Sometimes, I don’t feel like I’m part of my family. I have those adolescent moments (was I adopted?) of wondering how my brain managed to originate from that specific set of genetics.
Then someone tells me a story and, suddenly, I understand exactly where I came from.
Today, my mother told me about “the Garry Woods”*. The Garry Woods was a desolate stretch along a highway, isolated from large populations. My grandfather would, on a bad day, suggest that certain individuals be relocated to the Garry Woods, where they would be allowed to inbreed until they died out. He would make sure they were provided with all modern conveniences and services; he just wanted to take these people out of the gene pool and out of his daily life.
That’s a brilliant thought.
Yesterday, I spent two hours in a meeting. Those of you who know me should understand that this is a precarious situation, even at the best of times. This particular meeting, however, was even further off-kilter (feeling rather like the Titanic a few minutes before it broke in half) because of a group of mansplainers at the end of the table. The mansplainers took up 55 minutes of a 2-hour meeting.
I hereby, at the risk of summoning the wrath of my grandmother’s ghost (though perhaps the rousing support of my grandfather’s), resurrect the idea of sending eejits to the Garry Woods.
* name changed to protect identity