Yesterday my mom and grandfather came by to drop off some stuff at my apartment and we made my grandfather wait with the illegally-parked car while we hauled things back and forth. When we finished, we came out to find him ogling a young blond Marilyn-type in a tight red dress and spike heels stalking down the street. “Holy criminy,” he said, because he talks like that, “would you take a look at her.”
“Him, Dad,” my mom said.
“What?” he said, entirely engrossed by the nine-foot legs.
“That’s not a woman,” she said.
“Well what is it, then, a rhinoceros?” he said, because he still talks like that.
“It’s a man, Dad,” she said patiently.
“No,” he said. “Her? In the red?”
“Yes, Dad. Why would a woman be dressed like that on a Sunday afternoon just to walk down the street?” Astonishingly, the counter argument to this (why would a man be dressed like that) did not seem to occur to him.
There was a moment of silence,
And then a lot more silence.
“What?” he said finally. And then, “Slow down when you pass her. I’d like to see her from the front.”
I would have thought he’d be more disturbed, given that he is an 80 year old man who is in many ways prejudiced like other people are breathing. But I guess when you’re 80, a fine ass is a fine ass no matter what it comes equipped with.