the kiddie table

I have wowed myself with my own laziness. Since returning from vacation, where I happened to be much busier and more physically active than normal, I have been a big old couch potato. Furthermore, I was having insomnia / sleeping issues toward the end of my trip. My flight back to NY was a red-eye, and I couldn't sleep for a minute. Thus, when I got back home I turned nocturnal.

I had all these grand plans ... like doing laundry and you know, getting out of the house for a few minutes. But I just zoned out. I allowed myself three days of such behavior - and yesterday was the third. No more vegatative indolence. Today I shall do something! Does blogging count as something?

As mentioned earlier, Australia was fantastic. We did and saw so much that I was actually overwhelmed with the idea of summarizing it in a single piece of writing. I also took 445 photos. Deciding which ones are best to display has proven to be daunting. Also, I've been pre-occupied. Ellen was on. But it's on my to-do list. One of these days I will write a vacation recount.

Being home has quite the range of benefits and disadvantages. Benefits = acting like a carefree six year old. Disadvantages = being treated like a six year old.

My parents subscribe to the "out of sight, out of mind" mode of parenting. That is to say, when I'm around, they suddenly worry about my every move and dictate my schedule. Mind you that I am 26 and spent 3 weeks traveling all over the place, over which time they spoke to me maybe twice. But when I'm home, it's a whole different ballgame.

Yesterday, my mom called and left me the following message (I was napping. Since I was so tired from, uh, sleeping). Anyway, she said:

"Hi Sophia. This is Mom. Listen, Dad says we have to go to dinner at [said restaurant] tonight. So, I hope you don't have other plans."

It turned out to be a business dinner - my dad and a group of his colleagues. And their kids.

(Cue ominous music...)

And this is when I realized that my life is borderline pathetic. I was placed at the far end of the table with the kids. And when I say kids, I mean kids. The oldest was an 18 year old girl. The other kids were 3 boys; one 10 year old and two 8 year olds.

My friends and I have discussed this before. Particularly at Indian functions, if you are unmarried - no matter what age, you will be placed at the kids table. For goodness sake, I'm going to be a doctor and this was a meeting of doctors, but since I am sans-life-partner, my companionship for the evening was mutually painful. (Ewww! You're a girl!!).

The kids were actually very sweet and I established my "coolness" with them by ordering them whatever they wanted: Lobster for the 10 year old, who freaked out when they brought in a full lobster, head and all. Extra ice cream for the two 8 year olds, who lamented that the waiter brought them vanilla instead of chocolate. I fixed this potential World War III by asking for chocolate sauce.

One of the 8 year olds pulled a bit on my heartstrings though. I'll call him Bobby. Not that because that's his name, but because I am always amused that Indians nickname their kids Bobby, Billy, Bunty or Freddy. It's like, hey, my kids name is Rajeshlal but I'll call him Bob.

I liked Bobby, most probably because he was a big geek and reminded me of my own geeky self at that age. He even attends third grade at an elementary school that is part of the school district I myself attended. For the few Herricks readers out there, you might appreciate this:

Sophia: So, what elementary school do you go to?
Bobby: Uh, Denton Avenue.
Sophia: Oh, I went to Center Street!
Bobby: Center Streek sucks.

Nice to know that things have not changed in TWENTY years.

Anyway, Bobby was one of these kids who ends every phrase with an inflection - so that it sounds like every thing he says is a question. His head was full of random information that he was incredibly eager to share. It went something like this:

"So? You know? Sand dust? How it forms? Sand dust in the particles? Uhuh? It mixes with air particles in the atmosphere? And they mix? And dust forms? When you rub the sand? And then? You breathe it in? And it goes in your nose? And your nose sends a message to your sneeze center in your brain? And then your sneezing muscles contract? And you sneeze? Did you know? A sneeze goes at 100 mph?"

So cute. But a bit taxing. And don't doubt that every 15 seconds I thought "Holy crap, I am 26 years old. I be needing a husband."

My mom was seated next to me (the fault line between the Adult and Kiddie sides of the table). She noticed my amusement, and then shared the funniest story with me. A few months ago they had been at some dinner party, and the same group of kids were there. Apparently Bobby and the other kids were talking and sharing their curiousity about the world. Bobby started to say: "Hey, do you guys know what intercourse is? I've read it but nobody tells me. What's intercourse?"

Man, I wish I could've been there. Because I have a hunch that I would've been the only person at the kiddie table who knew that answer.