Not the Sharpest Tool

A few years ago, a certain pop singer loudly declared that he was ‘not the sharpest tool in the shed.’ He is not alone. I, myself, live a good deal of the time in blissful oblivion, taking everything at face value.

As a child, I heard, “Step on a crack, it’ll break your mother’s back.” And, conversely, I figured if splits in the sidewalk could be avoided, my mother would be okay. (Later in life my mother had many back problems, so it would seem some of my siblings were not as careful as I.)

In the early Fifties, it was my belief that, in case of nuclear attack, school children would be safe if hidden under their desks.

During the Sixties, I saw a poster with a picture of a pretty green leaf and the words, “Miss Mary Jane.” Logic told me this must be promoting a new folk singer, though the significance of the leaf was unclear.

Later, in the Seventies, when a personal ad appeared seeking swingers, I assumed someone was organizing a square dance club.

I thought Hooters was a gathering place for owl fanciers … kind of like the Audubon Society with fries.

In the Nineties, I colored my gray hair auburn. Many, many people told me I looked ten years younger. And I believed them. Why would they say something like that if it weren’t true? I fully expected to get carded when I asked for a Senior Citizen’s discount. But to my surprise that didn’t happen.

Now we have entered the 21st Century. I deal with the mysteries of iPods, iPads, iPhones and iPhorget-what-all. I am faced with Facebook (or in-your-face-book, as a friend calls it). It sees all, knows all and tells all using acronyms I’m afraid to use because I don’t know what they mean.

So as an aging Pollyanna, I’ve decided it’s okay if sometimes it seems I don’t have both oars in the water. I do pretty well on the activities of daily living. I don’t have enough money to buy the Brooklyn Bridge.  And God loves me just the way I am.