| Essay Non-Fiction posted July 17, 2022 | Chapters: |
...15 16 -17- 18... 
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Time changes our reactions to situations
A chapter in the book A Fly on the Wall
Mellowing with Age (sort of)
by Rachelle Allen
| Background My take on the people and situations that present themselves to me on a daily basis. They are not presented in the chronological order in which they occurred, just insouciantly random. |
July 15, 2022
A recent Facebook post asked, "If people came with warning labels, what would yours say?"
I wrote, "My red hair IS my warning label."
Forty-six total strangers responded with the laughing emoji. Another twelve wrote "LOL" in the comments. My niece, though, who's also a redhead, chimed in with an omniscient, "Truer words were never spoken."
What's funny is that, now that I'm in my Golden Years (read: two weeks shy of sixty-six), I've noticed a substantial mellowing in myself. For the most part, my husband, Bobby, agrees. (More on that in a minute.)
When we met twenty-three years ago, I was still a bona fide spitfire. But time (and marriage, because, this go-round, it's to someone I totally like) has softened my edges.
Pull your car out abruptly right in front of me? Today, rather than just my tallest finger, I'll offer you all five digits. In fact, I'll sway them back and forth with my palm facing you. I'll even smile. (You're welcome! I'll see you in your rearview mirror four seconds from now at the next stoplight!)
Say something uncouth to me now, like the guy did who was sitting in his parked vehicle, when I was twenty-five? ("Whoa! Did ya get those from your MOTHER'S side? *haw-haw-haw- haw.*") I'll no longer give you a haughty glare and respond with words that will diminish you in front of your passenger and make him roar with laughter. ("Don't be ridiculous; I got them from my mother's FRONT!") These days, such a comment would inspire me to merely wag my index finger, like a spinster schoolmarm, at such an idiot and maybe even suppress a grin.
Offer up a catty little comment about my fashion-forward accessory on a Saturday in early April of 1986, as we both stand in line at the fabric store? ("Ooooh! Is that your EASTER BONNET?" *highly amused, self-satisfied smirk*) Now, in my seventh decade, I'd simply meet that taunt with a good, hearty chuckle rather than my equally impudent little comment that day, served up with slitted eyes and caustic smile. ("Hardly; I'm Jewish.")
I'm convinced that, now that I'm mellower, if I were given Do-Overs for any previously aggravating social intrusions, I'd be impressively better about sloughing them off with humor and good sportsmanship.
Well, except for that wedding reception incident about eight years ago. There'd be no Do-Over changes for me with that one.
That night, the hussy who was sitting on the other side of my husband (and, easily, deep into her fifth cocktail) ignited my ire by purring to him that his hair was "soooo beautiful." She wasn't wrong, but there are some things you just don't say to other people's spouses, especially when you've just seen them for the first time three minutes earlier. In the next blink, the hussy actually reached out and, splaying her fingers like a sea anemone, proceeded to knead through my husband's salt-and-pepper tresses like a cat on an angora rug.
Red became the color of the moment. My red-hair-as-warning-label sparked into overdrive. I saw a lightning bolt of red before my eyes, and I even believe there were orange-red flames billowing forth from my nostrils.
In fact, so intense was the heat-infused impact of what I'd just witnessed, that it caused me to shoot up from my chair like a launched rocket, laser my glare mere inches from the hussy's raccoonish eyes and offer up a firecracker-like sizzle as I hissed at her. "If. You. EVER touch my husband's hair again, I will *bleeping bleep* you until you *bleep* your *bleep-bleep* and I will not stop until you *bleep, bleep-bleep, bleep-bleep."
This anything-but-mellow-and-good-hearted response on my part inspired said hussy's husband, who was sitting far across the wide expanse of table, to exclaim, "WHOA! The perky-and-charming redhead's got some FIRE in her!" He then laughed appreciatively in my direction and asked, with a little accelerant thrown into his tone, "Hey! Does my wife have her hand on your husband's thigh right now? She usually likes to do that to guys she doesn't know at parties, too!"
"No," I shot back like a blow torch. "And the way you can know that for sure is because she's still alive."
Warning: Mellowing is a very. lengthy. process. Especially, it seems, for redheads. (Well, this one, at least.)
A recent Facebook post asked, "If people came with warning labels, what would yours say?"
I wrote, "My red hair IS my warning label."
Forty-six total strangers responded with the laughing emoji. Another twelve wrote "LOL" in the comments. My niece, though, who's also a redhead, chimed in with an omniscient, "Truer words were never spoken."
What's funny is that, now that I'm in my Golden Years (read: two weeks shy of sixty-six), I've noticed a substantial mellowing in myself. For the most part, my husband, Bobby, agrees. (More on that in a minute.)
When we met twenty-three years ago, I was still a bona fide spitfire. But time (and marriage, because, this go-round, it's to someone I totally like) has softened my edges.
Pull your car out abruptly right in front of me? Today, rather than just my tallest finger, I'll offer you all five digits. In fact, I'll sway them back and forth with my palm facing you. I'll even smile. (You're welcome! I'll see you in your rearview mirror four seconds from now at the next stoplight!)
Say something uncouth to me now, like the guy did who was sitting in his parked vehicle, when I was twenty-five? ("Whoa! Did ya get those from your MOTHER'S side? *haw-haw-haw- haw.*") I'll no longer give you a haughty glare and respond with words that will diminish you in front of your passenger and make him roar with laughter. ("Don't be ridiculous; I got them from my mother's FRONT!") These days, such a comment would inspire me to merely wag my index finger, like a spinster schoolmarm, at such an idiot and maybe even suppress a grin.
Offer up a catty little comment about my fashion-forward accessory on a Saturday in early April of 1986, as we both stand in line at the fabric store? ("Ooooh! Is that your EASTER BONNET?" *highly amused, self-satisfied smirk*) Now, in my seventh decade, I'd simply meet that taunt with a good, hearty chuckle rather than my equally impudent little comment that day, served up with slitted eyes and caustic smile. ("Hardly; I'm Jewish.")
I'm convinced that, now that I'm mellower, if I were given Do-Overs for any previously aggravating social intrusions, I'd be impressively better about sloughing them off with humor and good sportsmanship.
Well, except for that wedding reception incident about eight years ago. There'd be no Do-Over changes for me with that one.
That night, the hussy who was sitting on the other side of my husband (and, easily, deep into her fifth cocktail) ignited my ire by purring to him that his hair was "soooo beautiful." She wasn't wrong, but there are some things you just don't say to other people's spouses, especially when you've just seen them for the first time three minutes earlier. In the next blink, the hussy actually reached out and, splaying her fingers like a sea anemone, proceeded to knead through my husband's salt-and-pepper tresses like a cat on an angora rug.
Red became the color of the moment. My red-hair-as-warning-label sparked into overdrive. I saw a lightning bolt of red before my eyes, and I even believe there were orange-red flames billowing forth from my nostrils.
In fact, so intense was the heat-infused impact of what I'd just witnessed, that it caused me to shoot up from my chair like a launched rocket, laser my glare mere inches from the hussy's raccoonish eyes and offer up a firecracker-like sizzle as I hissed at her. "If. You. EVER touch my husband's hair again, I will *bleeping bleep* you until you *bleep* your *bleep-bleep* and I will not stop until you *bleep, bleep-bleep, bleep-bleep."
This anything-but-mellow-and-good-hearted response on my part inspired said hussy's husband, who was sitting far across the wide expanse of table, to exclaim, "WHOA! The perky-and-charming redhead's got some FIRE in her!" He then laughed appreciatively in my direction and asked, with a little accelerant thrown into his tone, "Hey! Does my wife have her hand on your husband's thigh right now? She usually likes to do that to guys she doesn't know at parties, too!"
"No," I shot back like a blow torch. "And the way you can know that for sure is because she's still alive."
Warning: Mellowing is a very. lengthy. process. Especially, it seems, for redheads. (Well, this one, at least.)
 Recognized |
I've been on a three-year hiatus from FanStory. This book was one I began back then and will be expanding on now. What's nice is that, since this is a "collection" of essays, each chapter is independent of the others. You won't have to have read what preceded it to make sense of what will be posted from here on in. You can just pick it up from anywhere and read.
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