"I've got a riddle for you," he said to me and my friend.
I was drinking my smart juice (kamikaze, on the rocks), so I felt pretty confident.
"A man and his son are in a car accident," says Jason (or James? or Scott? doesn't really affect the story). "The man dies immediately, and the boy is taken to the E.R., in critical condition. When he gets into surgery, the surgeon takes one look at him and says, "I can't operate on him. This is my son."
"How is that possible?" asks J___.
His friend clarifies, the boy's dad died instantly in the car crash? Right. He takes a stab -- it's a gay couple?
I'm impatient and my drink is running low, and all my metaphysical guesses about angels and a time-space continuum are missing the mark, so we finally demand the answer.
"The surgeon was the boy's mother."
I wanted to kick myself with my kitten heel. How had I not thought of that? I'd like to blame an alcohol-addled mind for thinking "angel" but not "female surgeon," but I was sobered, and by the way, not in the mood to be hit on at a bar.
I still feel a little sick to my stomach to realize how the socialization of our country, our world, has warped my thinking.
"You gain strength, courage, and confidence by every experience
in which you really stop to look fear in the face.
You must do the thing which you think you cannot do."
~ Eleanor Roosevelt ~
I love to see a young girl go out and grab the world by the lapels.
Life's a bitch.
You've got to go out and kick ass
~ Maya Angelou ~
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