On a cloudy day, you can see forever

On a drive down I-65 toward downtown Indianapolis one day, I spotted a panoramic sky view to the left. The sunrise had left some lingering color, and the cloud formation looked like those windswept sand ridges you see on desert sand. Right in the middle of those cirrus formations was a huge glob of cumulus fluff.

This cloud glob stood out against the rest of the sky as if designed to be showcased, and I couldn’t resist the urge to make a Rorschach interpretation – deciding it looked like a seal with flippers down for balance and nose in the air as if ready to balance a ball.

I admit I was pleased with myself for coming up with such a whimsically accurate figure. The more I looked at the cloud sculpture, the more clearly it couldn’t be interpreted as anything else. It was dead on.

However, as I drove through an overpass and the road curved a little, I noticed the big cloud had morphed into the shape of a large sea lion, in pretty much the same position.

Amazing scenic wonder, I thought, then looked away.

A few minutes later I looked back, and the cloud had become a great white shark, half thrust from the watery depths in a shark version of a roar. I stared in wonder.

Eventually I had to look at the road again (for you see, I was supposed to be driving) but when I looked back again, it had changed to yet another shape, this time from shark to a bottle nose dolphin – there was clearly now a bulging forehead behind a long thin snout.

The driver ahead of me made an unexpected lane change and forced my attention back to the business of manning my automobile. Thus startled into road safety, I went a few miles down the road before I remembered to look back at the cloud mass – which was now completely on the other side of the road, and was most definitely the shape of a schnauzer.

I was getting very close to the downtown area by this point, and knew I would soon have to permanently turn my attention away from the cloud to navigate the various lane changes and exits ahead. In my last glance, though, I discovered two things about the extraordinary cloud mass: Number One – it was now a roaring T-Rex with a goatee; and Number Two – it was not a cloud at all, but rather a large belching mass from some factory smokestack.

For a split second I was embarrassed by my silly, sentimental misinterpretation of “nature’s” amazing beauty. But then I remembered everything was okay because I was in the car all by myself – in the only place on earth I can safely be a rock star. That meant no one else ever had to know (at least until I published it).

In the next second I was giggling at mankind's universal dorkiness. Who hasn’t been caught red-handed being high-handed?

And thus self-comforted, I ended up being 15 minutes late for my meeting because I’d been fiddling with the radio to find the 80s station, and was too busy belting out a song by Pat Benatar to notice I’d missed my exit.

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Boot Hill only for the well-shod

From that unquestionably sound source of web-based fact collection (Wikipedia), “Boot Hill” is described thus:

“Although many towns use the name ‘Boot Hill’, the first graveyard named ‘Boot Hill’ was at Dodge City, Kansas. The term alludes to the fact that many of its occupants were cowboys who ‘died with their boots on.’”

I imagine that will be me. Dying with my boots on. Not because I plan to lose a shoot-out (although anything is possible) but because I am boot crazy.

Today I am wearing boots. Yesterday I wore them. And the day before that. Different boots (obviously for different moods).

My husband does not understand my desire for so many pairs (although as far as indulgences go, he kind of digs this one). On the other hand, if he was thinking we would be able to retire – ever – then I suppose he might wish I were less of a booty spendthrift.  (And that’s even before he finds out about the awesome pair of slouch styled distressed leather lovelies that are waiting a decent interval in my closet to be introduced for Spring…)

But here’s the deal: I like seeing other people in boots – I like wearing them. Biker, cowboy, equestrian, Wellies, hiking, even those ubiquitous Ugg things. When you pull on a pair of boots, you’re pulling on a posture and a certain je ne sais quoi – not to mention the ability to wade through miles of metaphorical bullsh*t. Boot wearing is a total attitude cop. It’s all about your own personal brand, because the style you wear says as much about you as the car you drive. (And in some cases, costs nearly the same.)

When I was in grade school, I remember thinking I would die a little inside every day if I didn’t get a pair of crinkly patent-leather “go-go” boots. When I finally got them, it didn’t matter that they sloshed loosely around my slim little calves – I was ROCKING THOSE BOOTS.

The same thing sorta happens when I slip on my totally authentic cowboy boots (actually purchased within sight of an Arizona mesa) and I’ll admit there are times I can be a bit of a handful because of this, albeit a joyful one.

So, yeah, it’s just possible I may die with my boots on – qualified, as it were, to be buried in a Boot Hill Cemetery. That’s because the world is a kickier place when I am in boots, and when life offers such a scrumptious menu, I say order what you like. (That’ll be one more pair of boots, please – sauce on the side.)

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(Why not) Keep a civil tongue in your head!

I was going through a McDonald’s drive-through getting a much needed fully caffeinated soda and wondering why it was so crowded at 2:30 p.m. There were two lines backed up with several cars on both sides – that is, it was busy.

I placed my order and the disembodied voice told me the cost. I tossed out a perfunctory “thanks” – and despite the tons of transactions going on around me, the voice answered with, “My pleasure.”
  
My pleasure!

Two magic words.

For whatever reason, that little caboose comment made me feel simply… great. I said as much to my teenaged son, who was in the car with me. His reply: “Good manners.”

Two more magic words: Good Manners.

The beauty of having good manners is that it’s not a mood-based thing. You can feel perfectly awful and still practice being polite. (I call it being polite through gritted teeth.) Anyone who’s read or watched a Jane Austin story has seen the power of steely displeasure delivered with the velvet hammer of good manners.

And that’s the anti-negative side. On the positive side, your good manners can cause other people to feel… great. If you’re a nice person, that’s a good thing. If you’re not a particularly nice person, you can look at it as avoiding messy emotional reactions. If you’re a nasty person altogether, well this is entirely irrelevant. (And shame on you.)

The world just runs better oiled with a little civility. The practice is not only civil – it’s civic. It contributes to the greater good of the community. It keeps things on a higher, people-affirming plane. (If only our presidential candidates could read my blog!)

Like any learned behavior, it takes practice. I say learned because human beings are, by default, self-centered creatures. (You don’t have to teach little children how to be selfish – you do have to teach them how to share. One behavior comes naturally – the other is taught.) But learned behavior can become the default with enough practice – and manners are worth the effort. (Unlike reality TV, an acquired taste which is definitely NOT worth the effort. Not to mention one of the great enemies of good manners.)

Let’s say you disagree with someone. Very much. Vehemently, even. Well – that’s marvelous. Just do it in a mannerly fashion. Keep it civil so there is fruit. We never learn anything from people we agree with – right? On the other hand – we also rarely learn anything when there is much screaming and gnashing of teeth (often the result of bad manners). But to stay polite – to be civil – to practice good manners – well, that’s a lovely, humanity-building gift you can give out every time you say, “My pleasure.”

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