Surfer Babe (A Lesson in Prejudice)

I was watching a woman surf. She was on fire, showing all those blonde hunks dust.

 

When I saw her get out of the water, I admired her frame. So strong and healthy.

 

People started to gather around her and I went closer to see what the fuss was.  Was it Angelina Jolie, I thought, as I edged closer.

 

She was about 75 years old.  Yes, the hot surfer babe was 75 years old.

 

I could not stop talking about her. For days, I fantasised about where she lives, how she spends her days, what she eats, whether her sex life was hot. With a body like that, it would be the saddest thing if her husband was a fat, old, cynical bloke, I thought.

 

One morning, after my 5am gratitude meditation on the beach, I was enjoying a spot of people watching. The hotel staff were busy setting up for breakfast and I snuck in some coffee. I saw an old lady in rugged blue overalls, walking around the hotel, giving instructions to the staff in fluent Zulu – a language clearly not her own. Her blonde hair was nearly all grey, her blue eyes looked tired.

 

Again, I started to fantasise about where she lives, how often she eats stewed prunes and when she stopped having sex. I guessed that her false teeth were probably still good and wondered when she would finally throw in the towel and stop working. She was ancient. 

 

Mid breakfast, I saw some action down on the beach again. I ran towards it, still thinking that it could well be Angelina Jolie, this time.

 

I got there just in time to see the old grey lady remove her rugged blue overalls and put on her superhero cape: a surf suit!  Yes, the ancient janitor-like Zulu speaking blonde granny and the healthy, vibrant, energetic, hotttttt surfer girl were the very same person!

 

I had egg on my face. And it was not just from my half eaten eggs Benedict.

 

Aluta continua, as they say! The road to letting go of judgements is still a long(for me).

 

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Those are NOT my undies

The clown called for volunteers.  Of course I stuck my hand up!  

 

I was 10 years old and the stage wasn’t scary to me anymore.  I had some practice being up there.   I had read something about Paul and the Colossians at the assembly the previous week.  I waved at my best friend and she waved back.Things were looking good.

 

The clown started by making animals from balloons.  The kids laughed.  I did too.

 

Then, came the main event.

 

He started by doing some “magic” and then he held something pink in his hand.  He called for kids to guess what it was.

 

After allowing all sorts of “wrong” answers to be screamed out, he revealed the truth.

 

It was a panty.  A huge pink panty.

 

And, it was supposed to be MINE!

 

The kids really laughed!!

 

I did not find it funny at all but I laughed too.   

 

I knew that it did not belong to me.  I was at a Catholic school and we all wore the standard thick, navy blue issue. (Well, at least the rule followers did).  But, that didn’t mean that the kids knew this.

 

They assumed that I was starkers!  And, it hurt.  I walked off the stage humiliated.  I went straight to the loo, to check if my undies were still there and also to cry.

 

My granny heard about this.  She put her silver hair in a bun, powdered her face, put on her pearls and walked straight into the principal’s office.  She never told me what they talked about.  It did not matter.

 

I told myself that I would NEVER volunteer for anything again.  The next morning, the principal asked for someone to carry the box of keys from school to the church every day.  Traditionally, this was the job reserved for the head prefect.  I was 3 years too young.  But, guess who stuck their little hand in the air again?  Yip!

 

I carried that box proudly every day.

 

That was my training.  My training to stretch myself to do uncomfortable and scary things. 

 

What are the things YOU wish you could stick your hand up to do?  I can tell you honestly, that even if kids think you have no undies on, you can still be president.

 

Go on!