There's a crossing guard that directs traffic in front of Lydia's school each morning who we've affectionately named the Angry Pixie (Lydia came up with that). She reminds me a little of what Tinker Bell would look like after years of hard partying and beachgoing in Malibu.
I approach her in the dark morning mist with trepidation trying to remember what all her hand motions mean. I stop and go, stop and go, stop and go in order to guage her reaction to each move. If I start to go and she shouts at me I assume I'm supposed to wait. If I keep moving and her motions don't become more emphatic I figure it's safe to go. Erring on the side of caution I usually stop until I hear her livid cattle call burst out of the darkness. I remember the first time I heard that dreaded sound I jumped and spilled my coffee. Sometimes, if I've ticked her off enough, I can make out her huge frown as I pass by, but I sincerely try not to make eye contact because somehow I feel that's not ok with her. Poor Angry Pixie.
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To this day I live in fear of the crossing guard who yelled at me years ago when the front bumper of my car went slightly over the wide, white crosswalk line. There weren't even any kids there at the time! I am now very careful to stop behind the line. Then there is the never-to-be-forgotten time in 3rd or 4th grade when my teacher went ballistic and yelled at me in the front of the entire school (8 grades in one room) for not writing the letter "r" correctly in cursive. Here I am at age uh, um...and every time I write the letter "r' in cursive I slowly and carefully write that letter and remember that day when my teacher humiliated me.
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