Nope … not a mom, and my jumper stinks

I got an email at work today — “We all know those busy powerhouse moms that do it all! You may even be one of them!”

Said email also addressed me by name … my first name. Anyone know a woman named Bill? I don’t.

It was probably a testament to the wonders of mail merge or whatever automation is used to send out those emails, but humans haven’t always been great in this regard, either.

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Several years ago, my wife wasn’t feeling so good when she and I were on vacation, so we stopped at a CVS near the North Carolina-Virginia border for medicine.

I was standing there, minding my own business, when two older women with Southern accents just built for saying “Bless your heart” to someone who’s being stupid came up to me.

“Do you play women’s basketball?” (If you’re still struggling with the accent, pronounce the first two words “Dew ewe” and you’ll have it.)

Ages ago, sometimes my hair would curl in the back when it got really long, so a couple times people coming up to me from behind mistook me for a woman. That time had passed.

Also, beyond the obvious (I’m a dude!), anyone at my high school between 1987 and 1990 will vouch for me when I say I’m terrible at basketball. Even if I were one of those dudebros who desperately need Danica Patrick to have a bad Indianapolis 500 on Sunday so they can open their Misogynist Christmas present, I’d have to be a special kind of deluded to claim I could beat a WNBA player.

Because I really, really suck.

“No, ma’am, I don’t.” (Although, to me, the proper age for “sir” will always be “older than I am,” they were both a bit older than I am now.)

”But you’re wearing the T-shirt.”

Ah yes … the T-shirt.

When my wife and I went on a vacation that included Knoxville, we went to the Women’s Basketball Hall of Fame. I bought a T-shirt. I was wearing it.

So apparently, wearing a women’s basketball-themed T-shirt makes one a women’s basketball player.

I hated the Boston Celtics growing up, but after a long time away from the game, I really got into their last championship team, especially Kevin Garnett.

I loved watching him play, but I never bought a T-shirt or a jersey, which is good, because if I had been wearing it to the CVS, they might have walked out thinking Kevin Garnett is a sub-6-foot white guy

One thought on “Nope … not a mom, and my jumper stinks

  1. Pingback: Getting the answer can be so … unfair? – A Silly Place

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