Today, I caught a glimpse of someone who may never know the true pleasure of joining this group. As I drove to the Donut Palace for my Saturday morning treat, there she was, waiting at the traffic signal while impatiently running in place. I'll tell you, no self-respecting fat gram would ever linger on that body, and I doubt she can even spell "enchilada."
Truth be told, my immediate response at seeing her was that of envy, then followed by guilt. By all accounts, she'd be considered healthy, and as for me, I'll quote my doctor's exact words, "You know you need to lose weight, don't you?" Those are fighting words for any real woman!
As I enjoyed my chocolate-covered cinnamon twist and sipped my Dr Pepper, I quickly flashed back to my grandmother's kitchen. It was there that Memaw "fried up" her own donuts and then smothered them with powdered sugar. You'd find your cola, covered with ice chips, in a big old box just off the porch.
Like other Southern women, Memaw put her black iron skillet to many a good use, including a swat or two at my grandfather. For that's just what real women did.
And no woman was more real than my grandmother, and my Pepaw couldn't pass her side that he didn't give her a pat or a big kiss. She loved to shop and was known to dress elegantly in pure silk, always with matching hat and gloves. And when she got behind the wheel of her Ford LTD, there wasn't a real woman who could out-drive her. That's my legacy, and one I intend to uphold.
Gladys Ray, known as Nanny to her extended family, was herself another real woman. Nanny's house was always fraganced by the scent of french fries, and she never served a meal with just one entree. Guests helped themselves to a choice of meat loaf, fried pork chops or smothered steak. She admitted to liking her men "on the heavy side," and while she buried two husbands, Nanny's health endured through her late 80s.
She had a laugh, or should I say giggle, that her real-women descendants can only mimic.
My apologies to those of you who carefully watch your diets and run in place while watching "fools" like me snacking in a passing car. I mean you no disrespect. Some of you could possibly be my friend, but for sure, none of you are related.
I just know when Pepaw looks down from heaven, he must relish the likes of me. Friends keep coming back for more of my casserole specialties, and my cats jump at the chance to comfort themselves on my soft body. The only thing hard about me is my ability to be understood, but then that's the secret oath of all real women.
(This story was inspired by the music
of Trisha Yearwood and by some perfectly nice
woman jogging-in-place on
Ferris Avenue).
Copyright ©2000 Jeanne Moseley