Getting Eve

It’s similar to an oxymoron – you know, that little sign at the museum or in the blown glass store that boldly states “Don’t Touch”?  I don’t care where I am or what I’m doing, those words call to me, like the apple called to Eve.  Without any kind of self-control whatsoever my hand develops a mind of its own, reaches out, and strokes the forbidden object.  And I have a similar issue with taste, usually off of my fingers.  Fortunately this is generally a home-based problem, but it’s still disgusting and often uncontrollable.

It all started when I couldn’t have been much more than three or four years old. Our family had gone on some kind of vacation and my mother took me into a souvenir store. Trinkets and breakables filled the tiny space, and I needed to touch every single thing I possibly could. Of course my mother, and I think even the store attendant, told me to stop – ‘don’t touch’, rang in my ears, and I’m pretty sure they had a sign. But no one understood, my fingers and my hands simply could not cease their meanderings, especially once I knew that touching everything was totally taboo.  In the end I broke a small salt and pepper set, and the shop keeper made my mother purchase the items.  Evidently the incident made little impression on me, because I still have the need to touch.

My husband has the same problem. Just last weekend he ventured onto the back of our property where he had piled a fairly good amount of wood that needed to be burned.  The day had been declared a ‘burn day’ by our county, so like a child in a candy store he proceeded to ignite his fire. The blaze grew and heated up, to the point where the creosote on an adjacent fence pole began to bubble up.  Somewhere deep inside he had to have known that touching that hot, boiling tar-like substance could not end well.  But that thought didn’t surface.  Instead, curiosity won and his finger dipped right into it. Once again, that which should not be touched got touched.

Sadly I do the same thing in my kitchen. Except that I touch, and then without any thought whatsoever my finger goes straight into my mouth. The sticky substance on the outside of the peanut butter jar isn’t always jelly from the day before. And the creamy glob stuck to the bread bag?  Not mayonnaise, or if it is, it’s very very old.

I think it’s human nature, maybe even our evil twin emerging from within during those times of rebellion. When our kids are little we scold them when they eagerly put their little fingers all over Great Aunt Sally’s 100 year old china, or absent-mindedly stuff their filthy hands into their mouths, or think they are defying their older sibling when they stick their tongue to the frozen side mirror on the car – been there done that a couple of times.  But we adults tend to do the same things. We see or hear those words and our brains go haywire.  The forbidden somehow takes on a new and exciting bent and that prohibited act practically becomes an obsession.  After all, there must be something incredibly wonderful about that object if we aren’t supposed to touch it.  And the sticky stuff on the counter? I don’t know, maybe it will taste like chocolate from heaven.

So yes, I get Eve. The apple was forbidden fruit. Maybe God even hung a sign next to it that said “Don’t Touch”.  I don’t know, but I’m pretty certain that the next time I’m in a store or a museum where my fingers are supposed to remain by my side, they won’t. And when I pull the milk out of the frig and something brown and moist globs onto my thumb, I’ll try it. I just can’t resist.

 

I Think There Could Be Something Wrong With My Mouth

My mouth and I have been struggling for years to come up with some kind of amicable agreement during certain periods. Read my previous blog called “Shelley’s Theory of Social Behavior (Or Maybe it’s Misbehavior?)” and you’ll get an even better idea of just what I mean. At this point in the game I’m relatively certain that we are going to have to just agree to disagree on some things.  Like the numerous times my brain has been filled with the perfect words to orate in a given situation but my mouth has either refused to open or has jumbled the entire rhetoric into something similar to mushed pulp. Or, on the flip side, the frequency with which my lips open and my tongue wags only to spew forth a magnitude of embarrassment when I would much prefer the whole contraption would have been placed under lock and key. 

As the director of a private school I tried to be very careful about using my mouth in any kind of potentially inappropriate manner.  In retrospect I really should have pried the thing open much more frequently. It had a lot to say, especially when we made the decision to close. But, too often my jaw clamped shut and the words never came. Believe me, my mouth and I have discussed that problem and at this point we are chalking it up to a lesson learned. Sometimes it’s just too bad if someone gets their feelings hurt or finds out just how wrong they really are.

And then there are the other occasions. The times when my mouth opens and I cram my foot as far inside as possible and then proceed to suck on the darn thing for the entire evening. This problem goes way back. As a kid I had an issue with saying the wrong thing at the wrong time. Like when at the age of twelve I asked our newly hired band teacher if the guy he’d replaced had been fired.  Not really a socially acceptable question. And then there was the afternoon my grandmother and brothers and I were headed to the store.  I couldn’t have been much more than five years old.  Grandma drove into the parking lot and some guy in a brown Chevy pulled out in front of her. She slammed on her brakes and I proudly sat up in my seat, glared at the guy through the car window, and called him an SOB.

All things considered, the behavior of my mouth should be dependent upon the situation and definitely on the company I’m holding. But, that’s not always the case.  My youngest daughter will never forget the time I jokingly suggested we buy her uncle a blow up doll for Christmas.  I’m thinking that may not have been an appropriate suggestion to my then seventeen year old? She still brings it up as one of my more humiliating ideas that truly never should have been spoken out loud.

Too much information, jokes that could be construed as offensive, and a jumble of useless data – these are some of the tidbits that have been known to flow forth.  And it’s only worse if I happen to have a drink somewhere within my reach. One sip and I’ll gladly spill my guts, and then I’ll spill your guts, and if anyone else happens to be around I’ll spill theirs too.

Fortunately my mouth and I aren’t always at odds.  It does know how to express love and appreciation, humor, and quite often well thought out ideas. My brain and my mouth do, for the most part, have a positive and fairly well run relationship. It’s just those few occasions where my mouth goes awry and steps out on its own.

The relational rift happens to all of us – my husband, my friends, and even my kids.  We all say things we regret and we all have things we wish we would say but don’t.  That amicable relationship may never fully come about, just do your best.  Most of it can be forgiven. And I still think a blow up doll is a funny idea!