Resistance

Last night I put a carton of ice cream on the counter to soften. I ruined our ice cream scoop when trying to scoop ice cream that was as hard as a rock. It bent in my hand as the ice cream resisted being scooped. It was stubborn, that ice cream.

I resist. I resist simple changes, such as bill paying online. I know how easy it is; I paid my brother’s bills online for him when he was in the hospital after a serious accident. Yet still I resist, writing checks and mailing them in every month. There’s something I enjoy about sitting down with my checkbook. I learned how to write checks a long time ago, in Consumer Education during high school.

Lily resists. I put broccoli on her plate, and she tells me “Broccoli is gross!” She used to eat broccoli all the time, but now she’s four. If I say nothing; do nothing, at the end of dinner, the broccoli has been eaten; perhaps by ignoring her there is nothing to resist. She becomes soft like ice cream.

Emmy resists. She can have the wettest, poopiest diaper, and yet she doesn’t want to stop what she is doing to have it changed. She will wake up in the morning, not even be doing anything yet, and still she resists. I need to distract her, make the diaper change fun before she stops crying and wriggling away from me.

Ed resists. He admits he dislikes change. He still prefers the Lutheran Hymnal as opposed to the Lutheran Book of Worship. Our church switched hymnals in 1980. Yes, Ed resists change.

What do you resist?

Stan the Man

This story is for an assignment that FoN over at Kids and Daiquiris threw out there. (Doesn’t the rhyming remind you of a Sesame Street sketch with a man in a van?) Go check it out, and add another story to the mix!

The dance rehearsal was interrupted mid-Tango when a crazed delivery man in tan carrying an awkward bundle burst out of the rear room. He raced toward the door, followed by a middle-aged woman with a tape-measure strung around her neck like an anorexic, robin-egg blue cashmere scarf. “Tob! Tob!” she yelled. Her lips were pressed together, holding straight pins. They dangled from her mouth just as an old-fashioned detective would have dangled a half-smoked cigarette from the corner of his mouth while gabbing on the phone, feet propped up on the desk.

I instantly sprang into action, shouting, “Call the police!” as I two-stepped it out the door. Out on the street I looked left, then right, and spotted the man in tan slamming the door on a double-parked delivery van. The chase was on. I leaped onto the rear bumper and grabbed the door handles. As the truck veered into traffic, I swung myself up to the roof, limber as a cat. “Being a dancer has unexpected advantages,” I thought, and I flattened myself against the warm metal. The truck lumbered along, the driver unaware of its debonair stowaway. I inched my way forward, up to the cab. I swung my feet into the open passenger window and gracefully descended into the seat. I found myself face-to-face with the startled thief. “Wanna rumba?” I growled as I forced him off the road and up an embankment. A squad car pulled up, lights flashing, and officers pulled the man in tan from the van to question him.

A reporter arrived soon after, and I flashed her a smile as I revealed my prize–the costume designer’s coveted sewing machine. Why the man in tan wanted it, I could not say. “And you are?” the reporter asked.

“I’m Stan.” I replied.