Part 13: Pride

Pride

I’d like to start by saying that I am proud[1] of myself for how long it took me to come up with a life story that embodies the deadly sin of pride. I've apparently led a life pretty devoid of hubris and self-confidence, which is apparently, a good thing. There is however one very glaring example of pride that led to my abusing power, backstabbing friends, and bogarting all of show-and-tell time. It was the second grade.

My friends I and were getting restless with the everyday power structure of the elementary classroom. One teacher to rule them all. This seemed pretty un-American to me and my patriotic friends.[2] What would George Washington do to deal with this situation? He’d become President, that’s what! It was decided then and there, we needed a class president. We came to the conclusion as a group, already role models of Democracy. Naturally, as soon as the word President was uttered, I knew that I would be president of the second grade. Or at least president of Mrs. Fitzgerald’s classroom, aka, one third of the second grade. REAL POWER!

Before we even pitched the idea of an election for class president, I was way ahead of myself making campaign posters, having people call me sir, and kissing babies.[3] In my mind, I would be running unopposed. I was Chris Todd, the man born to be president. Did you see the Lego tower I built during indoor recess or read my latest chapter of the chipmunk novella my friends and I were writing?[4] I was a presidential man among boys.

Mrs. Fitzgerald thought it was a great idea to hold elections. She thought it would be a great way to learn the democratic process. I thought it was a great way to learn that I was the most popular kid in class. I was already starting to form my cabinet. Scott would be VP, he had fresh ideas but was shorter than me, so he could be handled if need be. Brad was my Treasury Secretary, we didn’t know what that meant. Jon would be the head of the secret service. I was a valuable asset now. He started immediately, and thank God, we made it through the process without incident.[5]

It had been a few days since holding elections was agreed upon, which is the equivalent of 2 and a half years in second grade time. The kids were restless.

I was restless, and that’s what mattered.[6]

I bothered Mrs. Fitzgerald every chance I got to hold elections. She said she had to find a way to fit it into her lesson plan. I said “I can find a place for you to fit it” implying that she could go take that excuse and shove it. Actually, I was very respectful of my elders and probably had never even heard the term “shove it” as a 7 year old. I said “ok Mrs. Fitzgerlad. I just wanted you to know we’re all excited for me…or some other person I guess…to be president.”

Then finally, the day arrived. The halls were lined with American flags drawn in crayon and the excitement for Democracy was palpable. I wore my best t-shirt and jean short combo for the big day. The ballots were filled out, and placed into an Adidas shoe box, just as our forefathers had done before us. Right before lunchtime, the count was in. We all sat silently awaiting the results, as if the world depended on the outcome. The person with the second amount of votes, or the new Vice President: Scott. It was all coming together as planned. I shook his hand as if to say “a new day begins with us.” Then the bottom dropped out. Pride cometh before the fall.[7] Our new president was Jackie. I was third. If you know anything about Elementary school, first is worst, second is best, and third is the one with the hairy chest.

I had the hairy chest.

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[1] The good kind of pride. Like “I just got into college Mom!” pride.

[2] We took the pledge of allegiance seriously!

[3] There was no kissing of anyone. Cooties were everywhere in those days.

[4] There is a twelve chapter story about three chipmunks and one tiger somewhere on a hard drive. Handsome reward for recovering it.

[5] There was the hole-in-the-milk-pouch scandal, but I don’t want to talk about it.

[6] Politics makes you a monster.

[7] Great reference.

Part 12: Kindness

Kindness

            Thinking of a particularly exciting memory of kindness is sort of like trying to think of the most exciting dictionary entry you’ve ever read. Kindness is naturally pretty boring, unless it involves presenting an oversized check to a mass of people.[1] I, of course, only use oversized checks to pay rent. The landlord thinks it’s hilarious.

            Living life as an unadventurous kid afraid of confrontation, kindness was a big part of my arsenal of attributes. The bully rarely fights the kid who brings in snacks for his fellow classmates. Because yes Mrs. K, I DID bring in enough for the rest of the class. Not exactly out of kindness, but if a teacher is going to tell you that something is against the rules because you didn’t bring enough in for everybody, you better believe the next day the class is getting a treat. Take note young nerds, snacks plus spite equals kindness.

            My kindness as a child was often the result of being nice relative to those around me, because children are monsters.[2] One day two friends were coming over to my house to play. I do not know how the time or place was arranged. I assume our parents travelled into the future and used their cell phones to make some calls.[3] My one friend, let’s call him Steve, because I don’t remember who it was and I’m not good at making up names (sorry future wife), showed up first and had a really great idea:

Let’s hide in the tree and throw pine cones at other Steve when he gets here.[4]

            I had several feelings about this plan. First, I love being in trees, this is going to be great. Second, why would we do that to other Steve? He’s an ok human person, probably my second favorite Steve. Third, I only have willow trees in my yard, where are we getting pine cones? The third point was irrelevant, we were outside and this was the nineties, there were pine cones everywhere. This was before we knew pine cones were bad for us. For the second point, I waited to voice my concern until we were already up in that tree because, well, I love being in trees!

            Once we were up there, and I had found a nice branch to lounge on, I let Steve know I wasn’t 100% on board with operation throw objects at our friend. This is me being kind to other Steve. Also at the same time, I wanted to be kind to first Steve, so we totally threw those pine cones at other Steve. He did not like it. I know he didn’t like it because he screamed at us and ran home. Classic other Steve. This is where I need to wrap the story up in a nice little kindness bow. I convinced first Steve that we needed to go apologize, and then all hang out and do whatever other Steve wanted to do for the day. We apologized profusely and he decided he  wanted to play “run through the yard and see if you can outrun my mean dog before it gets you.”[5] Out of anger he suggested the game, out of kindness, we played.

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[1] Who uses checks anymore?

[2] They should check under their beds for themselves! Boom, roasted.

[3] They couldn’t use a landline because it was tied up by AOL.

[4] Sorry, the creative side of my brain thinks all boys are named Steve.

[5] This is a real game we played. I can’t remember if it was out of revenge, but I do remember it being exhilarating. 

Part 11: Envy

Envy

            This one is a bit confusing; on one side going green is great for the environment, but on the other side being green with envy will send you straight to Hell.[1] Since I’m no Captain Planet and stories that end in Hell tend to be more exciting, at least for the reader, I’ll stay away from describing my adventures at the recycling plant and move right into the juicy bits:

I was 100% completely envious of the new kid in 3^rd grade.

            I have a long held belief that I peaked in the second grade. It was when I felt the coolest, sexiest, and most popular. Sexy may not be the most accurate word for a second grader, but come on, I was asking for it. Did you see what I was wearing?[2] I was smart, athletic, and the majority of girls in the class were into me. I wasn’t into them but only because girls are icky. After a while I began to enjoy the attention of the fairer sex, although I would never say that. Who can say the word “sex” without giggling anyway? Just when I started to like girls back, in walks a new kid on the first day of third grade ready to screw up a good thing. I wasn’t this jealous of any other student since Kindergarten when one kid got to walk to school. He was always earlier than everybody else which meant he got to play with the coolest toys. Still filled with an envious rage over that. But this new guy, I’m going to call him Matt. I’m going to call him that because that’s his name and I doubt he wants to remain anonymous since I’m about to call him the coolest person the third grade has ever seen. 


He was the coolest person the third grade has ever seen. 


He was mysterious, good looking, and even worse for me…a really great guy. I guess we called guys in the third grade boys. He was a really great boy.[3]
            Almost overnight, the girls in the class had found somebody else to chase around the playground. It was of course inevitable. I was a bit pudgy and a future bald man and he looked like a pre-scientology Tom Cruise and future, I’ll assume, millionaire with a full head of hair.  Being inevitable doesn’t make it any less enraging. You’ve stolen my popularity just by walking in the door! That doesn’t say a whole lot about my popularity, and this was my peak. My peak!

            My first move of course was to befriend Matt. This was the best way to ensure females would still hang around my little group. I had worked hard to establish a female friendly close circle of friends.[4] If I couldn’t have them all to myself, I at least had to maintain proximity. I think proximity is like, one of the top five most important things to getting a girl to like you. Maybe the whole type five. Unfortunately the most interaction I got after Matt’s arrival were from inquiries into Matt’s “who does he like” status. Their notes probably didn’t need to have check boxes for “yes” or “no” because they were going to get a “maybe.” He was mysterious, remember?

            I won’t say I did anything to sabotage Matt’s chances with the ladies but in the end I don’t think anybody ever hooked up in the third grade. You’re welcome elementary school parents. My being jelly bears saved the innocence of dozens of children. Until at least 5^th grade. That grade tends to get a little skanky. I blame algebra.

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[1] Or if you’re at camp, going green will send you straight to the infirmary.

[2] Jean shorts and a basketball jersey with a white t-shirt underneath?

[3] What happened in my life that saying the word “boy” out loud now sounds creepy?

[4] Like writing adorable stories about chipmunks and organizing chess tournaments. Wait? What? Why did ANYBODY hang out with me?

Part 10: Patience

Patience

Patience is a virtue. It’s a very popular saying, and since I was a very popular kid[1] I practiced patience every chance I got. As a chubby kid I had patience waiting for years to get girls’ attention. As a nerdy kid I had patience in waiting for the principal to let me out of the locker. As an adult kid I have the patience to sit through an entire movie without taking a bathroom break. My mom would be so proud.

Patience can be a great asset as a kid, especially when the summer neighborhood games begin. The summer neighborhood games, I assume a universal suburban tradition, is a massive scale game of capture the flag, hide-n-seek, or the very popular game “Noah’s sister is changing in the basement let’s see if she left the curtain open.”[2] Usually though it was hide-n-seek, at night of course. It’s more fun at night. I don’t know why more parents don’t let their kids run around at night trying to find places to hide in strangers’ yards. Patience comes into play when you’re a super good hider, or when your “friends” aren’t really looking for you. I prefer to think I was a very good hider. It could be a full hour before anybody finds you. That’s a long time for a non-patient kid to wait. Fortunately for me, I was accustomed to sitting quiet, all by myself, for extended periods of time.[3] My best hiding place ever for nighttime hide-n-seek was also my worst hiding place ever for daytime hide-n-seek: The middle of the front yard. I wore all black, like an 11 year old ninja who may have been like 14. I don’t remember. Memory skills are not part of the ninja skill set. I lied face down in the grass and had to hold back laughing at the “finders” as they walked right past me repeatedly. Patience won out, or more accurately, I won out. I won the game, with patience.

Patience in hiding has also back fired on me. I was lying down behind the couch one day. I don’t know why, probably because I’m weird. I’m going to say I was reading a book, but anybody who knew me back then would know I was not reading a book.[4] My mom yelled down the stairs for me to come up for dinner. I did not go. She told me it was dinner time again. I still did not go, nor did I respond. I was pretty sure this was going to be a hilarious prank. The kind of prank where my mother has no idea where her 10 year old son is. Nothing could go wrong.

She made her way downstairs, found nobody. Went upstairs, found nobody. Went into the living room, found nobody. Patience is a virtue, so I remained silent as she called for me. Now my Dad gets in on the action. “Chris! Where are you?!” “Chris!?” So funny. After 10-15 minutes of patience induced panic, I decided it was time for dinner.[5] When they saw me, they were furiously happy. Apparently, when a parent thinks their kid is missing they get very sad but when they realize it was all a prank they get very upset, which is like being sad but louder. So patience may be a virtue, but apparently virtues can ruin a day. At the very least ruin what could have been a nice tuna noodle casserole dinner. According to the rules, I did the right thing. No matter what, just keep waiting.

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[1] I must continue to reiterate, do not fact check this.

[2] See also, Lust.

[3] See also, Sloth.

[4] Unless maybe it was the Giver, that book made me believe in colors again.

[5] See also, Gluttonny

Part 9: Wrath

Wrath

I AM NOT WRATHFUL, HOW DARE YOU FOR QUESTIONING THAT![1] I apologize for yelling, but it was the quickest way for me to explain what wrath was to the lay person. Although everyone who reads this is smart, so you knew what wrath was already and now we’re just all upset about the time we’ve wasted over defining wrath!

Wrath is not something I have experienced with much regularity. It may have something to do with being an emotional robot or it may have to do with my bottling up of emotions waiting for the cork to pop in the form of stomach ulcers. One day however the cork popped in a more “I want to punch my friend in the face” kind of way. I wanted to punch my friend in the face but what actually happened was I punched the grocery store fresh steak that was in his hand. For the record, I was aiming for the face. I only missed by 2 and a half feet.

I probably should have started at the beginning and explain why I was so mad.[2] I think I skipped that part because it makes me look irrational, irritable, and insane. It all started when I was hanging out with two of my friends, probably playing video games and drinking chocolate milk,[3] when my mom came home with the groceries. “Let’s go help bring stuff in,” I said. “OK!” said one friend. “Nope” said the other. The rage started to build. The good friend and I went out to the car to help my mother and grabbed a few bags. The bad friend came out and started talking to my mother which means now she’s not doing any work. Rage building! We got all the groceries inside and put away when the bad friend picked up a steak[4] that was thawing on the counter and invited himself over for dinner:

::insert the typed out version of what punching a steak sounds like::

I may have overreacted. That’s wrath for you. Once every 17 years I’m going to flip out and punch my future dinner. On a positive note, once every 17 years my dinner is going to be nice and tender.

As a a neat little wrap up (or should I say “wrath up[5]”) we have gotten over the “beating the meat” situation. Not all parties agreed on calling it that. The bad friend was and is my best friend although I have not talked to the good friend in years…which may make me the bad friend…which REALLY PISSES ME OFF!

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[1] I am wrestling with the idea of writing this one in only in ALL CAPS.

[2] I blame Tarantino.

[3] I was 17.

[4] The steak! It’s all coming together…

[5] Please don’t EVER say that.