Pass The Cane, I'm Old

Beep. Beep. Beeeeeeeeeep. This is not a test. This is an official broadcast of the Mentally Unstable Warning System. Be prepared for high winds, irrational thoughts, sophomoric language and temper tantrums. Avoid windows and doorways. Take shelter in halls. This is not a test. 

GRRRRRRR! I HATE TEENAGE BOYS. They've been causing women pain since the beginning of time and I do not believe it will ever end. Even when they were my best childhood friends, they were royal pains in my ass. I HATE TEENAGE BOYS! UGH! UGH! UGH!

Phew. Good God. There. I said it.You know, all this time, I thought my only problems with children were with the smaller varieties: the smells. . .the drooling. . .the diapers. . . the sticky hands. . .the neediness. But no. Uh uh. No. Nope. It's not the little children that contort my face into something Botox can never repair. It's the BOYS.

Stupid.
Stupid.
BOYS.

I've lived with you boys for so long - pulling my pigtails, snapping my bra strap, telling my best friend that I MUST be a lesbian because I wouldn't sleep with you (which is really funny.  .  .why? Because the reason I didn't sleep with you was because I opened my eyes when we were kissing and got totally turned off BECAUSE YOU LOOKED LIKE A GIRL when you were making the "kissing face."). I've had to listen to you talk about blue balls and sports injuries. I've survived cheaters and break ups and used up ten boxes of Kleenex wiping up tears because of you rotten little bastards. And though I should be over all of this, I realized today.  .  .THAT YOU STILL GET ON MY NERVES.

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As I was leaving (i.e. running as fast as I could) away from my office this afternoon, I saw a car heaving, herky-jerky, to and fro, attempting to find it's perfectly, parallel parked spot. Cut the wheel. Forward. Cut the wheel. Reverse. Cut the wheel. . .it was painful. As I got closer to the car, I was fully expecting to see some kindly, benevolent senior citizen working the wheel.

But no.

It was a boy.

A teenage-boy. Seventeen, eighteen, nineteen?

I cautiously made my way down the sidewalk and as I passed him I noticed him cutting the wheel AGAIN. Since his windows were down, I said, nicely, "Hey there! If you just straighten up the wheel and back up about three inches, you'll be fine." He looked confused. And embarrassed. And then he looked. . .smug. But, I'm hoping that it was from the heart of his embarrassment that this comment was born "Yeah. I know what I'm doing, lady."

"O.K., you little no-parking bastard. . .LADY? DID YOU JUST CALL ME LADY? Oh haaaay-yull no, you did NOT just "lady"me,  you dismissive little prick. And you know what you're doing? YOU DO? RUH-HE-HE-HEELY? I mean, seriously? Do you know how many times GUH-ROWN MEN have said that to me? And they DIDN'T KNOW WHAT THEY WERE DOING EITHER. Why.  . .why I oughtta. . ."

My eyes narrowed while this monologue fired off in my head (Yes. In my head. Ten years ago, I might've actually said these things out loud. However, time, medication and therapy have allowed me to learn to reap the benefits of silence. . .that and a short period of jail time served for assault. . .but whatever). I stood there, one hand resting on a jutted out hip and watched.

More back and more forth he went. Back and forth. Forward. Stop. Backward. Stop. . . never making any real progress. It took everything I had not to just rip open the door, push him out and park it myself.

I was disgusted. If this little Chace Crawford look alike spent as much time paying attention in driver's ed class as he did on waxing his stupid girly-hair, he would've pulled in there, smooth as can be.

I was mildly satisfied by the time he was done (and if the way he was parking that car is any indication. . .that's all any woman will ever feel when he's "done"), because the car was still crooked, out of the lines and looked as if a blindfolded Bassett Hound had done the job. 

I smiled as he looked at me kind of strangely. "Don't worry," I thought. "I don't think you're cute. I think your jeans look like they belong on the ass of Brook Shields circa 1981 and . . .are you wearing mascara? Hmph. I don't want to see you naked. I just want to see you suffer." Well, perhaps suffer is too strong a word. But he DID call me lady. . .which made me feel old. And that made me feel mad. But don't worry. I didn't say any of this out loud. I just giggled at his poor performance and walked away. 

Chalk it up to another one of those shameful instances where someone else's shabby performance made me feel superior and, thus, made me feel a teensy bit better about myself.

Why? Because I CAN wax my hair to the same effect in about three seconds, I can change the oil in my car all by myself and I can parallel park like nobody's business.

And I would look SO much better in those jeans.

(END RANT)