As I entered the foyer on my way out of the nursing home, I encountered another resident in mid-flight. He had his wheelchair parked five feet from the door, and four nurses surrounded him. The little man in the mush pot didn’t look intimidating, but reinforcements don’t lie. I neared the circle to hear him cussing them three ways from Sunday while he jabbed a fist in the air for emphasis.
“Every damn one of you wears pants. Pants! What kind of woman wears pants? I’ve seen one woman in a dress as she should be, but the rest of you wear pants, and that’s a damn disgrace. God didn’t make women so they could put on a pair of damn pants and try to be men. You,” he said, leaning forward and pointing a gnarled finger at the closest person in scrubs, “should be ashamed of yourself.”
I skirted the edge of this good time assembly and tried to make it to the door. One of the nurses stood in front of my exit and shook her head.
“It’s no use. He’s wearing a lockdown anklet, and until we can get him more than ten feet from the door, the lock won’t release.”
Fantastic. More good news. I looked at the little guy in the red cap spewing forth sermons with a healthy seasoning of salty language. He seemed to have enough righteous indignation to carry him for at least another half hour, and he had just turned his gaze on another feminine miscreant in his circle.
“You know what the problem is with all you damn women? You think you’re men! You want to wear pants so you can be in charge and play the man. I’ve heard about what’s going on in the world. Women are going with both men and women these days. They can’t make up their minds. And I tell you one thing, as long as they’re wearing pants and turning their damn backs on their role as a woman, they’re going to stay confused!”
The nurse closest to him stood with hands on her hips, but her voice was as calm as bath water as she replied, “Ok. Think you can roll away from the door so this lady can leave?”
He swung his gaze my way, and I braced myself for the verbal bashing that was bound to ensue over her misuse of the term lady. After all, I was wearing a pair of damn blue jeans and obviously in defiance of every law God had decreed for my gender. I have always considered myself a heterosexual and never thought to revisit this issue, but given the evils this bipedal denim was wreaking on my soul, perhaps I was sending the wrong signals to my target audience. After all, men in their 90’s sure didn’t seem to appreciate my choice of attire. I should probably go home and reevaluate both my life goals and wardrobe.
Thankfully, one of the staff members was able to scoot him far enough away from the exit to allow my escape, and I darted back through Noah’s forecast to make time for home. Next stop, country music hall.
© 2013 – Traci Carver