Lucky Duck.

There’s a line, howsoever blurred or indistinct, dividing luck and chance from reality and skill.  I just don’t know where it is.  I’ve never been a traditionally lucky person; I don’t win door prizes, and I’d hit bankrupt a hundred times on Wheel of Fortune before I came near the “Tropical Vacation!” box. Luck or no luck, though, a certain fascination attaches to trying—could be me! Maybe this time! We could beat the odds!

With that (and a drumroll, please), the winner of Pay it Forward here at Thunderstorms Highly Likely is notsojenny. Hooray! Balloons, streamers, etc.  If you don’t already read her, you should; she’s fantastic.

Here are the official stats from the secret magic randomizer (aka random.org):

There were 7 items in your list. Here they are in random order:

1. notsojenny
2. margot
3. la
4. lawyerish
5. bunny
6. ashley
7. um…yum!

Timestamp: 2008-05-05 03:20:20 UTC 

Send me your contact info, Miss Number One, and I’ll send on your goodies. 

Luck—sometimes you have it, sometimes you don’t. 

A horse named J. Alfred Prufrock raced in the Virginia Gold Cup yesterday.  If I were a betting girl, I would have put my chips down on him.  And, coming out of the second jump, it’s Head West in the lead, followed closely by J. Alfred Prufrock, and King Lear making a valiant charge ahead, the announcer-man says.  Those odd words just rolled off his tongue, taking with them my support and proving that so much, in fact, is in a name.  

Let us go then, you and I, when the evening is spread out against the sky. I think of that T.S. Eliot poem every so often, though it usually creeps into my thoughts at work conferences.  Days when I’m dead exhausted, lining up for the free coffee in hotel china; I have measured out my life with coffee spoons. Harrowing, really.

Alas, he didn’t win, that horse.  I don’t even think he placed. I stood up there at the edge of luck v. reality to cheer him on, however; adding my applause to the sea of hands and voices, claiming a space for me and my sundress among the truly outlandish ensembles on display.

Never again will I walk into JCrew and scoff at the orange pants with green dolphins embroidered on.  “Who buys these clown pants?” I’ve asked, rather recently.  Ah. Gold Cup goers.  The great mystery of crazy expensive preppy plaid baby clothes, too, has been solved.  Sure, you may not be wise to bring Junior to the play park in his Vineyard Vines seersucker rompers (with easy-access diaper snaps, natch), and he’ll probably lose his pink checked bow-tie between the car seat and the front part of the shopping cart.  But heavens forefend you dress your offspring in anything else to meet your pals at Members Hill!

It’s no secret that I’m very new to the whole east coast experience.  Based on what I saw yesterday, it’ll take a bit more time for me to acclimatize.

I went with two of my west coast friends, and we spent most of our time parked on a picnic blanket pretending to be photographers for People’s Best and Worst Dressed, Gold Cup Edition. 

It was the guys’ apparent enthusiasm that we just couldn’t figure out.  No hometown man I’ve ever met would be caught dead in most of the ensembles that fit right in on that series of lawns.  We had a game going for a while: man walks by.  Friend to me: “imagine your dad wearing that.”  Bwahahaha! Ha! We’d collapse into hilarious laughter, which most people I’m sure assumed was owing the vast amounts of alcohol we were not, in fact, consuming.  The people-watching never really got old, either.  The whole event was like a costume party for the office-oppressed prep.

J swears it’s normal, which of course led to a covert search of the depths of his closet the moment he took out the recycling.  Good news: no embroidered farm animals assuming residence; no wild floral trousers or patchwork plaid caps.  At least, none that I found.

Still, somewhere in my head, I could see myself there.  Me in a big hat with coordinating shoes and purse, holding the hand of a doll-dressed little girl.  J in his plaidness opens the hatchback of our prep-mobile, and he and a smaller version of himself pull a perfectly coordinated and gourmet-homemade picnic from within.  We set up tables dressed in fine linens, and have a civilized afternoon with our seersucker friends.  Their children and ours romp around together, grass-staining their saddle shoes but receiving only superficial scolding. 

Maybe I’d be that lucky.  Or maybe I’m just insane.  Sometimes it really is a difficult line.