Cranky Old Woman Syndrome = COWS
And I have it. In spades. Some days it almost gets the best of me. Take last Friday.
Last Friday I needed my spectacles adjusted by the optometrist. What are spectacles? They are old people’s glasses, the kind with one, two, or three lines through which we can see things close, closer, and closest to us. When one of those focals gets out of whack, we get cranky. When a pert-faced adolescent at the reception desk asks if “we” need a little adjustment, in that sing-song voice pert-faced adolescents inherently reserve for doddering old fogies, she should be thankful she’ll live to see her twenties.
After months of fighting with a deteriorating frying pan, I finally decided on Friday to purchase a new one. I bought one of those enamel-backed cast iron pans. The purple-haired miscreant checkout clerk, adorned with chrome face ornaments, commented on how heavy that pan was. He obviously doubted my ability to heft such a pan at my age. Lucky for him, he didn’t vocalize his concern. He may have acquired an enamel-backed face ornament.
On the drive home, in my Ford F-150 with over-sized tires and a lift kit (because I’m not growing old gracefully, I’m getting sucked in kicking and screaming), some pushy teenie-bopper, in a car roughly the size of my lawn mower, pulled out in front of me. Note to youngsters in lawn-mower cars; don’t get in the way of someone with COWS who drives a truck! I hit the brakes. I missed the kid. She may have dropped her cell phone, but she’ll live. . .at least for another day.
My advice on surviving to old age? Don’t patronize. Don’t stereotype. And don’t cross those with COWS.
image from morguefile.com