your foot. Only then could you adjust the rest of the brace. Did I mention that Mariah had severely “sprained” her ankle? She wouldn’t let you touch it, let alone tug on it, and she couldn’t point her toes. Furthermore, I couldn’t get my foot into that “One Size” brace. I have a narrow, size 5 foot! If it wouldn’t fit me, how would it fit an average size man, let alone an average size woman’s foot? No, it was not for a child. I checked! It went back!

Recently I noticed a change in this vague sizing language. Instead of “One Size Fits All”, many of those tags now read, “One Size Fits Most”. Great! Now they’ve moved from lying to insulting. If it doesn’t fit you’re not even in the “most” group. No wonder so many of us have self esteem issues.

I decided this isn’t my problem. It’s an industry that has become lazy and has settled for “most” as good enough. People come in all shapes and sizes. We are all uniquely our own in personality, attitude, abilities, and even the way we look. Some of us are tall, some short, some thin, some curvy. So why then does an industry that should understand that more than anyone, insist on ignoring the most obvious things that make us different?

Who started this insanity? It was the sock industry! It all started with, “Fits shoe size 4-9”! Really?