Leaving Shelby Park I crossed paths with an older woman—mid-sixties-ish, lumpy and non-descript—walking a beautifully manicured sheep dog. I stopped my van, smiled, and waved to let them cross.
Locking her knees and digging her heels into the pavement, this woman looked me cold in the eyes, shook her head forcefully, and said, NO.
I wasn’t trying to sexually assault you, lady. Just wanted to let you and your animal cross the street.
It was as if she’d just taken an evening enrichment class in standing up for herself, and damn it (*insert mental foot stomp*), she and Wilfred Brimley would cross the street when they felt good and ready, not just because some perky suburban mom in a minivan pressured them into it.
So help her God.