Tiaras and Teachers

I do not normally wear a tiara. In fact, I can count on the fingers of one hand the times I have had occasion to put one on my head, and the reasons are not the ones one might call the usual ones. Instead, they point to the sorry picture of my scattered life and the sartorial challenges so prevalent in a world fraught with the tyranny of the urgent. But the reasons for the tiara make sense to me, although I can see why the man at Steak and Shake seemed so surprised, but I am still mildly perturbed with Pauletta’s comment. Let me explain.

In my life, I am accustomed to doing many different things, and I enjoy that. I like being busy; it fulfills me and gives me purpose. Right now, for example, on summer vacation, I am undergoing vocational testing to see just what I might be good for now that I am disabled, writing this book, writing a series of monologues, spending time with friends, trying to figure out how to get a home more conducive to life rather than existence, going to physical therapy, speech therapy, and occupational therapy twice a week, and starting a new diet. I am also working on learning to machine quilt, since my hand is so unreliable these days, attempting to learn to crochet, and I am studying the book of Philippians and turning over a meditation on II Peter which has been fermenting in my brain for over a year. I am also working on a mystery novel. To add to the list, I am working on a “to-do” checklist for accreditation for our school and of course, working on lesson plans while also going through the disability process. While it is painfully obvious to me that I can no longer work full time and one day will no longer be able to work at all, I cannot assume that our government will agree; thus, I have to cover all the bases. For me, this level of activity is low. Usually, I am much busier.

During the school year, that last statement is particularly true, and last year was a case in point. Since the disease has become so pronounced, it takes me far more time to do things, and I was teaching five classes, counseling young people, monitoring the ladies’ dress code, and co-sponsoring the junior class along with the above-listed activities. My boss had lightened my load by relieving me of two classes, by the way; I had started the year with seven classes, plus plans to direct the school play, which I also did not do. The loss of the classes and the play was done from love and support, but it was a great sorrow to me. Hence, my mind was jumbled, to put it mildly. As the co-sponsor of the junior class, John and I were responsible to guide our munchkins through the process of the junior-senior banquet. Part of that process was to count the ballots for Junior-Senior Royalty. Naturally, someone had to take charge of the tiara with which we traditionally crown the queen, and as female sponsor, I was the logical person to do so.

If life had been saner, things wouldn’t have escalated to the point where I had to wear the tiara, I suppose. But things seldom work out the way we want them to, and one of the big disadvantages of life as I know it now is that I am perfectly capable of driving, but because the wheelchair lift is in the back of the van, I can go nowhere by myself. It is an irritant.
So I took the tiara and put it in the passenger seat, thanking John for loading me into the van, and headed for home, where Pauletta would unload me. I didn’t think too much about life that day at all. We went through the process, I drove home, Pauletta unloaded me, I changed and got ready for physical therapy. We got back into the van, and that’s when I realized the problem.

I had no place to put the tiara. Paul, my boss, had taken it from its storage box and handed it to me, and there it was. With just me, I had put it in the passenger seat, and it had ridden along with me in solitary splendor, sparkling away. The back seat was filled with bows and other banquet paraphernalia, and I didn’t want to put the tiara back there, because if it fell off the seat unnoticed, it could easily break, and then I’d have to replace it, and I couldn’t afford that. However, Pauletta certainly didn’t want to run alongside the van all the way to the hospital where I have therapy, and I think her point was valid. So, after a moment, I grabbed the tiara and shoved it on my head and off we went.

We arrived at the hospital, and we went through the reverse process of unloading me. I started to whir my way into the hospital, but a strange look on Pauletta’s look gave me pause.

“What?”

“Oh, nothing. I just wondered if you needed a magic wand, too.”

“What are you talking about?”

With a very annoying smile which can only be described as patronizing, she reached over and removed the tiara from my head. I felt like hugging her and like slapping her, and the desires were equal. But I didn’t have time, so I muttered thanks and went on my way to my two therapy sessions.

After the sessions, Pauletta loaded me back into the van, and once again, the only safe place for the tiara was on a head. Resolutely, my friend refused to wear it, so, irritated, I jammed it on mine. On the way home,. we discussed the fact that the event was the next day, and we also discussed the fact that since I had suddenly switched wardrobes mid-season, there was a bit of a problem. For the past eighteen years, I had worn only dresses to work, and I had tried to continue that dress code, but that had proven itself dangerous while sitting in the wheelchair. My boss had been more than amenable to my switching to slacks, but the idea of my having a dressy slacks outfit was a new concept. We pondered, and finally I sighed and faced the inevitable.

“I guess we’ll have to.”

“And tonight’s the only night.”

“Pauletta, I just can’t.”

So we didn’t. That conversation above meant that we thought we needed to go shopping, the only time we had to shop was that night, and that I, who would rather do just about anything rather than shop, was admitting defeat. And Pauletta surrendered. As we reversed the process, I suddenly remembered a sort-of-dressy top I had, and being my wonderful friend, Pauletta made her usual magic happen. With the tiara safely ensconced on the passenger seat of the van for the night and with my attire for the big evening all taken care of, I worked on the rest of my duties for the event and retired, a happy woman.

The next morning, Pauletta took me to meet the junior ladies at the Country Club and they did a marvelous job of decorating. It was odd, seeing them so capable, so organized, so able and I have to admit that I felt like a proud parent and also like a lame duck. It happens this way every time we sponsor a class: They need so much guidance at first, and then, as they find their wings, they fly free, and the pain is exquisitely beautiful. The senior year is a year of reaping rewards of joy and shedding silent tears because of the separation to come, but the junior year is the year of laughter and accomplishment.

After that, we had to dash to Independence to pick up some little things, and of course, the tiara was once again on my head. Now, I confess that I have long ago left any dewy good looks behind, if indeed I ever possessed them. And on that morning, I had done nothing to enhance my appearance save to run a comb through my graying, wayward locks. I was wearing, I believe, jeans, and a BRCS T shirt. In short, I looked about as close to disreputable as I could possibly look and still pass for a modest woman.

We purchased the items we needed, and as we drove home, I saw a Steak ‘n’ Shake. Suddenly, visions of my college days rose up in my head, and I begged Pauletta to pull in and order a sandwich. I gave no thought to my appearance, and certainly I gave no thought to the tiara. By then, she was so used to it, neither did she. I think she wanted to go home and catch a nap, and she figured that if I was happy with a sandwich, she’d be happy, too.

We placed our order (Frisco melt—no onions, and a shared order of cheddar fries). So far, so good. Diet Pepsi (I thought I’d need the caffeine, since it was going to be such a long night). Pauletta drove to the window. She paid the man. I leaned forward to take the drinks.

As best as I can figure it out, this had to be the first time the gentleman working at Steak ‘n’ Shake had ever seen two portly, verging toward elderly ladies come through the drive through window, one of them groomed perfectly (Pauletta—it’s always Pauletta), and one of them looking like she’s just washed the dog (me—it’s always me), except for that little added touch of a tiara.

Our tiara isn’t huge. It isn’t, say, the Miss America crown or anything like that. But it isn’t invisible, either, and on my brown and gray head, it showed up. So much so, evidently, that the gentleman stood there and stared, saying nothing. Finally, Pauletta reached out and gently took the drinks from his hand and gave them to me. He didn’t respond; I’m not sure he blinked. He had straws close by; she leaned in and got a couple and gave them to me. I unwrapped them and put them in the cups. It was then that I noticed that no food was forthcoming, and I was hungry. I looked up. He looked at me. He did not blink.

“Pauletta?”

“Yes?”

Only Pauletta can get several syllables out of that one word, but when she does, I know she is not a happy woman. I also know she is not wanting me to help out, which was what I was starting to do. So, I did what seemed right and good.

I leaned across, smiled at the gentleman, and said, “Has it been a tough day today?”
That seemed to bring him to his senses. In fact, my proximity caused him to recoil, almost as if I frightened him. He shook his head and stammered something unintelligible and shoved our food at us and slammed the window quickly.
As we drove off, I wondered out loud just what his problem might be. Pauletta took one glance at me and sighed.

“It just takes some people time, that’s all.”

You know, for the life of me, it wasn’t until the next day I realized she was talking about me! Time to get used to me! After all, where else was I to put the tiara? (By the way, the banquet was lovely.)