Sometimes You’re The Cat; Sometimes The Iron

I was amused by the hubbub over the annointing of a new Monopoly game token. Probably my favorite bit:

@KevinSeccia Monopoly dropped the iron?! Looks like it's your move, billion dollar video game industry

Even though this is the first time Hasbro has involved the great unwashed masses in the selection of a new token, it is hardly the first time they have changed their token lineup. Originally the inventor of the game apparently was smart enough to come up with the concept, but when it came time to decide what to use for game pieces, his genius had been depleted. His great idea was to use buttons. Buttons! His nieces came to the rescue, suggesting tokens based on the charms on their charm bracelets. Thank you, girls! Can't you just see them all hunkered over the claw-footed table in the front parlor, excited to play a new type of game? Then Uncle dumps out some ratty buttons to play with, and they simultaneously push back from the game table and head outside for a rousing game of Mumblety Peg. Buttons? We don't need no stinking buttons!

The buttons were just the first in a long line of tokens that were summarily dismissed from Monopoly. Don't get me wrong - I like the new token. I mean, cats, right? Cats are adorable. And I absolutely despise ironing in all of its forms. But I can't help but feel sorry for Iron, sent to the Island of Misfit Tokens. No doubt Iron was greeted warmly by Lantern, Purse, Rocking Horse, and Cannon. They spent their first half hour together talking about how Racecar was always such a self-important punk, and wondering how on earth Thimble has managed to remain part of the Elite Eight past the 1960s.

Meanwhile, Cat must be feeling pretty good. Cats in general are still riding the tsunami of popularity generated by the earthquake of countless adorable online gifs, memes, videos, toys, scratching posts, climbing towers - my goodness! the number of cat-related products out there is impressive. I guess you could say in this case the cat was in the bag. In or out, people do love their cats. It's a great feeling to be asked, chosen, wanted, liked, loved. We humans appreciate it, too. Many of us show our appreciation of this outpouring of affection a little more effectively than most cats, which is why Valentine's Day is a billion dollar industry.

But it's not always dark chocolate truffles and roses. I remember the first time I was the Iron. In hindsight, I should have seen it coming, but as a naive middle-schooler with her first boyfriend, I didn't have a clue.

I was having a pretty good year for a nerd. I tried out for and made what used to be called the 'drill team' (not a metaphor!) which was a cross between marching band and dance team. A drill team is the size of a marching band, but waves pom poms instead of trombones. We wore long-sleeved, short-skirted satin uniforms, top hats, gloves, white boots -  very 70s Texas. We concocted elaborate dance routines choreographed to whatever happening tune the marching band had planned for that week (Oye Como Va, anyone?), and performed them at the football game halftimes.

It had been years since I had set slippered foot inside a dance studio, so I was surprised to be accepted into this group and doubly surprised to be elected as one of the squad captains. Being a squad captain was a big deal because our top hats were a different color (gold, not black) and we got to strut around in front of our squads and basically lord it over the other girls who were not squad captains. Not proud of that, but sometimes it happened.

ANYWAY. Not long after this surprise elevation in my social station, I was approached by a nice enough fellow student who wanted to be my boyfriend. Remember, this was in my hometown, Nerd City, long before sexting and Friends With Benefits. In that day and age, having a boyfriend was little more than phone conversations (land line), hi-and-bye at school, and the occasional awkward date being squired around in the back seat of one's parents' car.

The football season rolled by uneventfully. At last, the final game of the season was played; the final routine performed. And before I had even left the stadium, the boyfriend dashed up to me, said he wanted to break up, and handed me back my boot. Oh, I forgot to tell you about the boot.

As any parent will testify, belonging to any sort of activity group, whether it be soccer team or chess club or drill team, often is accompanied by painful amounts of money spent on things deemed ridiculous by the parents and indispensable by the participant. Letter jackets, class rings, mums to wear to the games, assorted logo clothing items, uniforms, etc. One of these indispensable items for drill team was sold by the local jewelry store. It was a gold boot about the size of a quarter, engraved with the participant's name or initials on the back, usually worn on a gold chain as a necklace. As is still the case, back in Ye Olden Tymes it was the tradition to exchange a personal item as a sign of affection and commitment to one's significant other, so this boy had been wearing my boot throughout the football season. And now here I stood at W. E. Greiner Stadium with my boot handed back to me in front of god and everybody, like Iron's dinghy hoving to at the pier on the Island of Misfit Tokens.

I didn't cry. I didn't care for that boy all that well. I mean, he was okay, but I guess I was always a little mystified by the whole relationship - until he put that boot in my hand after the last halftime performance. Then it all made perfect sense: he only wanted to be my boyfriend because of some perceived exalted status due to my position as Squad Captain on the drill team. Once that was no longer a factor, the attraction evaporated. At least he was man/boy enough to return my boot!

I learned a valuable life lesson by being the Iron that day: when something doesn't seem quite right, it probably isn't. And even though it can be awkward and embarrassing, sometimes a clean break is best for everyone. So Iron, enjoy your retirement. While you are hitting the links with Lantern and Cannon, think about poor Cat. When she is not prowling the Avenues, being manhandled by thousands of grubby fingers, in and out of Jail, she will be stuck in a dark box, rubbing up against the hard corners of cheap hotels, and being hit on in the clumsiest, most unimaginative ways by Racecar and Top Hat. First time she gets a chance, I guarantee you Cat will be opting for early retirement.

Thanks for reading! If you enjoyed this post, I hope you'll take a minute to subscribe to my blog (the subscribe box is near the top of the right sidebar).