America loves a good redemption story. We love it when reality TV, movie or rock stars destroy themselves before our very eyes. We talk about their demise by the water cooler in our respective offices, sharing juicy details.
“What? She attacked the paparazzi with an umbrella? NO WAY!!”
“Of course she’s back in rehab, that girl is out of control!”
“Oh, yea – I saw the video on You Tube. That man was drunk out of his mind – And the things he said?! Oooh chyle – His career will NEVER bounce back from that drunken tirade”
We love it! Every single one of us… We do…
I admit I am guilty of indulging. I am glued to the TV when “Here comes Honey Boo Boo” is on. I pass judgment on that poor little girl and her redneck mama. I tsk tsk “Mama Honey Boo Boo’s” parenting skills, and am simultaneously horrified, nauseated, yet strangely entertained by their antics, dirty feet, Honey Boo Boo catch phrases, and let’s not get into the family dynamic. There is some crazy ‘ish” happening in those Georgia backwoods.
I watch, and will continue to watch until the family is divided by money and pseudo D-list fame, will be glued to the TV as they spiral out of control. I lie in wait. That show is a good redemption story in the making… 14, 15 years from now.
And I will wait as long as it takes for that redemption story. I am guilty of this. Guilty of displaying pure elation when stars – movie, reality, or rock are finally off prostitution, crystal meth, heroin, or whatever shame spiral is “de rigueur”. I cheer when they are back on TV entertaining me once more. Me, the very same chick who was glued to the TV through every second of their downfall.
And when they are finally redeemed and showered with countless accolades I pull out my virtual #1 foam finger and cheer loud and proud – “They made it… YES! I knew it!”
I’m no good…
Ripe bananas are my own personal redemption story. I buy them at the peak of their beauty, yellow and gorgeous. Then I watch them ripen and age on my counter. I promise to use them before they deteriorate further. Yet I allow them to speck and brown and rot. Days and days pass and I walk by them, without a care in the world. Eventually they get so old and crusty they begin to leak their juices on my counter. I used to toss overripe bananas out without a second thought – Next!
As good redemption stories go, one day something happened. These decrepit bananas demanded their place in my world; they were determined to have it, wouldn’t take no for an answer. Do you know what else? They refused to become run-of-the-mill banana bread. Screw that! My bananas worked it, coming back stronger and tastier than ever. And this, this is redemption at its finest.
We Americans, we love a good redemption story.