“Poop? Poop? You’re writing about poop?” my youngest challenged me. “That’s gross, Mom.” Well, what can I say? I don’t always get to choose when the flair moment comes. I just witness it.
On the walk to school this morning, my friend and I trailed behind her little dog (the one with the waggly tail). When the dog stopped to poop, we stopped and waited, and then we waited some more while she picked up the poop and put it in a plastic bag.
Meanwhile, the other parents and their kids ran ahead and up the hill through the woods.
“Thanks for waiting with me,” my friend said.
“No problem. That’s what friendship is. I wait while you deal with your poop.”
We looked at each other and laughed. It’s so true. How many days have we waited patiently while the other was dealing with her poop: bad moods, freak-out days of too much work and not enough time, our “issues,” or any other situation that made us act less than our best, less than we knew we could be? How many days did we commiserate about sick children, family drama, disappointments, personal failures?
We put our arms around each other and walked up that hill. Any friend that can appreciate my flair metaphors of picking up poop and walking up hills is a friend of mine. I don’t even need to write it: Living with flair means I stand beside my friends as they deal with their poop. Even if everybody else is running up ahead, moving on with their days, I’m hanging around with the poop. She’d do it for me.