It’s a testament to the enduring reach of my Catholic upbringing that even when I’m giving money away, I fear getting caught. I sneaked around that grocery store yesterday like an incompetent shoplifter, leaving money instead of stealing inventory. Obviously up to something, I repeatedly threw guilty suspicious casual looks over my shoulder and completely failed to keep my poker face in front of store employees.
No one caught on.
Hiding the money was fun but not just because it felt illegal. I got such a thrill out of sliding a dollar under the lid of a can of baby formula or between the pages of a composition notebook. A sticky note wishing the finder a great day accompanied each bill.
It was easy to imagine a child’s delight at finding a dollar in a box of paints. That would make my Sarah dance all afternoon. But what of the grownup finding a dollar under the outer wrapping of a tissue box? Would she feel happy, pleasantly surprised? Or creeped out, maybe even stalked? Interestingly, imagining either reaction was equally fun.
Probably the best part was telling my daughters what I’d done. They were both so tickled by it, delighted to be in on the secret and fascinated by the question of where all those dollars would end up.
For today’s joy, I’m heading for my daughters’ playroom to paint a picture. I have no talent for painting, as a photo of my work will prove tomorrow. But paint is purdy. I can’t remember the last time I tried to make something just for fun.