Bubbles and Bowling Balls

Everyone loves bubbles. Blowing millions of them into the breeze on a summer afternoon while the kids jump around trying to pop them. Watching as some escape, drift into the sky, all different sizes, while the sun casts colorful rainbows on their round, shiny surfaces.

People not only can blow bubbles, but they actually have bubbles. That invisible space around us that we only allow some people to enter and only some of the time. Our own bubbles also come in all different sizes depending on where we are from and our own personality type.

I was bowling one night and chatting with my friend from New York. New Yorkers have very small bubbles. As she pressed her face very close to mine, I found my back arching, my feet shuffling as I retreated across about seven lanes. She kept shuffling right back to me, pressing her nose in my forehead and catching me up on everything from kids to work. Although I love her kids and her work was interesting, her nose was uncomfortable in my forehead and I kept hearing George Washington’s "hold your fire ‘til you see the whites of their eyes."

Finally, I panicked and hollering it was my turn to bowl, I bolted away, grabbed the closest bowling ball, and threw it wildly down the nearest lane. Which happened to be NOT the lane my team was bowling on. And also happened to be occupied by several overly muscular, chain smoking, leather wearing, tattooed bikers. They were not happy at my crashing their party and throwing their ball.

After they finished beating me up, I crawled back up the steps and spotted my friend from Doyline. Putting some ice on my bruises, I walked over to talk about work and kids. She is a very likable person and I was happy to have spotted her to chat. It was a bit hard to hold the ice on my head and talk when she kept backing up. Then, suddenly, she shrieked, ran and grabbed a bowling ball, and tossed it wildly down a nearby lane. She must get excitable when thinking she might miss her turn. And I never knew she was on a team of punk rockers. I adjusted my ice and headed back to my own team.

Now my daughter has no bubble at all. As a baby, she was held constantly by everyone. Not even learning to walk until almost school age. She loves being pressed right against you while eating, walking, watching TV, or sleeping. While shopping at Wal-Mart, she was oblivious to shoving me into cans of tomato sauce on my right while she was happily recounting her day at school and burrowing her shoulder into my ribcage on my left.

While in the checkout line a dirty old bum came up to her and started trying to make conversation. Her eyes grew round and I grabbed her and shoved her behind me. The bum was frustrated at not being able to finish saying goofy things to his new friend, and moved on to the next best target which was my much older and much larger son.

Being an older brother for quite some time, he immediately assessed the situation and steered the bum behind him. He then planted his feet firmly apart, hands on his hips, and maintained minimal, but polite, conversation with the strange old man. The old guy kept leaning over his shoulder, continuing to talk while my son obviously was desperate to step forward, but maintained his rooted position to keep space for his sister and mom while we finished loading the buggy. My heart warmed at his manly stance, not budging an inch for the two women he was protecting, and the bum continued to lean and began a conversation with the check-out clerk while his chin projected over my son’s left shoulder.

On the way to the car, back in the fresh clean air and the wide open spaces, my son stated he had just met someone that had an even smaller bubble than his sister. Something we thought near impossible as she wedged her shoulder under my elbow and I busted my face on the side mirrors of three parked cars.

But all in all, one thing is certain. No matter how shiny or how dirty, no matter how big or how small, bubbles and bowling balls just don’t mix.