I was just getting over the affront of having been mistaken for my friend Julie’s mother, which would have made me at least 90. My hair is still a vivid shade of scarlet, and I even remembered to wear some lipstick this morning. I was feeling pretty good about myself.
Yesterday I had a minor blow, but I smoothed my own ruffled feathers. I was signing up for my Medicare Supplement, and the representative from the insurance company asked me about one hundred questions about my health. Understandable. Then she asked, “So, you are 69. Are you still able to dress yourself?”
Dress myself??? There are those who question my taste in clothes, for sure, but can I still button my coat and tie my shoes? Yeah! I can. I decided not to take offense at this generic question. Until this morning.
Looking my best I went to CVS to get some vitamins. Maybe vitamins are a marker for old people. I don’t know. But while there I saw this irresistible Halloween decoration and decided to buy it. It’s an ancient butler with a tray who speaks when you press the button on his arm. The clerk was a woman with blue hair in a tight perm who had to be at least 85, but far be it for me to cast aspersions on someone for being old. She rang me up and then asked me solicitously, “Can I carry this to your car for you?”
I lost it. “What are you saying?? Do I look too feeble to carry this light box to my car by myself?” I was yelling at her, and a woman on line behind me told me ,”You go, girl!”
“Well,” she said sheepishly, “You are so short…”
I mean, really? I should have let her carry the box to the car. It would have served her right.