I don’t consider myself a sucker. Who does though? Even people who get swindled on a regular basis by the creepy uncle with the big ideas thinks: “This time will be different. This time I’ll hit the jackpot. Mechanical roller skates on goats to naturally mow lawns is GENIUS.” (GREEN GOATS ON THE GO!)
When I consider the matter closer, those of use who are convinced we are the most savvy may be the biggest suckers of them all. Denial and defensiveness are brothers who not only get along but live on the same street and are raising their children as besties so no one ever has to change.
In fact, I may have to start a weekly column: THINGS I WAS A SUCKER ABOUT. Except if I end it in “about” the Capital Police will surround me with their comments and eye rolls. They think proper English is a weapon to wield indiscriminately much like their brethren the Capitol Police. The latter protect our government by shooting mentally ill women after they get out of their deadly weapon. The Capital Police roam the Internet searching for grammar and spelling mistakes to attack when they don’t have a real argument to make. Or when they remember that getting an “A” memorizing comma placement in 8th grade English didn’t paid off as much as their popular teacher promised.
The column doesn’t matter anyways. I like playing it loose, and the fact that I spelled “loose” correctly should calm everyone down.
I do like it when people are happy particularly my children and furry babies. I’ve often chosen their happiness over protecting more material things. Like filling my nice but unused purse with plastic trinkets and pinecones (that’s mostly for the kids). Or chewing on a pillow I suddenly deem as old and out-of style (that’s mostly for the dog). But I must have limits.
I decide to investigate further because it’s 5 o’clock on a Friday, and my brain isn’t shifting into denial as fast as a sucker’s should. Instead I think: I need know how Lars is disappearing into my grass so I can do something about it.
And while I know my lawn is now an episode of American Gladiators ER-style, where contestants try not to get their ankles sprained while Nitro and Blaze chase them, my dog is so proud. I’m conflicted. I also know that I can either never let me dog outside again or lay across the hole for the rest of the weekend if I want the digging to end.
I call my husband, who does not have to make eye contact with a proud puppy and his giant hole, for perspective. During our conversation, I am reminded that 20 feet behind us is a section of backyard that does not drain when it rains. Instead, it becomes a mini-Woodstock for my dog and children, and I become THE MAN with the towel while our mud room earns its namesake.
“What’s a hole?” he asks.
And with that shrug of a question, I realize that being a sucker is a disease. It’s contagious like the flu with the worst offenders those who yell the loudest about not feeling bad at all. But I going to embrace it, not deny it. I have limits around the important moments — like eating and sleeping and being polite — and I’ll just place flags around the holes.