Sometimes our body language speaks volumes without us saying a word. The other day, I was talking to a dear friend who happens to be on crutches. I will not identify this friend for fear someone might tell her husband that we were engaged in some spouse ranting. Anyway, "Megan" is on crutches and we were discussing our kids and how to handle difficult children. Apparently, Megan and her husband were discussing their eldest daughter and, as in most marriages, they didn't see eye to eye on a solution.
Megan told me that she became frustrated and, in an effort to put some emphasis on her point (and her anger), she sprang from the couch as quickly as a person with the use of only one leg can do, grabbed her crutches and, as rapidly and as loudly as possible, hobbled up the stairs. "Somehow," I said, "I think the effect was lost when you hobbled."
So, until she is two-legged again, perhaps the next time her husband infuriates her, she could just throw a crutch at the wall (or her husband), or maybe kick over a chair with that big boot on her foot. Maybe she could get his attention by holding one of her crutches like it's an Uzi and point the rubber stopper at his temple, making vicious rat-a-tat-tat sounds.
There is just something lost in translation when we are incapacitated and mad. For example, don't expect your kid to take you seriously when you've burned your index finger when you went to light the gas burner because, for some reason, your dinner overflowed and put out the flame and you stupidly turned the gas back on while looking for a match and, after finally finding one, the resulting whommpff of an inferno that occurred when you lit that thing incinerated the match and half your finger and now you're trying to yell at your kid for lecturing you on how to light a stove properly but your finger is bandaged up to the size of one of Cheech and Chong's joints and your kid just isn't taking you seriously as you jab at the air telling him not to tell you how to do things. Once again, lost in translation.
Or, the time you decided you were not going to phone again to complain about the fact that the bank keeps charging you a monthly service fee when you are a freaking platinum customer, and you have been over this more than once, and they apologize and then do it again next month. Instead, you get in your car and, statement in hand, drive up there but it's in the middle of winter and your nose is running and, before you get inside the bank, you wipe your running nose with a swift swipe of the back of your mitten because you left your tissues in your purse which you left in the car, and you go in there demanding some attention and no one can look at you and you wonder why everyone has a look of disdain, disgust and sympathy on their faces, until you get back to your car, having finally gotten this mess straightened out amidst the downcast eyes of the bank rep who, for some reason, seems to be holding back a snicker (and I'm not talking about a candy bar), and you look in your rear view mirror and notice the biggest booger you've ever seen emerging from your nose, but not only that, it's swept up the other side and stuck there like one of those wire nose rings, and all you want to do is die. That is major incapacitation. And somehow, things get lost in translation and you know it when you drive slowly out of the parking lot, slumped down in your seat and can't help but look in the window at the people standing around the customer service desk laughing and shaking their heads and you want to march back in there and demand all of your money. NOW. But not before you wipe the snot off your face.
Or the effect that is lost when you are interviewing with one of the biggest law firms in Boston to become their administrator, running the day to day operations of the firm, and so you get up extra early to make sure everything is perfect. You even change your outfit three times and then put the first outfit back on before going out the door. All seems to be going fabulously when, suddenly, you feel a tug in the back of your head. Itchy, kind of. Smiling and nodding, you reach back to gently scratch your head and your hand lands on one of the two velcro PINK rollers that are still rolled into the back of your head and you freeze. The partners are smiling a kind understanding and you can't tell if the look in their eyes is one of pity or amusement. Deftly, you pull one and then the other out of your hair and set it on the table in front of you, look up, smile, shrug and say, "I'll bet those curls are so tight by now that I don't even need to use hairspray on them." The tense moment seems to relax with two of the partners breaking into uncontrollable laughter and all you can do is wish you were born wealthy and were on some yacht somewhere headed for the ends of the earth where a quick storm might come up and toss you overboard into some permanent state of unconsciousness, but you straighten up in the chair and go on and finish the interview. Something is always lost in translation when a woman is touting her abilities with a couple of pink rollers bobbing around the back of her head.
My point here is that if we are going to make a point and have it well-received, we need to think before we act or react. Presentation is everything. Remember that. It'll help get you through your kids' adolescence, your mid-life crises, fights with your spouse and bad hair days.
By the way, I got the job anyway.
Copyright 2009 liamsgrandma
