As I stood in the long, slow-moving line, I smelled someone stepping in line behind me. I turned to look and saw that it was an elderly lady. I had seen her when I first walked into the pharmacy. She was walking through the store v-e-r-y-s-l-o-w-l-y. The scent of her liberally splashed-on perfume moved faster than she did.
Myself, I'm not The Flash by any means, but I walk with a brisk pace. When I have someplace to go, I like to get there, but I must admit that I felt a little (very little) bit guilty when I saw her standing behind me in line. I had sped right past her going Mach One, actually breaking the sound barrier, although that might have just been all the broccoli my wife insists on feeding me, and gotten in line before her brain probably had time to process it.
Being the good guy that I am (just ask my wife) (um... but not my Dad), I asked her if she wanted to go ahead of me. Her face immediately brightened with a smile.
"Yes, thank you," she said, and began to make her way in front of me. She was moving so slow that it actually seemed like she was moving backward, but eventually she secured her rightful place in line.
She looked just as ancient from behind.
"Thank God I'm not that old," I thought to myself as I told her she was welcome.
Pharmacies, at least where I live, always ask their customers for their Date of Birth before handing over prescription medicine. When the pharmacist asked that elderly lady for her DOB, I couldn't help but hear her answer. And you know what?
SHE WAS A YEAR YOUNGER THAN I WAS!
Raising My Father
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