It's Your Thang, Do What You Wanna Do...

People like to hang out with other people who share common interests—it doesn’t take an expert or any sort of break-through study to reach this conclusion. That’s why bowling leagues exist, tea groups have followings, and the epitome of special interest niche groups—Star Wars conventions—thrive.

Lately I have been thinking about how much I LOVE some of the stuff people I know are into, and not because of a shared enthusiasm or personal interest. One of my roommates has ardently thrown herself into participating in any and all Republican Club events, even venturing far-and-wide to attend conventions. I know someone else who is in the midst of an intense board-game phase and he recently spent give-or-take $300 on a particular game, tricking it out with multiple expansion packs (first of all, this is definitely in a league above Monopoly or other Mattel games; and second of all, expansion packs exist for board games?).

I have about as much interest in attending a Republican club convention as I do in spending a day collating papers (no offense, I don’t really think I’d like to attend a Democratic Club convention either—as oblivious as it makes me, politics is not my venue); and while I am always down for a solid game of scrabble or Monopoly, my expertise in the world of board games does not extend much further than Sorry! and the occasional, ceremonious game of Candy Land. But it makes me so happy—literally, I smile something fierce—to see these people so invested in their respective “things.”

Maybe it’s the novelty of these interests—at a college in California, the Republican Club seems a tad off the beaten path; and in general my generation seems more concerned with being informed on the cutting-edge of technology than dabbling with archaic tangible board games.

I think my appreciation for niche-interest groups extends beyond their renegade nature though, because I think it is just as great when people eat-sleep-and-breath dance, gardening, science fiction, or even pick-up soccer and basketball leagues. Someone’s “thing” is anything he/she spends an adequate amount of time doing, thinking about, and most importantly—enjoying! There is not a requisite level of skill involved either: you don’t have to be an elite bocce ball player or ceramics maker. There is no apprenticeship for knitting or bird watching which you must graduate from in order to be considered a true aficionado.

Maybe what I like so much about “things” is the action and intention they require—the fact that people must consciously set up their schedule, seek out fellowship, and make at least some life-style choices in order to accommodate said interest. There are only so many hours in a day, and we choose how to spend them. So what’s your thing? Are your Saturdays consumed by watching T.V. or do you enjoy polishing your antique musket collection or scouring beaches for junk that has drifted ashore? Is Wednesday night devoted to hot yoga or does it just slip between your fingers while you sit around doing nothing? We live in a culture that revolves around the daily grind; but snap out of it! Do something you think is cool, not just required.

Animal Crackers in my Soup

Nobody will ever love you like your mother will. Not your best friend, your significant other, or even your own sibling. Your mom loves you in ways (and at times…) that others simply cannot—even counting the tumultuous years of adolescence when you raised hell and your eyeballs seemed to be permanently rotating around in their sockets. And she doesn’t just deal with you when you are being difficult to love. When you are sick, nobody will be a more diligent caretaker, a more protective guardian, or a more empathetic person.

The first time you get sick away from home, and I mean sick, you realize this. Suddenly you have to make your own doctors appointment, pick up the same sure-fire remedies from the drug store (which don’t seem to work quite as well…), and try your best to baby yourself—which is pretty hard. An integral part of feeling down-in-the-dumps (and we’re talking laid-out-on-your-ass-sick, not just a dry cough or runny nose…) is feeling a little self-centered and miserable; like nobody else has-ever-or-will-ever feel this terrible. In this time, mamas allow us to whine and wallow in our own self-pity. Instead of telling us to grow up, have a little perspective, or just deal with it; they lavish copious amounts of attention, concern, and coddling on us. In some odd way, it almost seems like they like it.

Maybe it is because our moms spent all those nights awake with us when we were infants, rubbing our backs and stroking our soft, soft foreheads while they cooed soothing words or lullabies to subdue our furious wails. When we are infants we really are helpless—we can’t say what is wrong or what hurts, and we sure as heck can’t fix the problem ourselves. We just know that we are uncomfortable. The first maternal skill learned, it seems, is to comfort a suffering child.

Our mothers continue to soothe us well past infancy. Stubbed toes, scraped knees, chicken pox and stomach flu all reduce us back to that in-coherent, shrieking, helpless agent that can perceive one thing and one thing only—I am suffering. Mom flies into action, allowing us to express our misery but also encouraging us to feel better quickly with a kiss, those low, melodious murmurs, or some other extra-special remedy learned from the secret society of motherhood.

Eventually we grow up (some). We move out of the room down the hall, start taking care of ourselves, and we even manage to self-medicate and self-nurture during bouts of the common cold or some other illness. I can do it, I’m fine, I don’t need you anymore. It must leave a sort of hole in our mother’s hearts, when we deny them the first motherly duty they ever learned.

And then it happens—we get sick, feel positively un-glued; and all we want is to be eight years old again, reduced to a puddle of babbling misery, but taking some comfort in the fact that mom’s got this—she is going to handle it and make me better. She is going to make me a huge cup of tea and a piping-hot bowl of chicken noodle soup. She is going to tell me to get in the shower and breathe-deep in the steam for while. And best of all, she is going to prescribe a day in her bed watching Shirley Temple movies (I didn’t even like Shirley Temple growing up, but I love that my mom always included it in my treatment plan).

Even when we are sick away from home moms still do their best to be satellite nurturers. They tell us what sort of over-the-counter meds or vitamins to pick up, to get to bed early and wash our hands a lot; but most of all they will be inclined towards pampering us over the phone just as readily as if we were at home, under their direct care. Your mom will say “aww, poor baa-by” and mean it, she will tell you she loves you countless times, and she will allow you that day to feel completely, and utterly pathetic. Nobody will ever love you like your mother will.