When I was a kid,
the “Golden Girls” came on after school. Weekdays at 5:30 on CBC, one of the two channels we could get in the middle of nowhere.
Four senior citizens living in Miami. What, exactly, did an eleven year old girl on the Canadian prairie have in common with them?
Sweet bugger all.
But I loved them, and I watched, religiously.
My favorite? Bea Arthur.
In a way that defied words, I just “got” her.
Finally, while reading about her passing this morning, I found a quote that explained what I’d been feeling about her:
“Look – I’m 5 feet 9, I have a deep voice and I have a way with a line. What can I do about it?”
The eleven year old me didn’t get it, but the thirtysomething me does. It is what it is what it is. Instead of knocking myself out to be the “hot” one, or the “nice” one, at a certain point, I figured out where I fit in – I’m a Dorothy.