The Lifespan of a Fly


No Ginger in the park
June 2, 2010, 7:08 AM
Filed under: Generalizations

There are things about ourselves we can never change. Some of us are very, very tall while others are short. Some people can eat pounds of candy and never gain weight while others diet their whole lives. Some people are brunette and some aren’t. Finally, some poor souls are born as ginger kids. Now when I say ginger kids, I’m not talking about red hair and freckles. I love red hair, it’s gorgeous in its uniqueness. With gorgeous locks of fiery hair, why ever dye it? When I say ginger kids, I mean the kids born not only with the red hair but with the translucent skin and other unfortunate features that make them the butt of many jokes.

I take my nephew to the park at least once a week and the variety of colours that the children come in makes it hard to believe that there is anything as silly as racism or prejudice in our society. Last week was one of our park excursions, and after Alex had run himself ragged for an hour, his mother went to give him the five-minute warning. While they are running around and playing in the park, I’m patiently waiting in the creeper zone. You know what zone I’m talking about. The area that’s not quite in the park and not quite out of it, frequented mainly by childless people and pedophiles. I’m the former, not the latter.

While I’m waiting for Alex to do his mucking about in the park, I notice this woman who is accompanying her son (approximately 10-11 years old and a ginger kid) and her husband. She is sitting on the bench in front of me, and since I’m standing in the creeper zone I can only see the back of her and her son. It appears that they are struggling back and forth and out of her mouth I hear the words “NO Ginger in the park!” Well, needless to say I’m horrified. How can a mother be so cruel to her own child? How dare she treat him like that! His own mother! I take a few steps forward, more out of dazed horror than anything, to realize that in actuality she’s holding a small, wire-haired dog.

A few more shouts of “No Ginger in the park!” make me realize that in actuality, the dog is named Ginger. She is not shouting slurs at her own child. Perhaps my relief was evident, but more likely she heard me trying to control the eruptive bray of laughter boiling up in my chest. Her head whips around to look me in the face while I struggle to contain the hilarity of my realization. Those five minutes where some of the most difficult I’ve ever experienced while I waited for Anna and Alex to finish up.

I didn’t even make it ten feet from the park before the laughter overwhelmed me and I needed to brace myself for a few minutes.

All I’m saying is that if you have a ginger kid, naming your little dog Ginger might not have been the best idea. But for now, No gingers in the park!

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1 Comment so far
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LOL’d at the creeper zone.

Comment by J




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