To the family responsible for the construction on my teeny tiny street, that’s ruining the charm of the neighborhood with the fortress they appear to be building (disguised as a home), and worse – trucks and tractors blocking traffic, and leaving debris and nails – I say: bite me.
To whichever hard hatted gurus are responsible for what I believe to be a nail in my front left radial and the subsequent flat tire which screwed up last evening (and will continue to plague my morning and afternoon, not to mention, cost me a pretty penny), I say: bite me.
To the health insurance robber barons to whom I pay a small fortune each month, for crappy coverage and ridiculous deductibles, who are raising my premium yet one more time (now higher than my mortgage), I say: bite me.
To those who dismiss what I have to contribute as the irrelevant commentary of a middle-aged woman, bite me. Let me repeat, for impact: bite me.
To the members of the legal profession who participate in the Divorce Industry, who long ago erased me and millions like me once the money and credit ran out (yes, I know there are exceptions), I say: bite me. You are a special class of Irritation Extraordinaire, so you, too, deserve a second chorus: bite me.
To the men whom I dated six or seven years ago (make that “coffee dated”), who were online with (then) three and four-year old pictures, who are still online with the same photos (yes, I can see you, and you can’t see me), I say: bite me.
To the men who are ten years my senior who refuse to date me much less anyone even remotely their own age, I say, very sweetly: bite me. Actually, make that don’t bite me.
To those who think they know it all, whatever “it” may be, I say walk in my shoes, walk in your neighbor’s shoes, try on another life for a time. The fact is, until you’ve lived it or truly have the capacity for stepping inside another’s head and experience, you haven’t a clue. So respectfully, bite me.
To the media that aids and abets the impression that women resemble the air-brushed tits-on-a-stick figures that appear on screen and in print, to the imagery that homogenizes models of beauty for our men, for our women, for our sons, for our daughters, I say bite me – and yes, I have natural curves in which to sink your teeth. To the men who expect a woman to look anything like this illustration, I say again: bite me.
In general, to those who judge a book by its cover – the metaphorical book – you may be missing out on a fantastic person who will enrich your life immeasurably. You know who you are. And you know who I mean: the woman tapping her foot in line next to you at Starbucks who is worried about her kids and her job and her health and not worried about the crinkles around her eyes or the wrinkles in her shirt; the man who looks a little worn, a little weary, with his paunch, his thinning hair, and who nonetheless possesses a brilliant wit and a giving heart.
To those who will make their way past my rough week (and my rough morning), to those who will stop and help a stranger, to those who will buck the odds and live life bravely and in earnest, with humor and humility – I say bravo.
To the individuals who know in their gut their human worth, their extraordinary beauty even as the skin softens and the hair grays and the belly won’t tighten up no matter how many crunches you undertake, and in the fictionalized film of the self you can’t quite pretend any longer; to the tender-hearted and hard-working hacks who still believe staunchly, stubbornly, honorably, unwaveringly that somehow, somewhere, good people exist and kindness is alive and well; to those who know that a single instant of genuine connection contains enough spark to ignite a flicker, then a small blue flame, then an unanticipated draft of air to fan it into fire, a fire to burn brightly, steadily, savagely enough to warm spirits caught in conversation, to encourage an encounter, a fever, a sunburst, a solar storm, a wild ride of passion or nothing more than an anonymous nod and a smile which may mean everything on a bad day of exhausting errands (and flat tires), I say again: bravo.
Maybe there’s hope for us yet.
Pamela Anderson, Google images