Flag on the Play—Offensive Holding
Some people come into the world marked for a unique destiny. Perhaps it is in their genes, perhaps it is karma, but whatever the reason, these individuals must obey the gods of Olympus and yield to their lot in life.
Me?—I’m a “holder.” What’s that you ask?—what is a holder? Well, quite simply it is someone who holds something. Oh, no, I do not mean something as important as holding a mortgage, or a lien on a house, or even a great poker hand. I mean holding T-H-I-N-G-S.
I have no doubt that when I came into the world—at 11:50 p.m. on a Thursday, the 12th (see how close I was to witchery and Friday the 13th?!)—I was handed something. I can see it now—the doctor paused, and the forceps fell into my hand, the nurse stuck some gauze there, or perhaps a thermometer, just for a second or two. But that did it, that fleeting act sealed my fate forever and ever, amen. I was designated from that point on as a “holder.”
I don’t remember my first grade experiences, but somewhere, at some time, I know I held things. Maybe a book for a fellow student, or even crayons while someone else colored, but holding, nonetheless.
Then one day someone passed me a real lulu—a mickey finn of a virus called polio. I held on to that until it germinated and took over my seven-year-old body. That was the worst thing I must have ever “held.”
From that point on it frittered away to holding inconsequential things in comparison—tools, while my Dad worked; the mirror for my Mom so she could see the back of her hair, a tissue, just in case I needed it. But holding, holding.
I grew up and took to carrying a much too large purse because I knew I would be asked to hold things, and it gets cumbersome unless you have said purse ready.
As I matured, I got to hold more important items for a while, like babies, or my dad’s keys, my mother’s rings, a friend’s homework assignment for a minute, someone’s money until they returned from somewhere, or a key for safekeeping. Ah, the keys—they grew exponentially. Everywhere I ever worked in the entire universe I was asked to hold keys for that door/office suite/facility. I think that’s because those who hang around holding things take on the look of a dependable person—they have baggage, and aren’t seen as a flight risk.
On dates, I held sweaters, jackets, sodas, and more money. Or I held things for girls who carried tiny purses and didn’t have enough room. The things that have passed through my hands are myriad and as varied as the stars in the heavens.
I grew up, got married and lo and behold, I ended up holding the baby for nine months, and then many more months once she came into the world. (By the way, no one put anything in HER hand on that fateful day)—she has traveled through life unencumbered and unaffected my particular curse of “holding.”
When she grew up a bit more, I held dolls, and sticky gum that needed to be ditched, and more crayons, and more sweaters, and muppets and puppets and bears, Oh, my! Then my husband joined the act. If he had money at the drive-thru, I got to hold it. As he had no purse, he often had “things” to be held and hastily foisted them off on me. I held cigarettes (those I should have ditched like the gum), cough drops, more tissues, sunglasses, wine glasses, combs, wallets—you name it.
The saga moves on, for I then I became a grandmother , and was back to holding muppets, books, bears, blankets and sweaters. I think my patron saint must be a pack mule!
So, you get the picture of the dreary life of a holder. It is a burden, a tough job, but someone has to do it. I have resigned myself to my fate. I do see light at the end of the tunnel, however. Some day I will pass on, and my ‘holding” days will be over. I will be taken to the funeral home, put in a little box all alone, and prepared for whatever fate awaits me in the great beyond.
But I have this over-arching fear that causes me to wake in a sweat at night after my worst nightmare. I am all laid out there, helpless, waiting for the next plateau, when all of a sudden someone comes up and puts something in my space! It could be a farewell note, a coin from a friend, a button, a good luck charm—they might mean well, but again my fate would have been sealed. I will await the day of judgment, HOLDING something!
If this really happens, if you are there, if you are reading this and know my phobia, please come to my aid. Jump up, be bold—if you see the hand-off, just yell “Flag on the play, offensive holding,” and take the item away. Let me at least go out of this world empty-handed.