I got Pigeonholed.
My husband laughed as he told me one of the neighbors, a single dad, asked if I would have any interest in babysitting his two young girls.The only time the man sees me is in our building parking lot.
Do I look like a babysitter? Is it the massive flash of silver that sits atop my cranium? I’ve escaped resembling a Shar Pei so it’s gotta be the hair.
He assumed I’d be a potential candidate for childcare based on my hair color.
I’ve been a granny for many years. I tell my age when asked; it’s a big number, but no big deal.
What is a big deal is when other people make assumptions based on their perception of an older woman.
I quit my last volunteer job when they assigned me to geezer friendly chores. I sucked it up while the coordinator demonstrated how to use a computer mouse.
She gave advanced instructions on using the manual paper cutter, then asked, “Think you’ve got it?” I bit my tongue instead of informing her it wasn’t quantum math, and left.
Our house hasn’t been kid friendly for twenty years.
- Judging from the parochial school sticker on the man’s car, I have a hunch that he’d find my reading selection unacceptable. The only Mother Goose in my house is me.
- Sybil, the cat, tolerates me and hisses at children.
- I don’t bake cookies. That’s why God invented Central Market.
- No way am I going to play endless rounds of Go Fish and Cards Against Humanity isn’t kid friendly.
- Vodka:30 is a daily event, no exceptions except sometimes it’s Tequila:30.
Why didn’t he ask the hot chick that lives next door to him? For all he knows, she may be desperate for extra income.
I wish him luck in finding a sitter, but he might consider trimming his beard.
You never know how people perceive men with unkempt beards.
Categories: Biased, Unbalanced and Politically Incorrect
I am a lifelong Southerner, short story author, and essayist. Home is Dallas, Texas.
My essays have appeared in Flash Fiction Magazine, The Dead Mule School of Southern Writing.