Waiting to check out at a craft store the other day, I overheard part of the conversation of two clerks walking towards me. “In only 13 years I’ll be 30,” the blond girl said. “That’s so old!!”
In response to this bit of singular wisdom, the girl who was checking me out said, “Thirty’s not old. Ask somebody who’s 70. They won’t think that’s old.”
I felt obligated to pipe in, too, of course. “Seventy isn’t old either. People are living till their 90s or even 100 anymore.”
At my interruption, the blond girl, without looking at me � one of those Old Ones, said “I don’t want to live that long. No way.”
The cashier again chimed in. (She must spend her entire day trying to wise up this gal.) “If you could still go for walks and see your grandchildren, then living that long wouldn’t be so bad.”
I almost invited her out to lunch.
But Blondie was off on another tangent. “When I get a dog, it’s going to be a poodle and I’m going to name it Paris…” she said. Grabbing my purchases, I made my way to the door, thankful not to hear the rest of that scintillating conversation. I couldn’t bear to waste any more brain cells.
By Teresa K. Flatley