I Don't

There are a lot of things I don't do. I don't do some of them for darn good reasons. The others, well, maybe my reasons are weaker, but they're still MY reasons.

As a rule, I don't send Christmas cards. I don't like them. I'm not even sure I like getting them because there is always the possibility that one of them will contain the dreaded Christmas Letter. I hate Christmas letters. Apparently they fill someone's need to boast, brag and generally bore me to tears with the sheer` perfection of their life. Honestly, do I really care that John and Mary went Spring skiing in Vail? Or that little Jessica won the school spelling bee? I don't even know little Jessica! If people were really honest in those letters they would tell you how bored they are, or how crappy their job is or how lazy their kids are. Now that would be fun to read. One year in a burst of madness I wrote a Christmas letter. And I mean A Christmas letter. I sent it to my friend Terri because she was the only person who would appreciate my candor. I was careful to frame everything in the same positive, chipper language that is found in the Christmas letters I've received. I remember talking about all our family adventures at the local jail where my son was languishing for a recent brush with the cops and marijuana. (Oh those crazy, fun-loving cops!!) I talked about the joy I was experiencing while sailing through the latest corporate reorganization at the hospital where I worked and how cool it was that Administration was going to make us re-apply for our jobs!!. I emphasized the enormous pleasure I was getting from knowing how much my Mom was enjoying her romp through AlzheimersLand where she had made a new BFF - her reflection in the mirror. Yes, it was a real knee slapper. My audience of one truly enjoyed it.

I don't give dinner parties. I don't like entertaining. It freaks me out. What if I screw up dinner? What if the Flan flops, or the appetizers aren't? Oh no, that is way too much pressure. But, I will gladly, and thankfully attend a dinner party at YOUR house where all I have to do is bring wine and eat.

I don't swim. I have a cellular fear of drowning...proof positive that in a former life I drowned. I like to look at water. I like to drink water. I love showers. But do not expect me to slip the bonds of dry land and enjoy the pool - or the ocean for that matter. I cannot walk on water (not yet anyway). I may be made of mostly water but this is of no consequence. I don't stand anywhere near the side of a pool because you will push me in and think it's funny. I will freak out and never speak to you again. I will spend the rest of my life looking for ways to pay you back.

I do not fund raise. I will not sell you cookies or chocolate, or popcorn, or cheap wrapping paper. I will not ask you to give to my favorite charity. When faced with the prospect of asking anyone for anything I will instead, shoulder the financial burden myself. When my son was little I bought so many chocolate bars and tins of popcorn that there is a possibility that some still exist in the bowels of my basement freezer. On the other hand, I will always buy whatever you are selling because I have trouble saying 'no'.

I do not eat anything that is still outwardly intact...or that I once knew. A stuffed trout with it's head still on, that stares back at me with rheumy, dead, eyes is not on my gastronomical menu. Ditto for crayfish, dungeness crab, or (heaven forbid) a pig that has been roasting on a spit all day. I think pig roasts are repulsive. How would you like to end your life with a metal rod shoved up your butt spining slowly over an open fire pit while onlookers drool? Ugh. Another "don't" is duck. As a child I owned (at various times) ducks. Every Easter my Grandmother would buy me a duckling...it was often pink, purple or green because it was dyed to make it more appealing (go figure). Back then, we didn't know any better and you could pick these things up at Woolworth's for a buck. When the duckling got too big, off it would go to a farm until the next year when the new duckling would arrive courtesy of the Easter Bunny. I never knew that people ATE duck until I was an adult. The first time I encountered a roasted duck I ran from the table. The next time it was simply served to me (looked like chicken) and after finding out what I was eating I promptly barfed. No duck, no way. You get the picture.

I don't bake. Nuh uh. Baking requires one's full attention. Ingredients must be measured precisely. Cooking time is finite. Even bumping the stove can mess something up. Way too much attention to detail for my taste. I'm the kind of person who doesn't know (or care to know) the difference between baking powder and baking soda. I'm told there is a big difference. I don't really want to find out. I often give my friends recipes for things I wish I wanted to bake. Sometimes they actually bake it for me. Not often enough, though. Too bad. I might make "loves to bake" a requirement for my next BFF.

Well, that's a partial list of my don'ts. There are many more. Being older allows me to be quirkier than I was at say, twenty five. At twenty-five I might have done some of this to make you like me. Now, if you don't like me, that's your problem. I don't need anyone's approval to be me. Really, I don't.