Some of my favorite people are all excited about the new “Wonder Woman” movie.
Lori is a lawyer, judge, mother of teenagers, and hilarious author. She actually makes Wonder Woman look like a slacker, in my book. Beautiful Alyssa not only resembles Wonder Woman, but after putting in a very busy week in management for the area YMCA, she teaches and takes yoga classes, trains for triathlons – and loves the Yankees and a good craft beer.
My friend Fran is most likely planning on popcorn for lunch at Diamond Cinema’s matinee tomorrow, if she hasn’t already paid full price to see the movie on the day it opened. Fran has her own impressive history as Wonder Woman and continues to volunteer for several organizations, plays in a couple of golf leagues, is on the board of her condo association, and travels alone to Europe whenever her budget permits. Oh, and she is a self-proclaimed super hero movie geek.
As for me, hell. I packed away my costume and wrist cuffs years ago.
The thing is, there are so many Wonder Women out there and honestly, I think most women embrace the role primarily because we don’t have a fucking choice. Did I elect to become a single parent, working full time, bringing home the bacon, frying those sodium-packed heart attack snacks up in a pan while overseeing homework and running a quick load of laundry and whipping up cupcakes for tomorrow’s PTA bake sale and . . . ? No. I did not. That was not the plan. Man.
But I did it. And I mostly stayed pretty positive. My son was a smart, funny little cutie pie and now and then when I made time to go out and kiss some frogs, I was occasionally rewarded with some pretty great sex. True love evaded me. Alas.
My little cutie pie grew into a challenging teenager who I put through college. Gave up on my quest for Prince Charming and worked longer hours to pay the bills. Started my own business (it will be twenty years in September!) and my challenging boy became a handsome, accomplished, kind, sweet, funny man. I am so proud. Pinch me!
Now I’m tired. I don’t want to be Wonder Woman anymore. Even the wrist cuffs don’t fit these days. If I tried to squeeze into the costume, you’d want to poke your eyes out.
I’m glad I was Wonder Woman instead of a princess, though. Princess isn’t really my style. But it feels good to amble away with nary a backward glance at the dragon-slaying, villain-bashing and ass-kicking activities that feature in Wonder Woman’s days.
You can have it, WW. For me, it’s all about easing into a kinder, gentler future. Preferably with a Democratic Congress and maybe a young, female Bernie Sanders in the White House.
I don’t think that’s asking for too much.