I consider myself a babe sometimes, especially since I’m an older gal who still has guys looking at me. If they are gawking, it’s more likely I am carrying around a trail of toilet paper that is stuck to my panties. Then I find myself acrimoniously muttering four-letter words and in the next breath, coming back to civility by saying, “Your patience during my time of venting frustration is thoroughly appreciated.” Never mind the more colorful stuff that comes pouring out of my mouth when I’m pulling out said soft thin toitee layers while twenty other people are staring. Sometimes I just don’t think before I speak. I do the same exact thing when I’m being passed on the freeway by some overzealous Nascar drivers. Or when I have spilled oily foods on my freshly laundered clothes. My swear jar could probably finance the entire Department of Molecular Medicine. I realize it’s unladylike to curse. After a long day gone, I also have this indelicate desire to be flop free and whip off my bra through my shirt sleeves before I even reach the front door. I may be one of those ladies in the nursing home who gets kicked out due to cursing and creating chaos.
In our house growing up, we got our mouths washed out with soap for swearing. Now when I’m happy, I sputter off innocent words. But when I’m upset, I use the Lord’s name in vain, hoping He has a sense of humor when I turn into a foul-mouthed name dropper. I’m not sure where this came from when I was a church going purist who was taught better. In my past I would have said, “Dangit. There’s a piece of toilet paper stuck to my behind.” Now, I’m exerting every effort to sound off irreverently about whatever experience is annoying me. In order to curb such enthusiasm, I looked into this disturbing characteristic. Seems I have Lalochezia, the emotional relief gained from using vulgar language. Then I’m mad at myself and proceed to walk around and do something else that’s dumb, experiencing life at the rate of several more profanities per minute. I don’t often use big words. Not when a singularly linguistic expression can satisfy my immediate need.
Of course not all females swear. But I have witnessed quite a few using grandiloquent language. The last time I was on an airplane, that lively pedestrian promenade that has people watching at its finest, I thought I would be zenning out when in fact I ended up interacting with a collection of female cussers. I sat next to one gal and immediately said to her, “I know it’s against code and all, but if we experience any sky diving, I’ll adjust your oxygen mask after you adjust mine.” She rolled her eyes and started spouting off at me as if I was some kind of self-centered gamine with wicked charm. But I stayed wildly optimistic that she would save my life in case of a dire emergency. She began describing her dislike for airplane food, complaining that it tasted like “f-ing cardboard.” Whereas I told her, “There’s always peanuts!” Some cheered me on. Although I’ve known others in my life who have wanted to gag me from day one. She started mumbling a bunch of sentence enhancers that would have made a sailor sound like a saint. It brought to light my own iniquitous and foolish practices of profanity use.
When I turned away, I observed a couple who was obviously on their anniversary trip since he was presenting her with a wrapped box. She wanted one with diamonds in it, but he surprised her with a gift certificate to Victoria’s Secret. Every strand on her mood swing snapped, and she possessed a demeanor that suggested she was unsatisfied with his sexual gift. It sounded like they had a successful relationship when I overheard something about four children, five grandchildren, and ten thousand days of togetherness. And I assumed there were zero stabbings during that lengthy time period. But that moment was forever captured with quite a blasphemous retort from the wife that ended with a wonderful exchange. One that almost made me want to be married.
Not fifteen minutes later, a boy was kicking the back of another woman’s seat. Meanwhile, the man next to her decided to take a reclining snoozer by taking up two seats to nap. She was not a happy-go-lucky beam of flourishing sunshine. I suppose she began swearing because beating the hell out of two humans is illegal in most states. I cannot repeat what the woman said. I can only say that the younger mister adorableness was a sponge, and that those vocables do not vaporize so quickly. Her words packed a serious punch and he could have repeated them. It was bad enough he called her “meannie head.” She erupted again, correcting his comeback while verbally bashing the man next to her with more smuttiness. This might be what happens when you don’t pay close attention to your espresso intake. Or I came to another epiphany that maybe she was menopausal and someone messed with the airline thermostat. I do believe that women with that sort of influence usually live longer than men who mention it.
My body language doesn’t always say what I’m thinking. But watching this babe told me that she was probably prepared to use a closed fist on both of them while spouting off indecencies. People in the down under know how to react to things like this. Aussies would tell the woman, “That’s a bit crikey ya wanker!” Which is the clean way of saying, Oh my gosh you idiot. This prolonged stay in verbal punishment prison made me want to chant, Stop, in the name of love… besides stopping my own profanity use. I knew it was a good day when I didn’t need to unleash my own flying innuendos. And I could have, since there is usually a screaming toddler on board, or when you’re hedged between two tedious talkers with horrid breath, or when the lavatory is being overly occupied by sex driven couples. Vulgarities could have easily erupted when the young girl in front of me decided to free her forever flowing hair by letting it drop behind her seat and onto my tray table where my food was resting, not to mention covering my in-flight video and totally blocking those Jerry & Kramer shenanigans. The man on the other side of me recommended that I not point my finger and try to arrange safe words when describing my angst. Lucky for Rapunzel I wasn’t carrying any hair cutting shears. I did wonder if the airplane masks that dropped down carried something else besides oxygen.
I have used the “F” bomb, trying fiercely to change it to “fudge.” The problem with that is, I think about food then run to the store for Fudgsicles and whatever else has crystalline candy and saturated fats in it. As I get older, I realize I should take up other hobbies like knitting. Or muzzle wearing.