By Cherimie Crane Weatherford
I have never been much of a couch potato, a movie buff or basically anything that requires a level of stillness my capabilities lack. Getting my hair done is even a test in futility, as I am fairly certain my stylist would rather have pre-sweetened preschoolers in her chair.
Occasionally, I am forced by some ailment, self-inflicted injury or inclement weather to squint through the channel list to find something to kill a few brain cells and save a few calories. Having a slightly sordid sense of humor, the title “Snapped” usually gains my immediate attention. It is a documentary of sorts depicting stories of women who finally went ever so gently into the dark side. One after another these stories tell tales of murder, mystery and what women are capable of if you catch them on the wrong day.
Although most women will attest that these are rare, unusual occurrences with sudden unpredictable bursts of violence, I often nod and silently tell myself that, although I don’t agree or condone, I sure do know how such behavior may occur. Some episodes have me yelling, “Well what did you expect her to do?” at the narrator while describing the acts of a woman who had obviously been pushed to the limit.
Women have a switch, not the kind you find in the woods to hand your grandmother after you put your fishing worms in her best china but rather a switch that clearly divides what is controllable and what is not. Somewhat of a shock collar that singes us back to our acceptable territory should we dance on the boundaries of appropriate behavior. It transforms us quickly to a place and time where only one decision remains. Sometimes electrocution is worth it, sometimes it isn’t.
Anyone who has read any of my ramblings knows of my peculiar career choice, my flair for the traumatic and my incredible knack for stepping in a steaming pile of life. This week has tightened my shock collar so that electrocution in many cases would be gravy. To avoid starring in my own episode of “Snapped,” I attack the keys on my keyboard as if each beaten, faded letter stole my chocolate and called me fat.
Maybe I am the only woman in the world who practices Voodoo in her head while being party to mind-numbingly outrageous conversations, but I doubt it. I can’t help but wonder what would happen if for one day, possibly even just one hour, women all over the world put down their makeup, stopped trying to ease the discomfort of all of those around her, and for once said exactly what she was thinking, exactly what she meant, at exactly that moment. I am thinking it would force the cast of “Snapped” to look for alternative employment or at least speed up the line at the drive-thru pharmacy.
Just like most, I trudged through the mud of this week without being arrested, without appearing on the 6 p.m. news, all the while quietly contemplating the risks and rewards of calling a duck a duck.
Women are as beautiful and complimentary as a string of pearls, but just as likely to go all over the place should the thread finally break. I toast all the women who stay within the often restrictive boundaries of behavior. And silently, with complete compassion, I also toast those who don’t.
By Cherimie Crane Weatherford