Gracious Rain

I grew up in Los Angeles back in the old days when the girls wore dresses and milk was 5 cents and everyone sat at big tables instead of desks and classes were big and we had no idea that we should be unhappy about it. I remember sitting at the table and being able to perfectly swing my leg out and kick the kid in front of me…at will.  Now, sincerely–I have no idea why I would do such a thing, because I was not a mean kid at ALL. But he was a funny guy and whenever I would whack him in the leg, he would jump and make a really–on purpose–goofy face, and bust up laughing. As a kid, I think I believed that somehow, we were, you know– playing. But now, a million years later, I’m pretty sure he was just a nice boy, who should have told me to quit it or he’d punch me in the head…but he didn’t. Shame on that silly little girl.

Anyway, I’ve always felt bad about that, and wished that I could fix it. I’d go back in time and UN-kick him about a hundred times. And so I say to the universe, “Ricky if your poor leg has healed after all these years and you don’t hate the very idea of me and if you ever just happen to read my blog and find this post–I want you to know that I have been really sorry for about 42 years that I ever-ever kicked you, and if I could I’d give you a huge bag of Cheetos and a million dollars to prove it…if I only could.

And we’d be friends.

:}

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