Okay, by most standards, I’m considered elderly, young elderly, but old. I have found a great means of passing time somewhat productively. I frequent fabric stores. They’re full of up energy. They stimulate my creative juices. Sometimes I find amazing bargains in the remnants bin.
Plus, such musing keeps my over-active imagination from going into dangerous neighborhoods. Like who done me wrong and how I’ll pay them back w/o getting caught. Do I digress? Yes.
So I’m hanging out at the nearby fabric store. I hear a clerk relating a recent incident to another customer. She said the lines get quite long for customers waiting to have their fabric cut off the bolt. To remedy the situation, shoppers pull off a number from the wait list. When their number is called, they’re up to bat, so to speak. To get their fabric cut.
The clerks do their best to mollify their bored, sometimes–hostile customers. Somehow.
Anyway, a woman in her forties approached the cutting table, took her number, lounged about waiting with little patience. Her sighs and huffs betrayed her ill humor. Finally the overworked clerk asked her, “Are you sixty-three?”
The irked customer glared silently at the poor woman, then turned and left, mouthing curses and accusations.