I'd Like to Teach the World to Sing

To my mind, the obscurity of To Sir With Love makes it a curiosity when I hear it even just once. And though I love the song, and have since I was a kid, even before it had the significance that it does, I will not download it to my iPod just so it will not become ordinary. It would lose it's power. It would no longer be a beacon for me.

The Train song, is more recent and not so rare, so hearing it just once seems like just a fluke. Just a song on the radio. But when I hear it a few days in a row, it strikes me as meaningful. The first time I hear it, it is just a little wake up call. "Keep your eyes open, Nancy Drew. I am about to lay down a few clues." I usually perk up the senses and try to notice, really understand, what is happening around me. Just in case.

So the morning I went blazing through the parking lot at an infuriating 2 mph, I made a mental note of the song and went on to deal with all the little jests the world of Human Resources had to dish out for me that day. What began as a crap sandwich ended as a crap sandwich, and was accompanied by a heaping side dish of insolence courtesy of my preteen who's already decided I am really embarrassing and pitifully lacking in intelligence, and whose dietary preferences become more and more finicky with each passing day. (Never question why I drink.)

The next day, like the ignorantly optimistic Pollyanna that I am, I bounded out of bed ready to face the bizarre world of human industrial behavior again. I had a great outfit planned and was dressed and was spackling and painting my face when I was joined in the bathroom by my daughter, needing her blonde locks tamed and braided.

I saw her look at my outfit in the mirror and stick out her lower jaw to the side skeptically.

I was wearing a long linen dress (which would look great all day as long as I never had to sit or drive) that was a tea-stained color and covered in cabbage roses and leaves. It was the perfect body-skimming shape with a very flattering scoop neckline. I had a coordinating shrug (The dress is sleeveless and I am still not sure about the politics of bare arms in my office. I am already pushing the envelope by refusing to wear pantyhose until Don, my boss, wears a bra.) I also had adorable kitten heel shoes that were the perfect thing.

"Mom," she began. "Is that what you are wearing to work?"

No, it is something I threw on just to make the coffee and toast in.

"Yes, sweetie. Why? Is something wrong?" I start to look frantically at my backside in the mirror. "Is there a stain somewhere?"

"No, I just thought maybe you'd want to wear something a little less - you know - old lady-ish."

I should have made her walk to school for that. Or threatened to give her a ride in a Hoveround.
Fashion critiquing coming from a 10 year old whose outfit includes Uggs and training bra.

I decided her taste ran more toward Hannah Montana than Charlotte York from Sex and the City and convinced myself that I could get through the work day without any Boy Scouts mistaking me for someone who needed to be helped across the street.

In fact, I was going to amp up the Hamptons look with pearls. I retreated to my bedroom to get them out of their silk-lined little boxes, and there it was again.

On the radio. The familiar opening lament from Train. "I need a sign, to let me know you're here..."