Judge not lest you be. . . oh, forget it.
The other day I was on my way to somewhere or other and happened to notice the car in the next lane as it passed me. I saw a slip of paper protruding from the back window and thought, “Oh great, a litterbug.” I had just begun judging that when I realized the paper was being held by a tiny hand that wasn’t releasing the paper, but rather was enjoying the flutter it made as the car moved.
I began another round of judging:
“Does the adult on board know that the child may very well have been dropping papers for the past several miles? And why is that child’s window rolled down far enough for him to stick his hand out?” Getting more annoyed, I thought, “Doesn’t the adult realize that child could lose an arm?”
Then I had another discussion with myself along the lines of:
“Give them a break! Stop judging! This is probably a perfectly wonderful mother who’s keeping an eagle eye on all activities in the back seat!”
After the next light as I passed them, I noticed the parent was smoking a cigarette and the smoke was drifting into the back of the car.
I resumed my judging.
The Mystery of Bingo Wings
There I was in front of the bathroom mirror, roller brush in one hand, hairdryer in the other, and my arm aching, when it struck me: Considering the decades I’ve been doing this (especially when my hair was so long my husband would determine where to cut it by lining the scissors up with my bra strap), shouldn’t my upper arms have the taut muscle tone of a twenty-one year old gymnast?
Women really are very different from men. It’s as though we all belong to a club and just haven’t met yet. Think how many times a complete stranger has turned to you in the grocery store and struck up a conversation.
I had a nice chat with another lady in a dressing room when we both wandered out of our smallish stalls, seeking the big tri-fold mirror. I helped her zip up her dress (One I’d tried on earlier and she looked much better in - which I wouldn’t have minded so much if she hadn’t clearly been several years older.) I sympathized when she told me she wouldn’t be able to buy it since she lived alone and would either never be able to get into it or out of it.
Another time in Penny’s, in another dressing room, I found myself smiling as I stood there in my underwear. We were all closed into our anonymous cubicles, wrestling our way in and out of garments.
Someone several stalls down sneezed and a nice lady from the other direction called out, “Bless You!”