I attended my first Women’s March the other day.  I am happy to report these gals seem to know what they’re doing.  Something I just thought of.  If you’re interested in that sort of thing I would have to think that’s just the place to meet women.  But frankly I wasn’t so much interested in the ladies as I was in their clever signs.

I met up with some regular friends of mine who like me probably didn’t have much going on that day.  I have some irregular friends too, but they’re not inclined  push through something that smacks of commitment.  If you happen to know anything about our particular group that gathered for the march, I think you would conclude we are fairly close knit, in that we tend to think a lot alike on many issues.  Women’s rights is certainly one we all feel is important to support. And so there we were,  I think the idea being there is strength in numbers.  By that I don’t mean our numbers were that impactful in the way of improving the overall numbers of the march.  The strength of having numbers within our little group was that if one of us should happen to stumble there might be enough of our numbers to rescue the unfortunate before being trampled to death.

I would guess our march was typical of any other organized march.  First, all of the marchers converged to a gathering point to listen  to some inspirational rhetoric supplied by a few speakers.  A middle-aged woman of Puerto Rican decent was the first to address us.  I thought she hit the mark with pertinent points- equal pay, get out the vote, love thy neighbor, the usual stuff I think you hear at a women’s march. Her speech seemed a little on the long side, but there was no shortage of applause throughout it’s entirety and overall I thought she graded out pretty well- at least the half of her speech that was in English.  Unfortunaelty there was a second half, which as far as I could tell was a complete reproduction of the first half, only in Spanish.

Applause for the second half was, to put it mildly, a little sparse. I felt sorry for the speaker after a point.  I wanted to applaud.  I am sure my friends also wanted to applaud.  But about all we could accomplish were confused looks at one another, which if they could somehow be interpreted in Spanish said, “What in the hell is going on here.” I have to admit the march started to take a bit of a turn for me.  But a lot of that had to do with my feet.  They were really not cooperating.  I know that was my bad.  The shoes I had selected to wear during the march were not constructed to march over any kind of surface not covered in carpet with extra thick padding.  And then there was the annoying drone hovering directly above us. I was reasonably sure what I saw was an attached camera, but what if it was a canister of toxic nerve gas?  It would be so Trumpian to take the easy way and eliminate  8000 opposition votes instantaneously rather than instituting time honored but tedious traditions of gerrymandering and redistricting.

As  I said I was there for the signs, and honorable mention went to the sign that stated “I’ve seen better cabinets at Ikea.”  I guess you would  have to say that sign scored first place as well, in that it was the only sign any of the speakers mentioned, period.  You could see the look of disappointment on the faces of a number of sign carriers when it became apparent their signs were not about to be recognized.  To be honest with you the Ikea entry didn’t impress me.  The statement was clever enough, but you should have seen the drawing that accompanied it.  I believe what its creator was attempting to convey was the picture of a kitchen cabinet, but all it was was a frantic scribbling in brown magic marker with no involvement of discernible straight lines anywhere and two yellow circles that I guess were supposed to be knobs of some kind.  What it presented in my mind was a reasonable rendering of the face of Sasquatch.

For me, the winner of my imaginary sign contest was the one that stated “I can do anything you can do and do it bleeding.”  Not only did that thing make a bold gender-based statement that captured the essence of the march, but the solid red background was almost intimidating.  Frankly it scared the hell out of me.

I have to tell you a sense of relief overwhelmed me  when we finally got the word it was time to actually start marching, and I am pretty sure my peers in my group of marching friends had the same sentiment.   If I remember right, nearly every one of us were propped up with joints of an artificial nature, or have orthopedic surgery scheduled on the near horizon. If there is one thing I took away from the march, it’s there is no sitting in marching.

Off we went, ever careful not to step on each others heals and doing our best to appear not to be hobbled in any way.  As we marched along I become fixated on a sign carried by a marcher ahead of me.  There were lots of signs, and this particular one would disappear from time to time behind another.  The words on this sign that held my attention were, “Fuck as feminists.”  It was totally confusing to me.  Equally mysterious was the drawing underneath, which I think most would say amounted to a giant green apostrophe.  I just couldn’t help wondering what that sign was all about.  To me it would have made some sense if the word “for” was subbed in for the word “as”.  I mean then you might possibly be promoting some kind of cause.  I’m sure there are people out there who could get behind that sort of thing.  “As” just didn’t cut it for me.  It threw the whole thing off.

We made a left turn onto a street of paving brick, and if you know anything about that type of surface you know you have to pay attention to where you are walking.  There are dips and elevations that can be treacherous.  Between that and avoiding other people’s feet I decided it was time to bail.  We came up on the cross street my car was parked on and with my first open opportunity I weaved through the crowd and worked my way to safety.

With the sweet comfort of my vehicle in view I finally started to relax.  Overall I was impressed with the turnout, felt the march achieved its intent, and happy I participated.  I have to admit I wasn’t so happy with the parking ticket mocking me from underneath the windshield wiper of my car.  It was a reminder from the traffic department that two hours is not enough time to commit to a Women’s March.  I will remember that next time, and be sure to tell whoever I designate as my proxy to keep that in mind as well.