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I could not stop thinking about what had just happened.
I mulled over it during my morning tea break while munching on Arnotts Nice biscuits.
I thought about it while my boss was talking on and on about achieving targets for the coming year.
I pondered while my colleagues talked about their weekend.
And I cried over it into my hot mug of tea while I listened to my clients over the telephone.
When I got home, I did what any self righteous modern woman would do.
I marched into my bedroom, shut my door and stripped totally naked and looked at myself in the mirror. I scrutinized every crease, every flap, every sag, every fat, every line, and every pore.
I then kicked the door of my ensuite and barked sharply at my unsuspecting partner who was busy with his own bodily functions while sitting on the toilet bowl. My body language demanded a “How do I look?”
My partner looked up in shock. I could see sweat forming on his brow, his eyes darting and the corners of his mouth started twitching as he tried to form the words that he thought I wanted to hear.
“Well?” I growled.
“I…mmmmhhh,” he looked up and down, up and down again, “….Did you have a new…. haircut?”
“WHAT?” The Mulk roared as I looked at the man whom I should seriously re-think about whether she should be spending the rest of my life with, “No, I am asking if I look OLD, PREGNANT, or SICK?
“What?” he asked.
“Old, pregnant or sssiiiicckkkk?” I glared, “Not that difficult, yeah?”
“Yes?” I said menacing as I pushed my belly button even closer.
“What happened, honey?”
“Someone…” I flopped down on the bathroom floor.
I looked at him and struggled to find the words to describe the horrible event. I closed her eyes and whispered, “Someone…”
“Yes, yes…” he looked at me impatiently.
“OFFERED me a seat on the train!” I roared.
There, the Mulk said it.
And that fool started laughing…not just sweet schoolgirlish giggles but loudly, like he was laughing at the biggest and best dirty joke ever guffaws.
“It’s not funny! The signs on the train show that you should offer your seat to the old with a walking stick! Or to a pregnant lady with a young child. And we all know that it is good manners to offer to someone who’s ill. So obviously I do not have a young child, so I must be old or if I do not look old, do I look sick? Or do I look pregnant? Oh good lord, I LOOK PREGNANT!” I howled as he curdled in the laughter.
My long suffering partner shook his head and assured me I still looked as I did when he married me some 17 years ago, even though we both know that I could not fit into that wedding gown even if I chopped off all my limbs.
“You know you don’t look old, pregnant or sick. You know that.”
“Stop being nice to me,” I growled.
“That’s right, he’s being nice. That’s all. A guy being nice to a girl,” He comforted.
At the point, I really wanted to hate that young man who offered his seat up but he was as much as a victim of politically correct-mess as I was. He offered his seat because he assumed I was older than him OR pregnant OR unwell or weak OR assumed that that was the nice thing to do for a GIRL.
And I was neither of the above but how was he to know that?
In this world where old is young, young is old, or right is wrong and wrong is right, the rules of the old world are changing and now “NICE” has also become caught up in a downright political correct-mess.
How many times have I ASSUMED too many things and offered or done what I thought was the right thing because that was the nice thing to do?
How many times have we helped or advised, simply assuming that that person needed our help or if they even wanted to hear our voices because we thought that was the nice thing to do?
How many mean relatives and old family friends have we assumed we must share meaningful events with because we thought that was the nice thing to do?
How many untruthful friends have we assumed we must we invite to parties because we thought that was the nice thing to do?
How many twofaced colleagues have we assumed we must be nice to, share coffee and continue to chat with daily because we thought that was the nice thing to do?
How many things have we done or accepted what other have done to us, simply because we thought that was the nice thing to do?
How many ungrateful strangers (like me) must we assume we should continue to give up our seats for because we thought that was the nice thing to do?
And then the Mulk exploded again, “Well, I didn’t think he wasn’t nice to me at all. He ruined my day. He should instead be accepting my offer of a seat instead because ..because…”
“Yes…because…?” my husband asked patiently.
“Because…because… I smell NICER than him!” I smiled smugly as I walked out with my nice bare ass swinging, “People should sit down if they smell bad, then they will not have to reach up for the handle bars!”
AHA! Perfect logic! In today’s world, that is a legitimate online petition no224 to the Department of Transport!
And next week I’ll offer my seat to a fourteen year old boy in his school uniform just to mess his mind a bit.
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