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| "AMERICA'S FUNNIEST HUMOR"TM
SHOWCASE
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February
/ March 2007 Contest Results |
Born To
Be Wild... And Self-Conscious
By Cathy Hamilton,
Kansas
I am standing in the middle of a scooter store, staring at the back of a
sexy little motorized bike called the Piaggio. I recently experienced a
minor financial windfall - a breeze, really - and have decided to buy a
scooter.
My youngest sister, who is 37, thinks this is out-loud laughable, no
doubt referring to the visual of me scooting through the streets of
town, my white hair flying in the wind.
But I am not alone. Vespa, makers of the most popular Italian scooters
on the market, say boomers are their best customers. So there.
The salesman starts in with his pitch and I stop him short.
I know it gets 90 miles to the gallon.
I know about the two-stroke engine that injects the oil into the gas so
you don't have to mix it yourself.
I’m hip to the 1-year limited warranty and the suggested retail price.
C’mon. I’m a woman with a laptop. I live for consumer research.
What I want to know, and why I’m scrutinizing the rear of the bike
instead of the headlights or the storage capacity or those handy
under-the-dash hooks for your plastic grocery bags, is one thing:
Will this scooter make my butt look big?
Will motorists following three car-lengths behind me be so distracted by
the size of my rear end they’ll swerve into my lane, over-correct and
smash into a tree? This isn’t vanity; it’s a public safety concern.
Get over yourself, says the little voice in my head. You want to buy
this scooter. Do your bit for global warming.
Oh yeah? I answer back. Then why don’t I just buy a bicycle and put my
money where my mouth is?
The voice responds: Have you ever seen that 50-year-old bottom hanging
over those skinny seats? I don’t THINK so.
I decide not to pose the burning question to the scooter salesman who
now seems intent on showing me his 10-inch alloy wheels.
Instead, I grab a helmet and take a test drive.
It is difficult, if not impossible, to check out one’s rear end while
driving a scooter. (You really do learn something new every day.)
I try adjusting the handlebar mirrors but the angle is wrong. I try
riding past large plate-glass windows but the side view isn’t conclusive
and, besides, it’s not smart to take your eyes off the road on your
maiden scooter voyage. Finally, I pull into a parking lot, back the bike
up to a large store window and take out my compact for a reverse-angle
look-see.
What is this, one of those freaky fun house mirrors?
I am not amused.
My behind looks huge!
Maybe there really is a flaw in the plate glass. The same phenomenon
that causes skinny and fat mirrors in dressing rooms. Hey, it’s
possible!
So I turn the bike around and face the glass head on to get the oncoming
traffic’s perspective. I look good. Like a woman born to be wild. A
mover. A shaker. Dare I say, a hipster.
I take off my helmet and shake my white hair loose.
I am going to buy this scooter.
I smile for the glass and give myself a “here’s looking at you, kid”
wink and a big thumbs up.
Suddenly, I see past my reflection in the window and into the store
where a group of auto parts shoppers have gathered to gape slack-jawed
at the crazy woman posing on a scooter in the parking lot with no camera
in sight.
They are afraid to walk to their cars.
I put the helmet back on, fire up the Piaggo and scoot away, knowing
they are flabbergasted by the view.
I raise my right hand high in the air, give them a backwards wave and
slap my behind for effect, saying to no one in particular:
Don’t like my scoot? Kiss my patoot!
http://www.cathyhamilton.com
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