She pulls up behind me at the traffic light. She’s old. Her lips lined like someone permanently tasting a sour lemon, although that’s just the state of her face and doesn’t appear to be connected to her personality. She’s good-looking in a Dove Campaign for Real Beauty way. She’s well-heeled. Someone who goes to a good hairdresser and gets a facial on a regular basis. She is the kind of woman who you expect to cultivate a rose garden that’s the envy of the neighbourhood. She bakes cookies for bake sales. Reads at the local library.
But this is no prim and proper church lady.
She wears a white fitted zip-up waterproof jacket with mesh accents, a pair of Top Gun sunglasses and a helmet. She is driving a Harley-Davidson.
This is one Bad-Ass Granny.
What I love about this particular Bad-Ass Granny is that she’s even being a bad-ass on her own terms. No leather. No peroxide. No visible tattoos or piercings. All her own teeth. And she’s driving by herself, on her chopper, not on the back of her man’s hog. It’s all her own.
I’ve never wanted to drive a motorcycle before, but I do now.
Inspiration shows up in the strangest places. Muses knock on our door wearing the strangest of get-ups. And isn’t it delightful?