About four weeks after I’d given birth to the wild Seabass, I was feeling bad about my post-partum body (e.g. the sagging, the bulging, the all-around frumpiness), and decided to lift my spirits by going on a stroller walk downtown with the boy.
As I passed the neighborhood watering hole – abuzz with butt rock and college students yelling expletives at full volume – I remembered that it was graduation weekend for the local university. Sighing heavily, I realized that C and I would be dodging drunk and/or hungover 22-year-olds for the remainder of the walk. I’m only ten years older than them but I suddenly felt like Mr. Wilson from Dennis the Menace. Stinkin’ kids.
I managed to avoid any major drama until, in front of the Gap, two young guys staggered toward me from the opposite direction. It was immediately obvious that they were a) wasted, and b) looking for an opportunity to hassle someone or something. Unfortunately, the only someone or something available at the moment was me.
“Hey!” one of them blurted from a couple feet away.
Keep your head down. Just walk past. And don’t let them barf anywhere near the expensive stroller.
“Hey!” he repeated. “Dijoo grajooate thisss weekend?”
I looked over my shoulder, wondering how this poor soul could possibly confuse me – the drab woman pushing the stroller – with a perky young graduate.
“Uh, no. That was about fifteen years ago, buddy,” I quipped, thinking that would put an end to our brief relationship.
The two young bucks exchanged slightly surprised glances before one of them gave me the thumbs up and slurred, “Lookin’ good, mom!”
Now, I should say that I do not condone drunkenness, nor leering, nor cat-calling. Not in the least.
But I would be lying if I said I didn’t walk home with a big smile painted on my face. And perhaps holding my head up a little higher.