My mom had an uncommon amount of common sense. When I was a young, hormonal girl in the throes of unrequitedness, she would smile gently and remind me, “Lynn, boys are like streetcars. There’ll be another one in 15 minutes.” And she was right. When I was young.
Now that I am squarely in the middle of my life, I have learned that not only are the pickings decidedly slimmer [even if the men and I are not], but there are downsides to public transportation as well. For example, if you need to go home in the middle of the day and there is no bus waiting at the usual stop to take you to the station, so you walk four blocks to the station and arrive in time to see the train pulling out? You will have to sit on a metal bench for an hour and a half and smile sweetly at panhandlers and tell them that you have no money to give them, because you are a single mom and have no money, just blessings.
[This, I know, is what our British cousins would call a prevarication. I have no money because I just paid my tithing and my bills, and I bought a spinning wheel. I told them the truth. I just didn’t tell them all the truth. I learned this from my children.]
There was another middle-aged woman waiting for the train. We were Safety Kids and sat together. And the transit cops were much in evidence, so we weren’t really bothered by the transients. And I had my knitting. So it wasn’t anywhere near as bad as it could have been. Even when the platform was invaded by a horde of middle-schoolers heading back from a field trip, who had enough collective energy to power a small village [who am I kidding; they were a small village].
Even though I was not in the best of moods, and their noise level matched their energy level, I could tell that they were good kids. One of them gave up his seat and squished in with two skinny friends so that another woman my age could sit down. They were not profane or abusive; they were just loud. And as we rolled past Children’s Medical Center in Dallas, I was impressed how great it was that these kids were outside, living their lives, not inside the hospital, fighting for them.
I hit the drive-through at Panda Express and picked up an order of orange chicken *and* spring rolls with mustard. I left the office a little after 1:00; I was sitting here at my computer about 4:00 and went to bed around 5:00, full of fiery food rather than the chagrin which had occupied the last several hours.
I woke up a little before midnight, just as LittleBit was getting home, so we had evening prayers together for the first time in weeks, maybe months. And then she went to bed, and I am apparently up for the duration.
The guys among you are probably scratching your heads and wondering why I had to come home in the middle of the day, when I was not throwing up. [Yay! for not throwing up!] The ladies among you will have figured out that I had a Female Emergency yesterday, something that is prone to happen at the beginning of the reproductive cycle when we are getting used to having hormones, and unfortunately also at the end of it when we thought we were safely past it.
I do not know if there is a male equivalent of the helplessness that you feel as you overflow your protection, or the embarrassment which accompanies the knowledge that anyone standing behind you can tell what time of the month it is. Thankfully, I learned decades ago that it’s almost impossible to die of embarrassment. And mercifully, it was a coolish day yesterday so I had a long jacket with me. Still, I think I was never so glad to be sitting in my own car as I was last night.
I am about ready to hit the fridge and bring out the rice I was unable to finish last night. She tossed in a side of sweet and sour sauce, and I have some leftover pineapple as well, so I think I am in for a treat. Not sure what I will do for the next four hours until my alarm goes off. Maybe finish binding off Serpentine [medium] and cast on the next one and then a little spinning?
I think we could use a little music. And I seem to be on a kick. But you can’t argue with the classics.
Firstborn sent me this yesterday. Her boss sends out inspirational thoughts to their office.
A man must learn to endure patiently what he cannot avoid conveniently. [Michel de Montaigne]
So, apparently, must a woman. Even when she is her own personal Red Sea, and drowning like Pharaoh.
- Four years into widowhood, after one year of incredible happiness and nearly 14 years of single blessedness. Have given up perfect manicures and pretty hands in order to resume playing the soprano recorder and to see if I can figure out how to play bluegrass banjo. Singing in the shower. Still really, *really* love to knit!