Waiting at the Pediatrician's office the other day, a woman was annoying me with her very being that I couldn't stop staring at her. She wasn't doing anything to deserve my displeasure and it was quite unfair of me to have felt the way that I did when she did nothing to me personally. The fact that I couldn't understand what I disliked about her, annoyed me even more.
Maybe what irked me was that her son, who looked to be about six or seven-years old, sat in a stroller. Perhaps it was minor OCD on my part that she never closed the door behind her when she went into the nurse's office. Or, it could have been the way she ate a banana in the waiting room while little toddlers watched with watering mouths. As annoying as those actions were, that wasn't what bothered me.
My disdain stemmed from the inability to figure out if she was an old mother or maybe she was a young grandmother. Because if she were the former, then perhaps someone, somewhere has wondered the same thing about me with my kids. If not now then maybe in the near future.
I thought this because one, every January I torment myself and two, because this woman - whom I shall dub "Yoda Mom" since "Leatherface" is just plain mean - was not too different from me. Clearly, she had made an attempt to keep up. She combed her hair at least. Maybe with a salad fork but it was combed. And her outfit, albeit boring enough for a Sears catalog, was undeniably coordinated.
And if you allow me to further indulge in this wrongful comparison, I looked at my own faded clothing with a giant oil stain (made less noticeable by the tomato stain above it) and I realized the race was close. The race not to look as though the sacrifice of "Me" time had eventually resulted in complete neglect.
But on the other hand...if she were a grandmother she was keeping up extremely well.
Either way, I am still obsessing over this stranger - Yoda Mom. It's because I know that payback is a bitch and I was a terrible teenager to my parents. They fought to be part of my life and I shunned them. I accused them of wanting to steal my youth because they were going through a mid-life crisis. It was bad insight on my part but insight nonetheless. Plus, my parents were still young enough to fit in with my friends and they often did.
But me? By the time I hit my crisis, my boys will still be thinking that girls are icky - and insane thanks to my menopausal tendencies. Worse yet, by the time they become "experimental," all they'd have to do is drop me off at White Castles, set me up with a "bottomless coffee" and a fish sandwich - then it's off to Mclovin.
And what could I do, really - throw my dentures at them?
The moral of this story, folks, is that you should never buy clothing from a catalog.