Rambobette

Today was a Rambobette kind of a day. Let me explain…

My brother and I grew up in the hood. We were poor. We didn’t have any money. (Ok, not entirely true, but this fits better with my story – we still lived in a hood, though. The kind where your next door neighbour is a tramp and the older boys hold breakdancing competitions on old pieces of carboard lying wet and flat).

So. We didn’t have any money and spent many hours outside until dark, coming up with ways to keep ourselves entertained. My parents were definitely not the overbearing, overprotective kind. One of our favourite games for a while was playing Rambo. My brother was Rambo, and I was…Rambobette! Because my brother is blind, Rambobette could kick Rambo’s ass on any given day. Rambobette was strong. Rambobette was fierce. Rambobette took care of business, if you know what I mean.
(She also wore tighty whities on her head because, in all honesty, BOBETTE means UNDERWEAR in French - a fact which provided more entertainment than the actual impersonation itself).
Regardless. TODAY WAS A RAMBOBETTE KIND OF A DAY. In case you’re wondering, I dressed up soberly to go to work. The undies were where they should have been but I felt so strong and powerful after days of sickness: I massacred tons of work with barely any effort. I roared rumbustiously every time my computer froze. I effortlessly picked my desk drawer up after it unexplicably fell to the floor for the tenth time this month. I strenuously and perilously exercised my voice muscles again and again trying to get kids to walk, not run, down the hall. I hazardously approached the Big Bad Boss in an attempt to win the right to no longer wear face-masks all day long. I battled foes, alone in the midst of adversity (except when the bell would ring and all my colleagues would come into the Teachers’ Room for their 5-minute breaks). I even spewed off enigmatic, lackadaisical Rambobette-type statements. Like this morning, when the Big Bad Boss asked me how I was feeling and if I was doing any better, I said: “I’m fine, Big J, don’t worry about me. The mucus is finally coming in.” It was exactly the type of Wait a minute. Pause. Rewind. Yep, that’s what he said. -kind of Rambo moment.

It was that sort of a day. It felt great to be back at work, flexing muscles that have been resting idle for days.
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*The author wishes you to know that she later made up for kicking Rambo’s butt when they were young by letting him drive their parents’ car when they were teenagers. She gave him the driving lessons nobody else was willing to provide. Rambo, albeit blind, should always be able to hop in a getaway car. It’s a question of safety, period.

**The author also wishes you to know that the Big Bad Boss, or Big J, was only Big and Bad for the purposes of this story. She is actually tiny and, well, quite easy to get along with. Honestly.