Tag Archives: elderly

prunes

16 Jul
English: Photograph of a prune that I took. En...

(Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Dear Old People (or elders, if you prefer)

This is an open letter to the retirement community I live near based on an experience I had during our early tenure in AZ.

I understand that the Safeway we shop at is not technically in your age-restricted turf, but it’s understood that it is mainly populated by those of the prune eating persuasion. I understand that when I whip through your store, hair a mess, shirt probably stained with O’s most recent snack and my most recent art project, sans wedding rings, that you make some assumptions about me and my kiddo, blithely kicking her heels in the grocery cart. I understand that when you see my dust encrusted Honda civic, with its multiple scratches, you don’t think that I got those scratches in the miniscule parking garage of a Cambridge biotech. You just see a hurried mother, with a child in need of a scrubbing, climbing into a sedan that, at least on the exterior, looks like it’s been around the block. Your assumptions are just that, assumptions, and given that we live in the land of the free and bravely ignorant, you are allowed to have them.

But really, old people, this is no reason to clip my ass with your GOLF CART as I lean into my car, strapping O into her car seat. I know, it’s not as small as it used to be, thanks to childbirth and a deep abiding love of carbohydrates. But really, I don’t think it was sticking out into your non-space, as you whipped in between my car and the hatch-marked area reserved for off-boarding wheelchairs from vans.  You’ll note, that is/was not a designated parking space. I never park that close to the store, but it was 120 degrees out, and I was tired, not wanting to lug O and arms full of groceries through the sneaker melting parking lot.  So I parked close to the front, and put myself in your crosshairs.  After you whipped into your space, hobbling into the store to purchase god only knows what, I stood, rooted to the spot, trying to determine exactly just what had taken place. You hit me. In the butt. With your golf cart.

And I stood there; mute, unable to process fast enough to come up with a witty rejoinder to your physical fat joke.

So I’ll stay mute, and smile sweetly as you scowl at me and my powdered doughnut covered child as we wait in line. I want to teach her to honor those that have gone before, and to treat the aged with dignity and respect. But I’ll teach her, years from now, should her bum ever get hit buckling her baby into a car seat, to smash their aarp-endorsed windshield with a tire iron.

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