"…part of the bobbineer brigade in World War II."
Bobbineer brigade? I know I shouldn't drift off during the deacon's sermon, but still, I'm not familiar with the bobbineer brigade. Her Majesty's terrifying quilting corps?
Never have so few, sewn so much for so many.
Now he's talking about Helicopters in Vietnam. Wha-? Our deacon likes mixing in history into his sermons. It's fascinating for him, it must be fascinating for us. I hate history: too much repetition. Still, everybody's glued to his words, so it must be me.
A lot of things are me. I know what you're thinking "Not, this whine again Rob! You're probably going to work in some Wine/Whine wordplay and call yourself clever too, huh?" That's not true. I never used the word "clever." The term is "super-genius," thank you very much, and someday, I'll catch that roadrunner of understanding. Someday.
See, what happens is when you divorce, the world falls into two crowds: The invisible crowd. And the helpful crowd. The invisible crowd, well they just disappear, you'll never know you knew them, and they certainly won't support your weight when the bridge gives way. The other crowd is all hands on, "This is what worked for me." or "I've heard this helps." That's great. When your world gives way, there's nothing like a bobbineer squadron to draw things together. Still, there comes a point where you have to find your own way across the chasm. A time to wake and take stock in what you have and just move, because you realize it's your life you're living and other people don't know it as well as you do.
"Hi, I'm Rob, I'll be your guy clinging to this stupid breakaway bridge this evening."
For now I'm fumbling with tools of somebody else's making, tools devised to help me grasp understanding in my paws and devour it. Tools made by somebody named Acme. Someday...
I checked; there's nothing on the Acme Website about the "bobbineer brigades." I could google them I suppose. Is it in poor form to pull out your iPhone in church? There's a picture of my dog on the "unlock screen." That has to win me some humanitarian points. Don't believe me? Look at this face:
Who's going to say I'm not a good guy when this guy's my spokesman?
Still no, I'll leave the phone in my pocket. It's time I worked things out for me. Gadgets and gimmicks are great for other people. I can't work with them. In third grade Timmy Lundgren brought his Stretch Armstrong to school. He'd gotten it for Christmas. "Look," he said, "You can't break it." I did. Apparently Stretch has an Achilles' heel when it comes to Tonka Trucks. Especially when they're driven by an angry Fisher Price mob to a draw and quarter party. Stretch snapped under the strain. Timmy was pissed. I shrugged. I thought he was lucky the mob didn't have torches too. Maybe Timmy shoulda asked for a Six-Million Dollar Man doll instead; at least with the right tools and technology we could rebuild him. Stretch was the Humpty Dumpty of the toy world. Another gimmick broken.
It's time to stop expecting everybody else's toys to work for me, and depend on my own. At least if I overexert my own elasticity, nobody's mom is gonna call my house at 7pm on a Wednesday expecting recompense. Timmy you squealer. Stretch at least stayed quiet before he broke...
So I do what I've been dreading all along: I listen to the deacon's sermon. It's about life changing events and how things can bring out the best or the worst in us. They're opportunities. After much repetition, I learn that "bobbineers" are just a poorly annunciated "bombardier." That certainly makes sense. I just wish this sermon were relevant to me. Maybe Timmy should have been here to hear it.
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