Black Friday was such a bust as far as expectations go. Well… MY expectations. Don’t get me wrong, we made out with some great deals at Wal-Mart, but there was something lacking this year. I walked around and realized how eerily quiet and mellow it was. No waiting on the presumed eternal lines. There were NO lines. No bumper to bumper crowds to weed through. No satisfying high fives after scoring the last one on a hot item. In essence, there was no thrill in the hunt. Look! Black Friday is my one day out of the year that takes me back to my EXIT/TWILO/PACHA crowded and crazy younger self clubbing years. Well, sans the pounding music or the alcohol or the smoky air or the good-looking crowd. Whatever! My point being, is that I had an expectation and it wasn’t met. What a rip!
Here’s to lost expectations:
1. I expected my galoshes to work two-fold when I purchased them. Sure, they kept me dry today, but my toes were pure solid icicles. (My suede spiked heeled booties keep me warmer, but who can walk in those things?). Am I supposed to choose the lesser of both evils? Cold or wet? How? Why?! Why should I? Why?! No! I put my cold, cold foot down.
2. I expect to be able to cross the street once the “WALK” signal appears. That’s the rule. Why should I have to explain to the idiotic man in the car that almost hit me that he will have to wait his damned turn. Why should I have to point to the WALK signal as proof to his stupidity. I expect a cop to be around in moments like this and yet another lost expectation.
3. I expected to wear my nice black down winter coat in toasty comfort once the temperature dropped. Operative word here being “comfort”. Oh… I wore the coat. Since it’s the one I grabbed as I ran out the front door. Problem was the extra pounds I seem to have packed on during the summer. I was suffocating. I felt like that kid from A Christmas Story every time I needed the functionality of my arms when turning the steering wheel. And as if in telepathic conversation (yes, like Professor Charles Xavier) I kept mind-whispering to the seams “Please don’t rip, please don’t rip”.
4. When I leave work after a 12 hour day and make my way to the after-school daycare that houses my two lovely boys, I expect to walk in and be greeted with kool-aid smiles and hugs and wet kisses like puppies do when their owner gets home. I expect to take that positive aura with me as I scoop them up and whisk them away to our gingerbread home. What I don’t expect is to come in and be informed that my son decided to lift his shirt and share the blindingly pale view of his chest with the girls on the bus. Sure, boys chests and girls chests are eventually considered different, but at that age they are all lumped (pun intended) in to the same mortifying indecent exposure category. At least he met my expectations of humbly accepting his punishment which made for a very quiet evening.
Hey, one out of 5 has to count for something.
**Disclaimer as to why I didn’t add a photo for the last lost expectation above. I realized that posting up the bare pale chest of a 5-year-old boy can get me in to serious trouble. I’ve heard stories. Just looking up a generic clip art picture on that will probably have someone knocking on my door soon. I better delete the browser history now.