Christmas Pins

One of the rituals of employment that we take for granted – until we are unemployed – is the Christmas pin. Yes, I confess, I am distracted by shiny objects, and none more so than the gaudy, ridiculous Christmas pin.
When else but Christmastime in the workplace would any self-respecting woman wear a red and green brooch the size of a drink coaster.  This is the only time we are okay with wearing a piece of jewelry that does not match our outfit in any way, and which makes jingling noises as we stride purposefully toward the boardroom for the important meeting. We could be wearing our beautiful two-hundred-and-seventy-five dollar camel wool coat and slap on a giant nativity scene tableau (with eye dots that are painted outside the eye sockets, making the faces of the holy family look downright creepy). Any other time of the year, we wouldn’t even wear the “wrong” shade of pantyhose (even though they’re all basically tan).
They talk about Christmas sweaters, but I've got a giant horse’s head with a Christmas wreath around its neck (my favorite - you'd have to see it) that says Christmas pins are just as tacky. And yet, I love my tacky pin collection. Sometimes when I come across it – when the season is not upon us – I take out the small red, glass trinket box that stores my pins, spread them out on my bed, and lovingly turn each one over in my hand, then re-elect the pins that are my favorites. Ahh.
So you can imagine how crushed I was when I realized that I wouldn’t have the daily ritual this year of selecting two pins each morning:  one for my work outfit and one for my coat. Who’s going to see my cloisonné stocking now, or my candy cane with the holly and real crystals? Or my golfing Santa? No one, that’s who. And who needs a Christmas pin on the cotton lounge pants and fleece jacket ensemble that you’ve taken to wearing as both pajamas and your street clothes? (I like to call this my 24-hour suit – kinda like the 18-hour bra only less figure flattering.)
Me. I do. I need a Christmas pin on my hoodie. It matches my Christmas socks.  Besides, I might have an interview.


copyright © 2011

The "Kiddie Table"

This week, I have learned about two deaths within my various circles. I realized that, while most of us step up to the plate of responsibility most of the time, there's always a part of us that never truly feels like the grown-up. (Hey, is there someone at the Grown-up table that can handle this one?)
When things happen like someone dying, or our taking on a new big expense, or being given a new big responsibility at work, or – biggest yet – having a child, isn’t there that little twinge in your stomach that you’re not really sure you can do the job? And isn’t it followed by that small, fleeting voice in your head that says something like, “you don’t have to worry about this, there are grown-ups for that”.
So, while you always pined to graduate from the Kids Table to the Grown-ups Table (or, as in my family, the Little Guys Table and the Big Guys Table), did you really think about what the deal involved? You wanted to be able to think of yourself as, and be regarded as, an adult – gaining the trust and confidence of other adults, and maybe get a later time for curfew in the bargain. But did you think about what you would have to BRING to the Grown-ups Table?
I think we continue to become grown-up, as we continue to grow. With each first grown-up experience: a death, a scary purchase, an intimidating job assignment, or, in the case of my own recent experience, a job loss, we grow up a little more. The biggest realization is that we don’t know. We don’t know the answer, we don’t know what to do, we don’t know what is next, we don’t know if we “can”.
But it’s the very moment of knowing we don’t know that we realize we are at the Grown-ups Table.


copyright © 2011