Pace Yourself

I was talking to a friend the other day about society going down the crapper. Somehow, we started talking about the woman who microwaved her baby, which spun off into its own abyss.

“What kind of twisted sonofabitch could even consider such a thing?” She asked hypothetically.

I think I scared my friend when I replied, “Remember when microwaves became common place? It was a weird time because people were really afraid of what one might do if you stood too close. I can remember daring my sister Angie to stick her face on the glass. You know, just to see.”

She looked at me a little concerned and I continued.

“Obviously, it didn’t do anything to her. She was brain damaged before she ever took that dare. But the best part was when our grandma came over. My dad’s mom had a pacemaker put in right about the time we got our first microwave. She was a very religious woman. Anytime she was at our house, my mom would be extra nice. She wouldn’t swear and always offered up ‘the look’ rather than an immediate ass whoopin’ to us kids for acting up.

“No one ever explained to me why, but Grandma was not to be near a microwave while it was on. It had something to do with her pacemaker. My twisted eight-year-old mind conjured up all sorts of things, specifically, blowing Grandma up.”

My friend made me stop talking. “You were a twisted little fucker, weren’t you?”

“Well, yeah, in a way. But I had the ability to not follow through. I mean really, if I were that twisted, wouldn’t I have popped that sucker on and watched my grandmother explode?”

She looked concerned again.

“Think about it. We would have been the most talked about family in our entire neighborhood. ‘There’s the house where the kid blew up her grandma by putting on the microwave!’ They’d say as they walked by staring in awe. There could have been copycat grandma-blower-uppers. I saved the world that day by not following through. See, I’m not that twisted.”

“You got problems, my friend.”

As I continued to stroll on Memory Lane, I remembered my favorite part about the “blowing grandma up” stuff. My mom, the one who tried her hardest to be on her best behavior during those visits, would scream at the top of her lungs, ‘Don’t touch the microwave! Grandma is in the next room!’ And then in a sweet, fake voice would apologize to Grandma for shouting. This is the very same person who would warn my dad before Grandma’s arrival. ‘If she tells me one more time that I need to go to church, I’m taking the battery out of her pacemaker.’ And you wonder why I was a little twisted.”

“Was?”

“Was, am, whatever.”