Would You Hit A Woman?

I was channeling surfing recently when I came across an old interview (I believe it was old) of prize fighter George Foreman and the interviewer asked him the question: "Would you hit a woman?"

Typical of knee-jerk journalism to ask such a question. They we're trying to bait him into answering it like he was some sort of animal a la Mike Tyson.

Foreman replied: "I once said I would fight man, woman or child."

Of course the man made a living as a professional boxer and in context it makes perfect sense: He felt so confident about his skills that he would get in the ring with anyone.

That I believe is what he was trying to say.

The interviewer, a woman, asked again: "Would you hit a woman?"

"Yes," said Foreman, "I would hit a woman."

Context.

Remember that word.

Today, I almost hit a woman.

I was driving Spencer to school.

Pulled out of the neighborhood onto the main road which leads to his school.

Just as I pulled out a tow truck towing a broken-down recycling truck lurched into the road from the next intersection. I slowed to possibly let him go but with a tattered pickup riding my ass, I decided to keep on going.

I could see the driver of the pickup cursing at me, arms waving, finger pointing, obviously upset that I was suddenly in the way of wherever they were going.

As I made my way up the hill, I pointed to the speed limit sign - that read 35 mph - knowing the driver of the truck was looking at me and continued on down the road glancing at my speedometer and seeing that I was at 40 mph.

So I slowed to 35 mph. You could see the anger on the pickup driver's face.

I turned into the school parking lot.

I saw the pickup truck pass the left turn where it was planning on going and zoom down to the next entrance to the school.

"Aw shit," I thought.

I park the car, walk around to the passenger side where Spencer is and see the pickup truck squeal to a stop in the space next to me.

"What the fuck are you doing?" yells the driver at me.

"Do you have a problem?" I calmly say.

"You pulled out in front of me!" yells the driver. An older woman, short hair, dressed like a man, veins popping on neck.

I size her up as I walk to the driver's side door.

"The speed limit is 35 mph," I say.

"You cut me off!" screams the woman.

"The speed limit is 35 mph," I say again. My hands are on the driver's side door by now; my face almost inside the vehicle.

She makes a move like she is going got unbuckle her seat belt and get out of the car. Moms are pulling in beside us to drop off their kids.

"I suggest you stay in the car," I say. My heart is racing now.

'Fuck you!" she says. Then peels out in the gravel lot and speeds off.

I would have hit that woman had she gotten out of the car and tried to attack me.

Context.

Perspective.