Do stuff.

*details changed to protect anonymity (as always)

 Live while you got all your rhythm in your hips still, okay?"

~ Mrs. Sanders

If you looked at Mrs. Sanders' life, you'd count it a success. Five children, all of whom were mostly healthy and all of whom grew up to be gainfully employed with families of their own. More grandbabies than the fingers on two hands could count. And a marriage that had lasted more than fifty years. Yes. If you looked at her life, you'd use those spiritual words spoke often by the Grady elders for lives like hers--"blessed and highly favored." Descriptors for lives filled with the things that matter the most.

Her health was good. Beyond some degenerative arthritis in her knees and some very mildly elevated blood pressure, Mrs. Sanders had very few medical problems. She could do for herself and was even still driving. Again, the kind of thing we all envision when wishing upon stars for our futures as senior citizens.

Mr. Sanders had passed on a few years before. Not necessarily suddenly, but it wasn't drawn out either. Just enough time to get things in order and to allow people to get to him and love on him. His death was surrounded by family and the aftermath of it all was mostly okay since it fit into the natural order of the rhythm of life. And, yes, losing him broke Mrs. Sanders' heart. But honestly, it didn't seem to break her.

Nope.

So the point of telling you all of this is to say that this woman seemed to have a pretty peaceful life. It seemed to have followed the narrative that little girls act out with their Barbie dolls, you know? But every time I saw her, there was this sadness about her. Nothing overly somber or extraordinarily awful. Just this undercurrent of melancholia that cloaked the room whenever I was in her presence. And honestly I'd assumed it was all related to missing her husband. After all, they had been married for over fifty years. But truthfully, I'd known her before his passing and even before he'd gotten ill. And even then, I'd felt the same way.

"How are you?" I asked her toward the end of our visit.

"Am I?" Mrs. Sanders pointed at her chest to make sure she understood the question. I nodded. She released this weak chuckle and said, "I'm here."

"Just here?"

"Well, naw. Ain't nothing wrong, if that's what you mean. Guess I ain't sure what you mean, Miss Manning."

I pressed my lips together and kept my eyes on hers for a beat. In that split second, I reflected on the time last year that I'd screened her for depression with a series of questions. She caught on to what I was doing and interrupted me. "I ain't depressed or nothing like that if that's what you gettin' at." And after I completed those questions, it became pretty apparent to me that she wasn't.

But still. Each time I felt it. And even if it didn't mean there was some pathology there, I really wanted to understand it.

"You know what, Mrs. Sanders? Sometimes when I see you, you seem like. . .I don't know. . .kind of sad-like." Sad-like? I cringed at my own language. I sighed. "I don't know. It's hard for me to put my finger on."

Mrs. Sanders offered me a warm smile and then reached out to touch my hand. "I 'preciate your concern. I'm okay, baby."

"You sure?"

This time she squinted her eyes and smiled. The expression seemed to suggest I was naïve. I wasn't sure how to feel about that. Straightening up my spine, I trained my eyes on hers, making certain not to crack a smile in return. Her face became serious and pensive. Finally, she spoke.

"Miss Manning? How many kids you got?"

"Two."

"And how long you been married?"

"Twelve years."

"How old your kids is?"

"Ma'am? Oh. Nine and ten. Boys."

She pursed her lips when I said that last part. "Wheeewwwweeeee. Boys is something. Something indeed. They keep you busy, too." Mrs. Sanders shook her head and then paused. It looked like she was trying to decide what to  say next. Or whether what she wanted to say was worth saying to me. She blinked her eyes slowly, glanced down at her pocket book and then back at me again. Mrs. Sanders leaned her head sideways and asked me this: "What you do for fun?"

She caught me off guard with that. "For fun?" I let out a nervous chuckle.

"Better yet, for you. For your own self."

"Umm. Well. I . . I actually do lots of stuff for myself. I mean. . .I do a lot for my family, too. But I do stuff for myself."

"Good," Mrs. Sanders replied quickly. "Good." 

I waited. I could tell she had more to say.

"My life been good, you know? But honestly, Miss Manning? I spent my whole life doing for everybody but me. Like, we got married when I was young and started having babies. And I stayed home with them and was near my sisters so we all saw 'bout each others' kids, too. And my kids grew up to make me real, real proud. They good people. They got to do a lot of good things and I'm glad. But I guess the more time go by the more I realize I ain't never get no chance at nothing."

"Tell me what you mean by that."

"I mean. . .I 'on't know. Guess I jest mean I ain't never been able to choose something that I wanted to do just 'cause. Just 'cause it's what I wanted to do or where I wanted to go. Seem like every decision was connected to somebody else needs or wants. And now I find myself wishing I had done some more stuff for me. For me."

Mrs. Sanders eyes glistened with tears. She swallowed hard and cleared her throat after saying that. Then she looked slightly embarrassed for disclosing those thoughts. Or perhaps ashamed of uttering them aloud. That said, I could tell she was serious. And honestly? There wasn't much I could say to any of that. This woman was nearly eighty and had thought about this long and hard. I certainly didn't want to trivialize it all with some Pollyanna statement, particularly one that came across canned and void of empathy.

"I'm sorry." That's all I could think to say. And I said that because I was sorry. Not sorry in that way I was when her husband of fifty two years went on to glory. But sorry nonetheless.

I could see how things had ended up this way. I mean, like her, I'm a mom and a wife, too. And in my mind I've always noted that those mothers and wives set on the highest pedestals are the most selfless. What's also weird is that it's hard to even realize that something is being denied of you, you know? Because everything you hear and see tells you that your definition of joy gets revised the day you become a mother and/or a spouse. And that this is what you were made to do and that this idea alone should be enough.

Right?

So yeah. I got it. I got what she was saying. I did. "It's not too late, Mrs. Sanders," I finally said. "Your health is good. There are definitely things you could still do."

"I know," Mrs. Sanders replied. "I know. And I don't want to seem like some ol' charity case that stay sad. I'm not. I do some stuff. But, see, what I can't have back is doing it as a younger woman. With curves and in high heels and with young woman sass. Young enough for people hold the door for you because they think they got a chance to court you, not jest 'cause they got enough home training to respect their elders." She gently laughed at her wittiness. I did, too.

"I get it," I finally said.

"Do stuff, Miss Manning. See 'bout them men of yours. But do stuff for you, too. Live while you got all your rhythm in your hips still, okay? I tells my daughters that. I do. Wish somebody had'a told me the same."

"Yes, ma'am," I whispered. Then I stuck it on a post-it note in my head for later.

Last week, I went to Paris, France. Despite my 45 years on earth, I'd never been. A college sorority sister took a job there this summer and inboxed me on Facebook a few months back urging me to come for the Semi de Paris--that is, the Paris Half Marathon. She explained that it sells out pretty quickly and encouraged me to "just sign up" and figure out the logistics later.

And so I did. Register, that is.

But honestly? I never truly considered going. I mean, not really. Sure, I'd registered for the race, but still. Could I really see myself going all the way to Europe for a race? One that wasn't connected to my kids or work? That answer was a solid no. It wasn't because I don't have support. Harry loved the idea of me running strong through cobblestoned streets and past historic landmarks. Especially in Paris, a city to which I'd never been. And I did, too.

But.

I think I purchased that race number because I liked the idea of it more than anything else. Buying that registration would be affirmation that I really did consider going. Which, in a lot of ways, was nearly as significant to me.

Nearly.

A few weeks after I'd submitted my payment for the race, I was casually talking to my colleague-friend Ira S. With my feet kicked up on a chair in his office, I mentioned this opportunity to do this race in Paris and my friend living in France. He immediately began speaking as if there was no question about whether or not I planned to go. But Ira is different than me. He speaks other languages, has lived in other countries and is, in my mind, more worldly than me. Of course doing this would be a no brainer to him. But to me, it was simply a pie-in-the-sky notion. So I told him the truth. That there was no way I'd go thorough the hassle of getting all the way to Paris just for me to go and run some race. That is, one just for me and the experience.

Ira immediately began listing the litany of reasons that I should go. That life was for living and that if I tried as hard as I could and it didn't work out, that was one thing. But automatically counting myself out would be something I'd regret later. And you know? I inherently knew he was right.

Of course, I can't say that I never do anything. I've had some amazing experiences as an adult woman that called for an understanding and supportive spouse and some hands on deck from others. But nearly all of those things have been either local or stateside. Which means they could occur over a three day (or two and a half day) weekend. Nothing calling for a passport or acquaintance with another language. And I can't say that it was because of lack of opportunities. I think it was more lack of consideration, you know?

Yeah.

And so. I went. And from the moment those wheels went up and that plane rose into the heavens, I knew. I knew that it would be a pivotal experience and one that would enrich my life. And you know? It was amazing. Just. . . . . yeah.

Another of our college sorority sisters routed a business trip from Barcelona through Paris to join us. And, in the end, we became three girls about town together. Feeling the pulse of the city, testing out our rudimentary French in cafes and on trains, window shopping and laughing so hard that we could hardly breathe. I'm so glad that I went.

So very glad.

For nearly the entire time, I thought of my family. But I also thought of me.

And you know what? I thought of Mrs. Sanders, too. I went a little harder, laughed a little louder, imagining myself as an octogenarian reflecting on this time. I sure did.

Look. I don't know all the answers. But what I do know is that my trip to Paris taught me that I really should push a bit outside of my pragmatic mom-work-wife life box some more. To put my own life experiences on the table for discussion. Especially the outlandish ones that require jumping through a bunch of hoops like this one did.

Yeah.

I hate that Mrs. Sanders has regrets. Because regrets suck. Even the little twinge-y ones that niggle at you when you know you should otherwise be happy with the hand you've been dealt. My guess is that Mrs. Sanders' narrative is one to which many women can relate. I feel honored that she trusted me with those feelings. I'm also grateful to Ira for helping me to picture myself as worthy of that experience in Paris.

When I see Mrs. Sanders again, I'll tell her of how she inspired me. And hopefully she can take solace in knowing that she helped another woman do at least one thing that she otherwise wouldn't have . . . . and perhaps shielded her from some potential regret.

 "Live while you got all your rhythm in your hips still, okay?" 

~ Mrs. Sanders, Grady elder.

Words to live by. And to live it up by, too.

***
Happy Saturday.

Now playing on my mental iPod. . . . please give it a listen and listen to the lyrics. 

Top Ten: I came to dance, dance, dance. . . . .

on Wednesday with Lisa K.

I came to dance, dance, dance, dance

I hit the floor

'Cause that's my plans, plans, plans, plans

I'm wearing all my favorite brands, brands, brands, brands

Give me some space for both my hands, hands, hands, hands

Yeah, yeah

'Cause it goes on and on and on

And it goes on and on and on, yeah

I throw my hands up in the air sometimes

Saying a-yo

Gotta let go

I wanna celebrate and live my life

Saying a-yo

Baby, let's go

~ from Taio Cruz' "Dynamite"

________________________________________________________

Man. It was quite a week. Some parts were eventful. Other parts less so. But overall I'd say my first full week as a forty two year-old woman wasn't too bad at all. The high points outweighed the annoying points, that's for sure.

Hey! I wrote a little top ten about it! Like to hear it? Here it go!

THE TOP TEN PARTS OF MY FIRST WEEK AS A BONA FIDE FORTY TWO YEAR-OLD GROWN ASS WOMAN

Leh-go!


#10  Refreshing!

Okay. So usually I don't go wandering up into Starbucks too often because I'm a little on the cheap thrifty side. But! When you have a birthday, people do things like sliding Starbucks gift cards into your birthday snail mail (Thanks, Crystal!)

And so. Armed with my free-to-be-frappachi(no) gift card, I rolled up into the Starbucks in Emory Village. The barista (why do we have to call them that?) asked me what I wanted and like always I got mad overwhelmed.

"Uhhhh, errrr, ummmm. Let's see."

"Something hot or cold?"

"Errrr, yeah. Okay. Cold."

"Caffeinated or not?"

"Neutral."

"Milk based or not?"

"You definitely don't want me to have any milk, bruh."

"Have you tried the refreshers?"

"The who?"

"The refreshers. Cool Lime is my favorite. And it's low calorie and no added sugar."

"No milk?"

"No, ma'am."

"Bet."

"Huh?"

"Oh sorry. That's slang for 'let's do this.'"

"Pardon?"

"I'll have the Cool Lime Refresher. Dang."

"Tall, Grande or Venti? Or Treinta?"

"Surprise me."

"How's a Grande?"

"Bet."

Wait. What's the point of sharing all of this? None whatsoever. I just want y'all to know that the Cool Lime Refresher is like a citrus party on your taste buds. Kind of like a guilt-free collision between a mojito and some lime juice without the rum.

Yum. And to think I have nearly twenty more dollars on my card. WOOT! WOOT!

#9  Do it for the story, man.

Okay. You know of my obsession with flash mobs. Clearly I have been waiting for the big moment to arrive where I got to either witness one or -- GAAAHH!!! -- be in one. And y'all! That big opportunity finally presented itself. YES!

Aren't you just SOOOO excited at the idea of me getting to be in a flashmob? I know you are!

Well. My friend Lisa K. teaches my step class and Body Pump classes at the Y--but she also happens to be the coordinator of wellness at an assisted living community. She's been working on a project about active aging and wanted to put on a flash mob with people of all ages. And so she started planning and, of course, called her flash mob obsessed friend to join in the fun.

And so. We learn the moves. We wear the requested colors. And we arrive in downtown Decatur at the appointed time. That appointed time was twelve noon on Wednesday and it turns out that there are a whooooole lot of folks that are actively aging in the Decatur area.

Like a whoooole lot.

So check it. You know how in a flash mob one person just randomly starts dancing and then others surprisingly join in -- astounding everyone with their knowledge of the choreography? Well. It turns out that the senior flash mob works a bit differently. And by differently I mean that at noon everyone got in their places and stood there with frozen jazz hands waiting for the music to come on. Like for at least two full minutes.

And me?  I'm all like, "HEY! You're supposed to just inconspicuously walk by and then break out with the moves! Stop with the jazz hands. Look normal!"

And the man I told was all like, "Vaaaaat?"

"Normal!"

"VAAATTTT?"

So I tried to explain again and he just kept saying the same thing until the music came on signaling that it was time for him to get his groove on. So all the jazz hands started moving in very slow, happy unison and as soon as we did, I was immediately super glad that I was there. Hell, even if we didn't surprise anybody with our sneak-attack choreography we were at least a mob. Even if we weren't a flashy one.

My favorite part was the seventy-seven year old woman next to me who was shouting out all the moves along with a constant eight-count. And she was mad loud, too, kind of like the lady on Dance Moms.

"Shuffle-one, two, three, down-four, five, six, shimmy-on-the-eight!"

And if you are clapping your hands and saying, "That's AWESOME!" while cracking up laughing. . . . know that it was twenty times more blogworthy than it even seems here.

Seriously, though? It was really fun. Talk about doing something for the story.

P.S. I'm still looking for a big ol' complicated flash mob to be in. If you get any ideas, holla at your girl.

#8 Salon on a Sunday!

Okay, so no. I didn't really get my hair done on a Sunday. But! The salon girls took me to a casual breakfast on Sunday. My awesome stylist Sakinah bought me a delicious mimosa and we all sat and yucked it up just like in the salon. We talked junk and discussed everything from politics to whether or not TJMaxx is more exhausting than Ross for Less. (Answer: Nothing is more exhausting than Ross.)

All we needed was a dude to walk in selling some peach cobbler and it would have been exactly like the beauty shop.

#7  Twenty years later!

We all met each other back in 1992 as first year medical students. Now, instead of young girls from Tennessee, California and Georgia, we're grown women with kids and doctorates. We reminisced on the crazy things we got into as med students and tried our best to get our minds around how we did anything social in the pre-cell phone era.

Those were the days!

#6  Good-byes SUCK!

I've been in denial about this. So much so that I haven't even uttered it aloud because it seems real when I do. My dear soul-friend David M. is leaving Grady to go work in Philadelphia. It's a great opportunity for him and I'm happy for him. But sad for me! Sad for me!

Yeah. So we had a going away dinner for him last week. It was cool. But I was sad. I still am.

#5 Cupcake Red Velvet!

I tried this for the first time because people kept telling me it was yum-tacular.

I concur!

#4  Drive-by Teaching

I snapped this picture today of one of our former residents doing some teaching and consulting on a complex EKG. Sonny--the one reading the electrocardiogram--is someone that I've known since his first day of internship. Seeing him now as a Cardiology fellow advising my colleague Schuyler and teaching all of us something that we didn't know warmed my heart. I love being in this kind of environment.

#3  These pictures are just cute.

I usually don't think they look alike. But here? Dang. They really do.

#2  Tuskegee Girls.

On Saturday, I spent some time with my sorority sisters. Sonya, who pledged with all of us, turned forty and had a big ol' party. Of course it was fun. It's always fun when we all get together.

#1 Look out Peyton and Eli. There's a new Manning in town.

Before anyone asks--yes, I am okay with my child playing football. Let's just stop there with that line of questioning and any worry-wart commentary that may or may not be tickling the tip of your tongue.

It took everything in me not to tackle him to the ground with smooches.

Okay. Where were we? Oh. Football! Yes! Can I please tell you how fun it is to be a football mama? Oh my GOSH. It's on a whole 'nother level! The energy is SO amazing, y'all.

Seeing him come in from practice all hungry and sweaty makes my heart ache. Something in my mind just fast forwards to him being a high schooler sitting at my same table.

Harry's a coach--and he really gets into the spirit. Peep those socks! Lawd.

And what's also SUPER awesome about all of this? Isaiah. He flat out expressed no interest in playing football but was fully supportive of his brother's desire to do so. (Isaiah says that he's "a fan of the feet and not of the hands" so has chosen to stick with soccer.)

Future David Beckham and Cam Newton

Look how laid back and genuinely encouraging he looks here. I just love that about both of them. They have their own interests. They are developing their own self images and marching to their own drums. Zachary announced that he wanted to play football this year. And since we love team sports for kids and grew up on them, we found a well organized league for him to join.

Y'all! He's fast, too!

And that Isaiah is playing soccer and also asked to join the Chess team. Which he sure did join. (Despite the fact that NO ONE in our house other than him knows the first thing about how to play chess.) Zachary made it very clear that he preferred anything other than the Chess club but he, too, listens and encourages Isaiah when he shares all the details.

Yep.

I just love this phase of life with my kids. I'm enjoying watching them discover who they are and what they love. I love seeing them try at things and hearing them discussing it when they're supposed to be fast asleep. These are special times.

Whelp! Gotta go to bed so that I can rest my vocal chords. Lots of hollering goes on at those games. And just a wee bit of trash-talking!

***
Happy Almost-Saturday. And may the Flash-Mob be with you.

And now playing. . .Zachary's favorite, favorite song.

Sparing old ones and tearing new ones.

Don't let the fanny pack fool you.

"Don't push me 'cause I'm close to the edge, I'm tryin' not to lose my head!"  

~ Grandmaster Flash and the Furious Five

For those who read this blog often, you probably feel like you know my dad. My wonderful, awesome father. . . . just a couple of years shy of seventy and filled with energy that would rival any seventeen year-old. The guy who is the head counselor and founder of Camp Pa Pa and who spends his west coast afternoons doing Skype vocabulary words with his grandson some two thousand miles away. Full of easygoing wisdom and patience. . . . .yep. That's my dad.

Well.

Although I can say with certainty that my father, Mr. Tony Draper, has always been a good guy. . . .I can't exactly say that he's always been as . . . . how shall I say it. . .zen as he is nowadays.  Ha! Back in the day, my pop was known for not only being a firm disciplinarian of his own children--he also was the dude who could and would tear someone a brand new you-know-what if they tried him.

Oh. . . .that 1970's - 1980's version of Tony Draper.  . . . .sigh.  Man, he had a way with words. And talk about going to bat for you!  As long as you didn't mind hearing an f-bomb or two during the defense, he was a good person to have in your corner. Because my father?  Oh man. Nobody intimidated him.

Now. It's not that this part has changed. It's just that he has now crossed into the land of the "wise and white-haired." That place that makes the people around you bite their tongues a wee bit more which puts people like Tony Draper at less of a chance of dropping f-bombs and emmer-effer bombs in their direction. Yes. The land of the "wise and white-haired." It's this nirvana where people generally avoid saying or doing things to you that could potentially get them cussed out. They hold their smart-ass remarks a bit more and try to take the high road out of respect. I am convinced that THIS has far more to do with this Y2K upgraded zen-like version of my father than anything else.

Growing up, we called it "pulling a T-Tone."  (I'm not sure why we started calling it this--but I know my brother started it and it stuck.) We could always see it coming, too. Kind of like the day that my sister Deanna got a 'B' on her test because she didn't list "Oceania" as a continent.  Dad marched right up to that school with his briefcase and three-pieced suit to talk to the teacher after he'd insisted that Deanna had missed that question.

Wait.

I know you are like, "Seriously?"  And to that I say, "Yes. Seriously."  See, it wasn't so much that the dude was dead wrong about this bootleg geography fact.  It was that it resulted in an alteration in my sister's grade and also a smug interaction in front of my sister's class where he tried to take her down a couple of notches.

Awww hell naw!

Mess with Tony Draper's kids? Fuggeddaboudit. He would be up at that school before you could say Rumplestiltskin.  So up he goes to Monroe Junior High School where this dude is sitting behind his desk with a half wet-half dried out Jheri curl correcting papers. Seventh grade Deanna is shuffling her feet behind him because she could already smell it in the air. One false word and her daddy was 100% guaranteed to pull a T-Tone up in that classroom.

Now. Let me explain a bit about seeing a full on "T-Tone" getting pulled. It first involves a few rhetorical questions. Next it moves to direct logical questions. And if something comes out wrong. . . . that's the point of no return. Basically, the voice goes up several decibels and somebody gets put directly in their place.  Oh, and did I mention? Rarely are those words censored.

So as you might guess, the whole 'B' for Oceania didn't go so well for that quasi-Jheri curl teacher of Deanna's and I think at some point he recorrected all of the tests in that bootleg geography course. All secondary to having had a T-Tone pulled on him.

This explains where a lot of my spunk comes from. I'm not really put off by confrontations, in fact, I'm pretty much a "bring it" kind of girl in most instances. This, I attribute to witnessing many a T-Tone getting pulled in my day. On baseball fields, in PTA meetings, in my front yard, and yes. . .sigh. . .even when he was president of the School Board.  My stealthy dad could always be counted upon to be not really a loose cannon per se. . .but a cannon in every sense of the word.

I do realize that my dad grew up in a different time than me. Being born in Birmingham, Alabama in the 1940's is a far cry from Los Angeles in the 70's that's for sure. Maybe that has something to do with his reactions over the years.  And maybe not. I'm not sure.

Anyways.

That brings me to the other day.  Last week, I was hustling after work to the YMCA for Zachary's basketball practice.  I had just left work and grabbed both boys and was pushing it on time. With Zachy's practice gear in a bag, we ran as fast as we could into the locker room so that he could get changed. They whined as usual about going into the Ladies bathroom with me, but expecting a five year old to change his on clothes in the boys bathroom wasn't going to happen--especially when time was of the essence.

Alright. So in we go. Me in that rush-mama way and them dawdling just enough to make me want to punch a wall. Isaiah sits on the bench next to me as I pull open a locker and begin helping Zachary get his shirt over his head.  I'm digging into his gym bag looking for his fresh pair of socks when all of a sudden I see this older woman walk by us. She's dripping wet from the swimming pool and has a towel wrapped around her waist. I look up and offer her a quick smile of salutation.

Her response?  A steely blue-eyed scowl and these words through gritted teeth:

"What are they doing in here?"

I looked from side to side to make certain she was talking to me. Both boys looked up at her, Zachary with one arm in his shirt and one out, and Isaiah from that bench with my iPhone in his hand.

I assumed she was poking fun at the kids and me so I looked over at them and said, "Yeah, guys. What are you doing in here?"  I chuckled and went back to what I was doing.

"No. WHAT. ARE. THEY. DOING. IN. HERE?" she demanded.  This time I noticed how her hand with the intricate network of prominent blue veins was gripping the towel on her waist. She was serious. Dead serious.

"Umm, are you, like, serious?"

"I am TOTALLY serious! There are NO BOYS ALLOWED IN HERE! THEY SHOULDN'T BE IN HERE!!"

At this point, she had the full attention of me, my boys and a woman with long dreadlocks standing behind her near the fresh towels.  That dreadlocked sister froze and raised her eyebrows in my direction -- sensing a potential T-Tone in the making.

That angry-lady went on. "THE SIGN CLEARLY SAYS 'WOMEN'S LOCKER ROOM'. I HAVE NO IDEA WHAT WOULD MAKE YOU BRING TWO BOYS IN HERE! YOU NEED TO GET THEM OUT OF HERE!!"

I looked down at my kids who were looking at me.  See, this was not 1978 and they don't have a track record of seeing their mama cuss people out in such situations. Furthermore, this woman was significantly older than my own father which was something I had to factor into my response -- along with the fact that my kids were watching.

"I think you need to lower you voice," I decided to say. My voice was controlled and firm. Deliberately low. This involved no f-bombs or permutations of the b-word. I was proud of myself and glad for her that this involved me and my kids and not Tony Draper and his.

"I think YOU need to get these boys out of here," she shot back while still ice-grilling me with those beady little eyes of hers.

I swallowed hard and looked back at her with my head cocked to the side. I licked my lips and sighed hard and prepared to open my mouth. Just then I caught that woman at the towel rack looking at me. She was giving me a tiny head shake . . . . telling me to chill. Her expression also affirmed what I was feeling.

I cleared my throat carefully. "I think you need to realize you are speaking to a grown-ass woman and take your tone down about twelve notches."  My kids quickly shot their eyes over to me after hearing that word "ass." This was serious. I leaned over and addressed the towel rack dreadlocked woman directly."Do you know if there is a family locker room in here?"

She smiled and replied, "I think there's one further down the hall and around the--"

Angry-lady interrupted, still dripping with water and her nasty attitude. "There's a BOYS LOCKER ROOM for BOYS and a --" 

I put up my hand and stopped her. "I'm done talking to you." I felt my voice rising and worked to control it. "Ma'am, you need to move away from me and stop talking to me like this. Especially in front of my children. It's unnecessary for you to be this rude." And then I added again for emphasis,  "Especially in front of children."

She didn't give a damn about me or my children. "If you had just READ THE SIGN on the door you would have not brought boys into the WOMEN'S LOCKER ROOM!"

Awww hell naw.

Immediately I imagined myself grabbing her up by her one piece swimsuit and saying, "YOU GOT ME EFFED UP, LADY! YOU BETTA BACK UP 'FORE YOU GET SMACKED UP!"

That certainly crossed my mind, although that's not what happened next.

Surely this steely-blue-eyed woman was banking on the fact that she was now old enough to have crossed into the land of "wise and white-haired." I also think she believed that this made her safe from having a forty-one year black woman go postal on her in that  YMCA locker room.

I won't even tell you about how I was at the YMCA that is right in the very neighborhood where they filmed "Driving Miss Daisy"--  and that this woman was the Doppleganger of Miss Daisy herself. Some part of me felt FOR SURE like that whole Miss Daisy thing made her feel like she could talk to me any old kind of way. And to hell with the fact that my kids were right there. That kind of pissed me off more.

You know? In that moment, I sort of understood my dad and his fire a little better. If I lived through things like this all the time, I might be close to the edge a lot, too.

Yeah.


I know. The other possibility is that she was just a cantankerous old lady with bad manners whose cataracts only allowed her to make out the silhouettes of my boys without so much as even a clue of anything else.

Maybe.

Thank goodness for the dread-locked sister at the towel rack. This time she put up one hand and waved it at me. She mouthed, "Not worth it." And she was right. It really wasn't.


I scooped up the kids and headed out of the bathroom.

I sat there seething and tapping my foot on the bleacher for the entire basketball practice. I replayed the scene over and over but inserted escalating versions of my responses to that angry-crazy lady--from me jumping in her face scaring her to death all the way to me catching a case.

Ha.

I guess the only good thing about that situation was that it was blogworthy. And it gave me a context in which to explain the art of pulling a T-Tone.  Okay. And yes, I should have been in the boys or family or whatever locker room and not the women's one, I know. But seriously, was it really that serious? I mean really? Jeeze.

Man. So here's my question--what's the rule on these types of situations? Is there a statute of limitations or age limit on getting cussed out? (And yes, I mean to keep saying "cussed out" and not "cursed out" because there is a difference.) What would y'all have done? Should I have pulled an old school T-Tone--complete with expletives--just for old times' sake?

Sigh. Part of me wishes that I had just done it for the story. . . . . and blamed it on my upbringing afterward.

"You talking to my mama?"

***
Happy Sunday.

Now playing on my mental iPod. . . .