Confessions of a Road Warrior.
Confessions of a Road Warrior.
would drive to my business careening through city streets doing my lipstick, talking on a cell phone and
breast-feeding two kids all at the same time. Now that I live in the country, I
realize I have not slowed down one iota. I am the type of person who believes
the speed limit is merely a suggestion. I think I am trying to drive as fast as I
think. I used to drive 118 kilometers per hour, now I’m doing 130 kilometers per
hour, still in the slow lane and still have some guy on my tail, giving me the
finger.
The other week, I was cruising down the highway and this handsome young
guy pulled up alongside me. He waved and I waved back thinking, Deb baby,
you’ve still got it.
He waved back again, and with a stern look on his chiseled features,
indicated that I should pull over. So I did and as he got out of his police car, I
batted my eyes at him, bit my lip, pushed all my armpit fat up into a boob and in
my best Marilyn Monroe voice gushed: Is there a problem officer?
(This is how delusional I am. I think I’m still young enough to flirt my way
out of a ticket.)
He puffed himself up until the veins in his neck started to bulge erotically:
Are you in need of medical assistance ma’am?
When the Sex Kitten approach didn’t work, I resorted to my old Cranky
Feminist routine. I couldn’t keep my mouth shut, so I said, “Oh just give me the
darn ticket”.
Then, just like at Weight Watchers, I lost all my points in one sitting.
My mother wouldn’t have done that. My mother would have said “Officer, I
have never sped a day in my life. I have had six children. Would you like to see
the Caesarean scars? I was just taking my aged aunt to the cancer clinic but if
you insist on giving a religious woman a ticket you go right ahead.” And as hewas walking back to his car, defeated, she would be still gabbing, “Thank you
son. There’s a special place in heaven for you.”
I am too young to do that and too old to flirt. I am stuck in the middle lane,
sandwiched between the young-uns passing me at a 138 km an hour, rap music
blaring and the slow lane with the old ones in hats, their heads barely above the
steering wheel.
Don’t talk to me about respect either. That cop didn’t once say to himself,
“I don’t think I’ll give this older but still sexually alluring woman a ticket because
she is mature and wise.”
This society doesn’t celebrate wisdom and crow’s feet.
Sure, I could move somewhere else. Someplace where I would get the
reverence my age deserves. I could immigrate to China where they respect the
elderly, but they have other issues, so its not really worth the trouble.
Confessions of a Road Warrior - To learn more about this author, visit Deborah Kimmett's Website.
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When I lived in the big city, I blamed the fast pace of life on urban living. I
would drive to my business careening through city streets doing my lipstick, talking on a cell phone and
breast-feeding two kids all at the same time. Now that I live in the country, I
realize I have not slowed down one iota. I am the type of person who believes
the speed limit is merely a suggestion. I think I am trying to drive as fast as I
think. I used to drive 118 kilometers per hour, now I’m doing 130 kilometers per
hour, still in the slow lane and still have some guy on my tail, giving me the
finger.
The other week, I was cruising down the highway and this handsome young
guy pulled up alongside me. He waved and I waved back thinking, Deb baby,
you’ve still got it.
He waved back again, and with a stern look on his chiseled features,
indicated that I should pull over. So I did and as he got out of his police car, I
batted my eyes at him, bit my lip, pushed all my armpit fat up into a boob and in
my best Marilyn Monroe voice gushed: Is there a problem officer?
(This is how delusional I am. I think I’m still young enough to flirt my way
out of a ticket.)
He puffed himself up until the veins in his neck started to bulge erotically:
Are you in need of medical assistance ma’am?
When the Sex Kitten approach didn’t work, I resorted to my old Cranky
Feminist routine. I couldn’t keep my mouth shut, so I said, “Oh just give me the
darn ticket”.
Then, just like at Weight Watchers, I lost all my points in one sitting.
My mother wouldn’t have done that. My mother would have said “Officer, I
have never sped a day in my life. I have had six children. Would you like to see
the Caesarean scars? I was just taking my aged aunt to the cancer clinic but if
you insist on giving a religious woman a ticket you go right ahead.” And as hewas walking back to his car, defeated, she would be still gabbing, “Thank you
son. There’s a special place in heaven for you.”
I am too young to do that and too old to flirt. I am stuck in the middle lane,
sandwiched between the young-uns passing me at a 138 km an hour, rap music
blaring and the slow lane with the old ones in hats, their heads barely above the
steering wheel.
Don’t talk to me about respect either. That cop didn’t once say to himself,
“I don’t think I’ll give this older but still sexually alluring woman a ticket because
she is mature and wise.”
This society doesn’t celebrate wisdom and crow’s feet.
Sure, I could move somewhere else. Someplace where I would get the
reverence my age deserves. I could immigrate to China where they respect the
elderly, but they have other issues, so its not really worth the trouble.
Confessions of a Road Warrior - To learn more about this author, visit Deborah Kimmett's Website.
Like this article? Share it with your friends
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