Boots For the Monday

it is Monday and you are happy to report that your Mother’s Day was not unpleasant.

Your children took time out from their very busy schedule of digital communication to present you with the bouquet of flowers and the card, and to accompany you to the brunch at that Italian place you like. What was truly sweet, however, was that during your celebratory brunch, they had the great good courtesy to keep their cellphones in their laps. It was so wonderful! Whenever you looked down the table you could even pretend they were praying, their heads bowed, their thumbs furiously working at perhaps their rosaries.

Less satisfying, was the appearance of your mother-in-law, Blanche, and her “old man” Jimmy, who were also present at the meal.

Blanche is the wonderful mother-in-law, the sort who is sensible enough to help when needed, but also sensible enough to keep out of your business when not. However, what is troubling, is that she appears to have dealt with widowhood by joining the motorcycle gang.

“They’re not a motorcycle gang,” answers Gary when you mentioned your fears to him last night

“Yeah, but what about his beard?,” you snap back, “and those awful biker outfits?”

“Jimmy’s alright. The dude looks like Santa Claus.”

“I’m not sure. He seems a little rough to me.” The image of two, stout, elderly people in matching red leather jackets and chaps, eating eggs benedict, still lingers.

“He’s a retired endocrinologist,” says Gary, “They ride a Honda Goldwing for God’s sake.”

But you are not placated. You are worried for Blanche’s safety, and perhaps more than the little bit jealous that she seems to be having so much fun on the other side of seventy, heading off to Big Sur while you are still chained to your desk.