Maybe this pandemic has finally gotten to me, or maybe turning 50 was a bigger life change than I anticipated, but I’ve made a life-changing decision.

I’ve decided I want to join a biker gang. What? I have an alter ego (you have no idea how cool she is).

I want to embrace all the intimidating attitude that comes with the whole biker package. I want to ride a big, shiny Harley Davidson that rumbles through town so everyone knows we’re there. I’ll wear a whole lot of leather, a scary skeleton mask (so I don’t swallow bugs or pandemic germs, because my biker gang will practice smart COVID rules).

I want to make people a little nervous just by my association with biker dudes. I have never intimidated anyone. It’s time. Sign me up.

I don’t want to be a patch member, you understand, more like an embroidered associate, a sort of casual status thing. Also, I can’t really drink and I don’t like violence, but when my mom isn’t around, I have been known to swear like a sailor, so maybe I could get a stamp card for occasional participation.

Forget biker babe status, I don’t have the cleavage. I have accepted that. Also, I would never allow someone to call me their “Old Lady.” Nope. Ask the Carpenter. He tried it recently. It didn’t end well.

This life-altering idea has, of course, been inspired by our recent obsession with the television series Sons of Anarchy.

This is what the pandemic has done to us. We now watch shows about five years behind all the cool kids. We just finished Game of Thrones last month. I was not a fan. I had zero desire to watch this one either, but here I am, addicted.

My alter ego likes the thought of vigilante justice and the ability to react with, shall we say, definite finality. In a fictional universe, I too would like to exact justice to those who hurt others (I’m not saying I personally have a list of names, but I am saying my alter ego might).

I shared my intentions with the Carpenter. If you listen hard, you can still hear him laughing.

“What is your patch going to be, Daughter of Anarchy? D.O.A.? Perfect! What’s your title? Mother?”

Oh, he was enjoying this. He wasn’t just laughing, he was gasping for air and slapping his knee.

“Mutha,” I corrected with a deadpan face. “I want to be cool. Maybe I’ll get some fresh ink. Those Sharpies are permanent, right? Think you could draw an angry fairy or a dragonfly on my back?”

The Carpenter was hysterical.

“I can picture you driving a Chopper,” he said, mocking me by raising his arms up and twisting his wrists on imaginary handle bars, making vroom-vroom noises. Jerk.

“You can’t even ride a bicycle without injury. Maybe we should start you with one of those kiddie Big Wheels and you can pedal real fast.”

Adding insult to injury, he pretended to pedal.

So, I am going to rethink the whole biker gang thing. It may be a little premature. But I’m keeping the attitude, and I’ll get my revenge on my Old Man. It’s how I roll.

Vroom, vroom.

Peace out.

WriteOut of Her Mind