This little incident popped up in my “Memories” today. It was eight years back, but still valid….
The old man stood at the checker’s station in my grocery store. The line behind him stretched out for a half-dozen people.
He’d bought a few things, but the process of paying for it was taking forever. He fumbled around in his pocket for his wallet, then struggled with it in search of his debit card, and only with the checker’s help was he able to insert it into the machine and complete the transaction. In the process, he flirted with the lady behind him, the one just ahead of me, and made friendly comments to anyone else who might be overhearing this.
I was pleased to see both the checker and the customer were patient with him.
When he finished, the man seemed in no hurry to pick up his purchase and move out of the way for the next customer. He looked at the line forming behind him and muttered something about being 82 years old, as though this were an achievement for which he was being honored.
You will not believe this since I’m writing about it, but I was not impatient with him, and said nothing to anyone. I did not roll my eyes, did not react, but sent up a quick prayer for the man.
But I was warned.
“There,” everything inside me shouted, “is how you do not want to be when you get old.”
I smile at that. “When I get old.” I’m only six years behind that fellow. So, am I old yet? And when will I know? (As I say, it was eight years ago. I’m now 84, two years past that guy. Wonder how I’m doing?)