One of those fat spiral earrings was stabbed through her earlobe. It was the type that sits in a very stretched out hole—stretched out intentionally. I fingered my nearly virgin earlobe. It felt soft and the tiny hole that was almost never used was nearly undetectable. Motorcycle Woman and I were two different creatures.
I was sitting at a stoplight. Next to me Motorcycle Woman was sitting behind her man, her knees vaguely in contact with his back half. Motorcycle Woman is actually quite unattractive, but you don’t really notice unless you stop to think about it because she does herself up nicely. One doesn’t notice the double chin, the strange curve of her nose, or the eccentric shape to her abdomen. One does notice the hot pink lipstick, the platinum blond hair, and the bright blue talons attached to her fingertips. She wasn’t a bad looking woman at all.
For an instant I thought what would it really be like to be her? My eyes moved to the man. A scraggly beard dawned his chin and his chin alone, something like a protrusion for an upside down unicorn. He had a very stocky frame. Looks like he’d be generating a lot of heat come wintertime, I mused. He had a tense face, full of angst. I sensed a bad temper when drinking.
A vision of him at a bar came to me then. He would be pounding a fist against a table, stirring some trouble up, and there would be Motorcycle Woman tapping those bright blue talons. I could kind of see her swinging a beer bottle around in the air, should the need arise.
The light turned green. No thank you, I mumbled as we drove off in different directions. I don’t think I want to be motorcycle woman.
We parked downtown. I took a good look at my favorite pair of sandals. They had survived one summer already. Would they make it through another long walk, or would I be hobbling back to the van in one shoe and wearing the “I blew out my flip-flop” look of shame? All the locals would give me the nod that said: Don’t step on a pop top. As I was considering this, the tot hopped out and stepped right on the back of my flip-flop as I stepped forward, giving the poor straps a proper stress test.
Each one of these toddler stress tests takes a month of life off these things, I thought as I squinted at the tot. “Sorry mama,” she said with such charm. I squinted onward as we walked toward the park. Motorcycle Woman wears boots—she doesn’t have these sort of problems.
We meandered toward the park and I felt the deep wave of post-lunch-direct-sunlight-exhaustion come over me. It was a precursor of what one feels stepping outside after noon from May to November. I dragged my body in and out and around and through. The playground was like a maze. What would Motorcycle Woman do in these circumstances? My sluggish brain had a surprisingly quick response. Sit.
I found the tire swing, swaying in the breeze like a friendly wave. The chains would suit Motorcycle Woman’s style—it’s like her throne. I flung off the flip-flops. The old dears needed a proper rest. I could vaguely see the tot’s head popping up now and then, and that was good enough. The boy was supposed to be keeping an eye on her, but that is a questionable scenario, as every little sister can attest.
I leaned back and let the swing glide me along. I was cutting through the breeze, the wind rushing through my hair like the platinum blond strands of Motorcycle Woman. The swing was my motorcycle, the patch of air in front of me the imaginary upside down unicorn man. That thought seemed to slow the swing’s momentum. I ran a finger across my practically virgin earlobe and shivered. My feet hit the ground and I hopped off.
No thank you. I’m definitely not Motorcycle Woman.