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Our guide, seated on the bus step during a rest stop, evaluated the belly of a rotund man, not pictured, and asked, "How many babies you got in there?" The bus fell silent and all eyes turned to the unfortunate guy who's in the harsh spotlight of a taboo topic - weight.
This could go either way. But the man rubbed his belly, and, with comic timing, shouted, "Two!" Then he guffawed and the mood on the bus turned light. Gotta give that guy credit for his sense of humor and comfort with self deprecation.
The still-curious guide turned his attention to the man in the yellow shirt, and I'm probably not the only one who wondered how many babies he's carrying. But instead the guide asked "How old are you?"
Yes. How Old Are You?? Yellow shirt quickly replied, "I'm 71." I guess he was relieved not to be asked the "how many babies in there" question.
In the span of two minutes, our charming guide had waded into mine fields (or is that mind fields?) of the American psyche: weight and age.
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Oh no! He's looking at me!
"How old are YOU!?" he asked, cocking his head like a quizzical bird. A crow, or a raven.
It's not a hard question, but I paused. I'm among the senior citizens of the world who are reluctantly getting used to being senior citizens. It's not easy to spit out my real number. So I say, like my mother before me said decades after she really was this age: "I'm 39."
Sadly, this caused more levity on the bus.
"Ok, ok, I'm 71," I confessed. "But," I asked the guide, "Don't you know you're not supposed to ask people, especially American women, how old they are?"
Versions of that issue have surfaced over the past 30 years when my sister Monette Johnson and I are out and about together. It doesn't seem to matter where or when, or which one of is having the worst bad hair day, of which there are many. Here's how it goes.
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My sister was born in January 1937. I was born in December 1944. I'm on the right, by the way. You do the math. Clearly, I am so much younger. Well, apparently that is not so clear. Truth is, once you get past the forties, age differences matter less and less. If that's the case, then I should have stopped being rattled by these unthinking questions 20 years ago. June 2015 photo.
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Oh! You must be twins!
Retail clerk in Medford, OR
You 're sisters, right? Yes. sisters, we confirm.
Whew! I'm in the clear. Then the clerk feels the need to press, About a year apart?
AAARGH! I could cough up a dozen examples of such questions, and my sister could likely recall more, as they excite her pleasure centers.
I should be happy for her that she involuntarily glows when this happens, and doesn't rub it in. But, on my side, the inquiries continue to prickle.
It's our sick youth-possessed culture and celebrity-worshipping media that have some of us clinging for dear life to what remains of our fleeting youth, if even a shred remains.
When I get really old, I know I'll get over it.
Years ago, before my hair was as gray as hers, someone assumed my sister was my mother. I withheld that bit until the most recent incident in Medford (see above.) But she did not believe it.
Such as....
When is your due date?
Not pregnant.
How much do you make?
Not telling.
You gay?
You're not?
How much did you pay for that?
More than I'm willing to say.
Why don't you have children?
Really, you're asking me that? You ass.
Have you had an abortion?
Perhaps the most private of all areas of inquiry. Could result in waterboarding
Are you a Jew? Muslim? Christian? etc.
Yes, no, or maybe. And you?
Are you a Trump supporter?
If you are, be careful who you tell.
Did you have work done? Asked with a knowing (or assuming) nod toward your eyelids, jowls, nose, lips, breasts, tummy or other unreconstructed features.
If no, be flattered.
If yes, suggest the questioner might benefit from such a procedure, perhaps to sew his or her big mouth shut.
Do you dye your hair?
Doesn't everyone?
The last one, below, is for women whose blessed event occurs near the end of her child-bearing years. That was me.
You're a little old to be having a baby, aren't you?
A male stranger asked as I shopped for groceries in Grants Pass, OR, at age 41, eight months pregnant with Chris Korbulic, who turned out to be a magnificent human being.
I was a tad old (others had asked if I knew what causes it), but his deflating question left me speechless.
I can report that Grants Pass, Oregon, in 1989 was home to the world's rudest person. That asshole.
Do you have a rude-question moment to share, one of those "I'm speechless and can't believe you're asking!" moments? If so, please share on this blog or on Facebook, wherever you're engaged.
