Many of you may have seen this---I wrote it a few weeks ago and sent it to some of the folks on my mailing list. I wanted to do it on this blog because it is fun and there is a message of some sort in here somewhere. I think.
The Daily Times has been doing a series of articles about the life and times of old people, or some such. Depending upon your definition of old people, I probably qualify as a member of that group, so I’d like to weigh in on the subject.
To start with, the articles are being written by very talented, but very young, reporters. I submit that, no matter how much talent and insight a writer has, it is difficult to see things from the older person’s perspective if one is less than fifty years old. Even at fifty, it is hard to imagine the aches and pains that an average seventy year old endures. My hands go to sleep at bedtime with the rest of me, and then I have to flex them open and shut for a few moments every morning to wake them up and get them ready to face the day. Otherwise, I’ll drop my glasses when I try to pick them up, or spill pills all over the bathroom or screw up some other simple task that once was automatic.
You might say, “Dropping your glasses is no big deal”.
Wait until you are seventy-five years old and crawling around in your underwear in the dark at six am, feeling around for a three hundred fifty dollar pair of eye glasses. No sense turning on the light, I couldn’t see them without my glasses anyway and I sure don’t want to wake up my wife. The feeling has not yet returned to my hands, so I’m mostly scraping around with what feels like stumps, hoping I’ll discover the glasses before I break them.
“What are you doing over there”? She asks. My day goes downhill from there.
A writer younger than fifty probably hasn’t had back surgery, or a knee replacement or his hips “nailed” as an orthopedic surgeon friend of mine terms that particular operation. These young ‘uns may not even be in trifocals yet and certainly don’t know the thrill of a colonoscopy or the simple pleasure of eating an apple with imitation teeth.
With all this lack of experience, how will even the most talented writer understand why it takes me so long to get through the check-out line at H-E-B.? I’m sure you have been in line there behind me or someone like me. The cute little girl at the register finishes ringing up the purchases and looks up expectantly. All of a sudden, the light dawns. “Oh! Surprise, surprise! I have to pay for all this stuff.”
I reach for my wallet, which I have trouble feeling with my gimpy hand, but I can’t get it out of my back pocket. To start with, it’s a long way back there to that pocket and my arms are short and I’m just not nearly as flexible as I once was. Then, I have on these new short pants, the very latest style, with a Velcro closure on the back pocket. I manage to get the pocket open with one hand and get hold of my billfold, and the flap closes and the Velcro grabs tight. The guy behind me in line clears his throat. I try to reach around with my other hand and hold the pocket open while I extract the wallet, but it doesn’t work. Flexibility issues. Finally, I manage to hold the flap up with one hand and push up the wallet from the bottom of the pocket with the other, while twisting like a contortionist and grunting like a Wart Hog. The guy behind me clears his throat again, much louder this time. I deftly manage to get two fingers on the elusive billfold, but it hangs up on the inside of my pocket.
“Can I help you, old man”? The fellow behind me says, with a Yankee accent. He doesn’t sound real sincere, so I choose to ignore him. He decides I’m deaf. That’s fine with me.
My back pocket eventually releases the wallet and I grin triumphantly at the cute and very patient little cashier, who looks all of twelve years old. “How much was that again, sweetie”?
She points to the electronic screen so I can read the amount— she thinks I’m deaf. I manage to carefully count out the proper amount of bills and consider just paying a dollar over and letting her give me pocket change, but I have done that so much I already have about four dollars worth of pocket change. I need to get rid of some of it. It is so heavy I’m listing to starboard. I reach down with my sleepy hand and feel around in my side pocket for change. I can’t really feel anything, but that’s OK because the pocket is easy to reach. I just pull out a handful of whatever is in there.
My car keys and pocket knife and about two dollars worth of change scatter all over the floor. I grin at the little girl and drop down on one knee to pick it up—since the back operation, I have not been able to just bend over and pick up something. I hear the guy behind me cussing in Ohioan, and the sacker comes around to help me pick up my belongings.
I carefully count out the thirty-eight cents I owe, and ask if it is ok to give her five nickels instead of the quarter. She gives me a vacant look because the computer doesn’t tell her how many nickels make a quarter. I start counting out nickels, and then decide to substitute ten pennies for two of the nickels. The guy from Ohio mumbles something and goes to another line. Gee, I wish he’d stayed. I was going to “remember” that I wanted a cigar and send the little girl to the humidor to search for an Arturo Fuente Hemingway Classic. She’d have to call the manager.
You all be nice to us old people---you’ll be joining us one day. And try to think about things from our perspective---we all foolishly think we have just as much right to stand in line at the grocery store as anyone else.
Jim McLaughlin
No comments:
Post a Comment