So unless you have been living under a rock or within a self-imposed bubble of alternative facts, you’re likely aware of the widespread Women’s March gatherings past Saturday.   Over a million people, apparently, marched all over the place.  Mostly women.  Sporting those way-too-much-awesome pink knit beanies with the kitty cat ears. If they were lucky enough to plan ahead and source said hats, or maybe make them at home, on an other than last-minute basis. But any kind of pink or near-pink accessory seemed to do the trick.  I saw with mine own eyes a woman walking casually with a group of presumably like-minded friends towards San Francisco’s City Hall, wearing a full length pink Brontosaurus costume. I guess it could have been a T. Rex.  At least it was more reminiscent of Godzilla than, say, Barney.  Way more Jurassic Park raptor than Fred and Wilma housebroken pet “Dino.”

My own contribution to the Women’s March festivities was pretty meager, at best.  I happily agreed to give my wife a lift to the march’s approximate beginning.  “Happily” might be a bit of a stretch, since I did bitch and moan a little when the traffic started to constrict.  The image of Hilary barrel-rolling out of my the passenger door at 20 MPH flickered through my mind.  But only momentarily. I quickly calculated that it would be impossible for Hil to spin out of our speedy car in such a way that she would have landed safely in Godzilla’s cushy arms. I just couldn’t get the math to cooperate; the angles weren’t right.  And this regrettable incident might just go viral, too, in light of all the TV news choppers overhead at the ready.  

So instead, I opted to deposit my pink-beanied partner as close to the starting point as my little Prius would allow, at a full stop. And with a full heart.  I had expected a transactional experience, numbed by traffic.  But now I was genuinely moved by the throngs of (mostly) women. Impressed that my wife would willingly throw herself headlong into the mix. And proud that I married her (or more accurately, that she married me).  Somewhere along the ride, I admit contemplating (to myself, not aloud) what the odds were that pepper spray and rubber bullets might come into play at some point. Those kinds of unsettling thoughts melted back, though, as I watched Hilary fade into the distant pink-accented masses. My concerns about menacing throngs of police in riot gear were now, suddenly and unexpectedly, conflated with choking back tears.  An odd mix of emotions, to be sure. 

As I drove away in this muddled mental state, I fancied myself a Mad Max character with a (pink!) mohawk and ass-less chaps (probably not pink!) and missing teeth and maybe with a head-scratchingly odd Australian accent. Careening through the streets in my battle-ready tank, tossing fiery Molotov cocktails and screaming like a banshee as I, too, pressed the case for certain rights.  But alas, in reality I was cautiously and two-handedly guiding our 38 MPG PC-Mobile back in the direction of our manicured neighborhood, and into the safe harbor of our Nest camera-protected garage. Home, where I would cry all over Facebook for the next several hours.  Vicariously savoring my Near-Pink Experience.

Thanks for reading.