Run

I really like Norman Rockwell. I think his paintings are not just extraordinarily beautiful, but they also say something. In a time of depression, he painted kids running and playing. In a time of segregation, he painted a time when it didn't exist. Sure, his art shows an idealist's version of America that we will never see, but it's inspiring. It's inspiring to hope for that white picket fence American Dream lifestyle.

On Saturday I had planned to see the Norman Rockwell exhibit at the Orlando Museum of Art. I was excited to see his famous paintings in person. I also have a soft spot for museums. So Saturday, with historical art on the mind, I set out to meet my dad at the museum (who was equally as excited.)

The first problem I ran into was timing. I left late and ran into loads of traffic downtown. Because of this, it was 1:30 by the time I even got close to the area (the time I set to meet my dad in front of the museum.) He called around then to tell me that the parking lot was full, and to park on the street. Some festival was apparently going on.

Problem number two: I forgot that the Orlando Fringe Festival was still going on, coincidentally in the exact parking lot that I was trying to get to. After maneuvering through the traffic and parked cars, I finally found a spot to park--quite far away. Looking at my watch, I realized that it was 1:45. I was fifteen minutes late. Sure, my dad wouldn't care, but I hated to keep him waiting. I have a problem with punctuality. I have to be everywhere on time. I can not be late. I start stressing. I experience severe anxiety. I think I may have problems.

Knowing that walking would take another good ten to fifteen minutes, I did the only thing I could think of. I ran.

Wearing a black tank top, long jeans, and ballet flats, I ran through the art district in Winter Park, crossing streets and avoiding people walking. I felt like I was in a movie, running from some heinous man trying to kidnap me because I found out his secret lifestyle. Or trying to get to the festival in time to warn them about the bomb that was planted. Clutching my purse, I ran faster, occasionally looking behind me. If I was going to look like the mad woman running, I might as well do it with style.

My bangs clung to my forehead as sweat dripped down. My jeans scratched against my legs and I wondered how actresses could do this in films. I affirmed myself that if ever I was in trouble, I'd be prepared. Even in 90 degree weather, as it was Saturday, I would be prepared. Panting, I finally reached my dad. He looked at me like I was crazy and simply said, "you didn't have to run."

Incidentally, the exhibit was amazing.