It had been a perfectly charming weekend; but now Monday was drawing near… She dreaded not only work, but all the talk of politics and a world gone crazy. Making a mere 77 cents on the dollar to her penis-blessed cohorts was bad enough; now the vagina-nazi’s wanted to control her womb. What’s worse, in this political year, no one made any bones about talking about it. Hell, they preached about it. But say something back, and you were in serious trouble. Intellectually, she knew she wasn’t out-numbered. …Gawd, she wasn’t, was she?
With a heavy sigh and an even heavier heart, she walked to lock the front door. An unlocked door meant what kind of rape? Some sort of acceptable rape. Then again, what wasn’t acceptable rape to these GOP buffoons? As she flipped the lock, she wished she could stay home behind the locked the doors for the proverbial “forever”. But she knew she couldn’t. Who would pay the bills? Take care of the kids? Feed the kittens? She felt like a kitten herself; as weak anyway, if less cuddly and appealing.
She felt old, exhausted; like one of those Halloween witches. Only without the spells. Like one of those persecuted Salem witches. How many of them had locked their doors knowing what lay outside awaiting them regardless of what they did — or didn’t — do?
She was doomed.
Listlessly she trod towards the bedroom, snatching along the way her smart-phone with built-in “helpful” calender so she could appropriately plan for the horrid day to come. She had vague notions of appointments which lay hours away… At this point, they felt like the crushing obligations which would render her helpless against the stress-induced night of insomnia she would surely face. As she climbed the stairs, flicking off lights along the way, the weight of her hand-held device felt like an anchor; less like a hand-held “convenience”, and more like a death sentence.
She felt the tears behind her eyes burn, then blur her vision as they pooled in her eyes. Like her, her tears were too exhausted to push themselves free and fall…
She entered her bedroom and flicked the light-switch. At first her blurry vision had her thinking she’d laundry yet to put away. Another sigh welled as she reached for the pile on the bed. But as her fingers brushed the fabric, joy and pride swelled to replace the sigh.
Thank heavens she had been smart enough to lay out her stunning vintage red nylon Vanity Fair nightie! The tears fell now, but not soft and weak. They fell hot and hard — as defiant as Scarlett O’Hara herself. She wasn’t beat! Not yet. Not by a long shot.
She stripped from her t-shirt and jeans, kicking them to the foot of the hamper. She slipped into the fancy vintage concoction of red nylon and lace, tied the red satin ribbon belt about her waist.
She twirled once to feel the fabric caress her. She twirled again to watch the skirting flare and dance. She twirled a third time just to twirl.
She bent and with a graceful swoop picked up her laundry and stuffed it with great aplomb into the hamper. She elegantly leaned over the side of the bed, switching the little boudoir lamp on, then, in nearly the same movement, she was gliding to the switch on the wall — but before she turned the overhead light off, she looked at herself in the mirror.
My, she was a pretty little thing! A kitten in her own right! A kitten with claws! She hissed and mimicked a cat claw motion. Then let out a little giggle as she turned out the light and gave a dainty little leap towards the bed.
She grabbed her smart-phone and slipped into the bed. After setting herself seated, leaning up against the pillows, she smoothed her skirts and bodice just so. She lifted her phone and with confidence and grace she used her fingers to organize and arrange her schedule — and her thoughts.
As her fingers flew about the screen, she just knew she’d manage it all. She’d get everything on her to-do list done, and along the way she’d think of just the right something to do or say to put those insufferable idiots who wanted to control her vagina in their places. No one put this baby in a binder. After all, tomorrow is another day!
No longer afraid of the next day or an insomnia-laden night, she placed her phone on the nightstand and set her alarm clock. She’d sleep in an extra 15 minutes Monday morning — she wouldn’t take the long way to work to avoid the picketing at the clinic. No, she’d drive by and whip ’em the finger as she passed. She giggled again as she switched off the bedside lamp.
With a luxurious sensuous little stretch and a delicate little yawn, she curled herself into a ball and fell asleep.