Don’t get me wrong, I love old people. I love their AARP card-carrying, scooter-driving, blue-haired, polyester-wearing asses, but do they have to be so freakin’ slow? When I get to be old, (read 50) I refuse to be the one who is always in the way of some younger hipper cooler person who just wants to pass by. I move pretty quickly through life and I assume I always will. Maybe I am so bunny like and filled with vim and vigor because I am barely in my early 20’s. (I started waiting tables when I was three years old, you know). Here is a word of advice for those senior citizens in our lives: MOVE!
You know that old lady who was in Titanic? I think her grandpappy was in my station last week. This man was a living breathing fossil and he was sitting at table number four. Or should I say “propped up” at table number four? I think if I cut off his leg, I would have been able to count the rings and discover that he was old enough to have been responsible for some cave paintings that were recently discovered in Brazil. He was so old that his bones were no longer brittle, they were just held together with Metamucil, Super Poligrip and hope. He showed up with his walker and by the time he got to his seat the show was practically over. And then the poor thing had to go to the bathroom because his bladder must be the size of a corn nut. This is when I needed him to yield to me and let me get past so I could continue on with my job. Of course, I was nice to him and patient because The Bitchy Waiter is always nice and patient to anyone who voted for Abraham Lincoln. But good Lordy, get outta my way.
By the end of the night, Old Man River was half asleep. Or half conscious. I say potato you say almost dead. Either way, I was happy when he was gone. Oh what I wouldn’t have given to have had a bottle of Febreeze that night because that old man smell surely lingered well after he was gone. It hung in the air like a mixture of fog, funk and Old (man) Spice. Goodbye, old man. And rest in peace.
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