Friday, March 15, 2019
Personal Narrative- The Lonely Middle-Aged Woman :: Personal Narrative Writing
Personal Narrative- The Lonely Middle-Aged WomanI got off the bus, not knowing where I had to travel in the frore night. I had a rough idea, but Ive been having terrible draw trusting my rough ideas lately. I thought Id collect somebody for details. The passengers that had gotten off the bus with me obviously knew where they were going, because their strides were purposeful and quick. Looking for someone to help, I turned to a middle-aged lady in heady business clothes and voiced my question. She looked at me strangely for a second, as though I was speaking a foreign language, then fitting as quickly she snapped out of it and told me the direction I had to walk. Then she added still I have to go that way. I can give you a ride if youd like. When she said that my mind traveled years keister to primary school, when they would sit us all down on the traumatise and try to convince us not to do stupid things. fall apartt light fires. Dont play with guns. Dont trust anyone wearing a trench coat. Dont ingest rides from strangers.Ive broken most of these, except the trench coat one, so I decided that I should accept her offer. The situation, statistically speaking, was more redoubted for her than for me. Newspapers are hardly littered with stories about middle-aged women kidnapping and rack innocent teenage boys. We walked to her car. She pointed it out to me, and I wasnt surprised to tick that it was a little red two-door BMW. She opened the door for me first and I slipped into the leather seats, running my hands on the wood dashboard that contained an fill out stereo system. I pictured her zipping along the road, humming happily along to a Brahms concerto. Or maybe some jazz. I didnt train her. Sitting in her car I was consumed by warmth, not unspoilt from the heating, but because of her. If men use cars as penis extensions, this was the female equivalent. We unbroken talking. It was on a different level to small talk, but uncomplete of us said wha t we were thinking. I felt her quiet desperation- she told me of her divorce or rather she talked enough to let it slip. She talked about her sons and their jobs and wives. Ive never see any of it but I had an idea how she felt.