Pickles & Immaturity

A few days ago, I went to a social event for a writing program I did a few years back.  I almost never attend social events, as teaching has made me into a bit of a misanthrope.  I can't stand small talk, and what is a social event if not an opportunity for casual acquaintances to get together and converse about trifles?  I went for two reasons only: one of my good friends was also going, and there was free wine. 

Of course, as it was a social event, they didn't serve food right away.  They gave us a half hour to mingle.   At least there was wine, even if it wasn't good wine.  We did get cornered by a woman who I knew a little bit from this writing program and who seemed so excited to see us.  It was terrible, as I not only remembered her from the writing camp, I also remembered why I had disliked her so much, so whilst we were discussing the pros & cons of our commute, I kept spacing off and remembering all of those things which had bothered me so much.  This made the conversation even more tedius.  Then there was hairy-lip lady, who I mostly remembered as a fabulous writer.  I had forgotten that she actually allows her upper lip hair to grow uninhibited, and it grows over her upper lip and into her mouth a little bit.  I have no idea what we even talked about because all I did was stare at her lip hair.  I wonder if other adults can get past these things?

Finally, once we got seated at a table in the corner, I could spend some time with my friend and my wine, and forget about hairy-lip lady who still grosses me out.  I was relieved to be able to just chat with my friend.  I had been waiting all day to tell somebody about my problem with pickles.  See, I can't think of pickles without immediately associating them with penises.  Penises are gross, so, as far as I'm concerned, pickles are also gross.  Especially when you live in my head and combine the two and imagine vinegary penises.  So.  There's this deli down the street from the mall called the "Spicy Pickle."  Every time my husband and I drive by, I feel compelled to say that there's a clinic for that.  

So one of my sweet darlings showed me a pretty hilarious cartoon she had drawn for her economics class featuring a smiling pickle wearing a track suit and doing all sorts of silly things.  This I found hysterically funny, but only because I imagined a smiling penis wearing a track suit, and that was downright hilarious.  It ended up being one of those weird laugh cycles, where I realized I was laughing a little too long, and then I got embarrassed and self-conscious, but that only made me laugh harder.  And the student was kind-of looking at me wondering if I was okay, or if I was maybe making fun of her because it wasn't intended to be hysterically funny.  So I played it off & said something like, "That's really cute - nothing like a sassy pickle first thing in the morning!  Ha Ha Ha."

I had spent the whole day wishing I could share my immaturity & my penis-pickle problem, so it was the first thing I brought up at the table.  Of course.  And as it turns out, my friend has this theory that the longer we teach, the less mature and intelligent we become.  It's like we impose our brilliance and maturity on them every day, and each day we get less and less back.  By the time we retire, we're gonna be 4th graders.  I agreed, and then we went on to talk about serious things over free mac-n-cheese.  

Two days later, an entirely different student came to show me a children's book her sister had illustrated.  It was beautifully done; her sister had spent something like 4 months working on it.  It was all about a grumpy pickle who had "pickle-itis," a series of bumps all over his body.  It's like they're testing me.  This time, I held my tongue and didn't make ANY of the comments I was thinking, though I found myself laughing out loud at my witty remarks after she had left for the day.  

Not a 4th grader just yet.