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Humor April 2018

Laverne's View

It’s Not Fair

By Laverne Bardy

Football has been explained to me more times than I care to recall, and still I don’t understand why the opposing team refuses to let the guy carrying the football run the length of the field the way he wants to. If this one rule was changed, the game wouldn’t have to drag on for so long.

I was born a totally feminine female. Don’t get me wrong, I love being a woman, and by female I don’t mean scatterbrained or helpless. But would it have hurt if I’d been given a small dose of testosterone during my creation – enough to allow me to understand something about how my car works, so that when I hear a flapping noise under the hood I’d instinctively suspect I have a bad belt and don’t need a new a transmission, like the mechanic insists I do.

Aging doesn’t help. People seem to believe my wrinkles have replaced my brain cells. I want the confidence of knowing that if I change my own flat tire, it won’t decide to drop off while I’m cruising the turnpike.

Not long ago I was driving on the highway, surrounded by cars each traveling 65-70 miles an hour. Out of the blue, barreling towards me at warp speed, was a renegade tire, not attached to a vehicle, rapidly gaining speed and coming at me.

I was helpless.

BANG!!! It crashed into my front right bumper, jumped onto my hood and flew over the roof of my convertible which, by the grace of God, happened to be up on that sunny, spring afternoon. I heard pieces of metal drop to the highway. My eyes darted in all directions to see if I could spot a disabled three-wheeled vehicle, hobbling along with sparks flying from metal dragging over macadam.

I saw nothing.

Rubbernecking began, and as I cautiously turned onto the shoulder and parked, a woman drove past me, crossing herself.

I jumped out of the car and saw black tread marks across my crumpled hood, a demolished bumper and my right headlight swinging in the breeze. It was for times like this I’d opted to buy a cell phone I was not otherwise interested in owning. But, there was no signal, so I tucked my swinging headlight wires back into where they were supposed to be and limped home. It surprised me that no one had pulled over to offer help. Perhaps there were only women driving that afternoon, or maybe I did have a scintilla of testosterone after all, and passing people viewed me as fully capable.

I have a girlfriend who may have received my share of testosterone at birth. Macho Maggie not only loves cars, she knows each name, year and model. The only vehicles I readily identify are 18 wheelers, yellow school buses, and old model Volkswagens. All the rest look alike.

With rare exception, I can’t stomach sports, either. My ex was a sports fanatic. In reality, nothing else interested him. After 23 years I developed a Teflon attitude towards sports in general and baseball in particular. Phrases like, “home base, shortstop and fly ball, no longer compute.

They slide right off my brain.

Football has been explained to me more times than I care to recall, and still I don’t understand why the opposing team refuses to let the guy carrying the football run the length of the field the way he wants to. If this one rule was changed, the game wouldn’t have to drag on for so long.

I want to be able to distinguish fullbacks from tight ends. Well, actually I’m pretty good at recognizing tight ends, but only off the football field.

At Super Sunday parties, I want to care about whether or not a team has only one down to go. I want to understand how four minutes left in the game really means 45 minutes. I want to care more about the game and less about the chili dogs being passed around, and I want to drink beer without gagging.

I want to derive an erotic sensation from gliding my hand over a drill press in a mega-hardware store, and experience joy while watching shoot-‘em-up movies.

I want to sit in a chair with my legs uncrossed and relaxed, and not give a thought to what may or may not be showing.

I want to roll down my car window while I’m driving, spit with conviction, and not have it blow back in my face.

If there’s a way I can learn to do all these things and still maintain my integrity as a feminine female, I want to know.

As it is, it’s just not fair. 

 

Laverne H. Bardy transforms life’s adversities into hilarious adventures that boomers and seniors relate to. Her book, "How The (Bleep) Did I Get This Old?" is available at Amazon.com and other online bookstores. www.lavernebardy.com or email:  This email address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it.