Parents in some South Carolina town are all up in arms because a teacher there was having her first graders rub her feet. At least she didn't "take showers" with them.
The news is full of stories about grown ups behaving badly, yet we never cease to be shocked when we hear that things aren't always as they seem behind the closed doors of our neighborhood McMansions. Shit may be happening "out there," but for some reason many of us have ourselves convinced that our own subdivisions defy the averages.
As a person who lives in one of the houses with a door that suddenly turned to glass, revealing the stains and the tears within, I breathe a sigh of relief each time another home goes transparent and shows itself to be much more of a fixer upper than anyone might have assumed. It's not that I take pleasure in anybody else's marital or financial or parental problems; it's just that an occasional reminder of the flaws in our Stepford-like assumptions gives me the comfort of knowing I am not alone.
Do I doubt for one second that gossip worthy problems like infidelity or bankruptcy or garden variety family dysfunction are as rampant here in my little corner of deep dark suburbia as they are elsewhere? Not a chance. But do I still get sucked into the belief that all those other houses are as neat and tidy inside as the landscaped lawns in front? Naturally. I am as delusional and prone to flawed assumptions as the next suburbanite. Deep down, though, I know that if you pulled back most of the curtains, you'd see a lot of crap. Okay, busted. Maybe I do take just a little bit of pleasure in the misfortune of others.
As realistic as I can be, though, I still find it hard to believe that any of my neighbors are, ahem,"showering" with little boys or having six year olds rub their feet when they should be working on phonics. That's just too icky.
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