It’s a warm, sunny day in Brooklyn, and Grandpa and I take our granddaughter out in a Bjorn carrier. We walk the mile or so up through Park Slope to Prospect Park and then across part of it, ending up at the children’s playground. My 69 year-old back and feet are starting to hurt from the hard pavement walking, and I see a seat on a park bench in the shade.
I’ve been sitting all of about half a minute when this blonde, coifed, carefully manicured 30-something strides across the playground toward me and loudly exclaims, “YOU’RE SITTING IN MY SEAT!” Say what??? “MY BAG IS RIGHT THERE ON THE GROUND NEXT TO THAT BENCH!” Heads turn.
I think, “Bitch, you gotta be kiddin’ me…!” But I rise, smile very sympathetically and say in a very sweet voice almost as loud as hers, “Well, I can see that you’re quite OLD and surely need this bench a lot more than I do,” and turn and walk away as she makes a complete fool of herself attempting to explain to everyone present that I could have the bench and how hard it is to chase kids all morning. Two sweet hispanic women make space for me on another bench.