Old people don't give a fuck

Does getting older come with its own set of rules and regulations? A handbook, or owners’ manual, if you will. This is a very fucking serious question I’m posing here. I’m pretty clear that at some age [yet undetermined as I clearly haven’t reached it] someone shoulder taps you and asks you to turn over the operation guide you’ve been functioning with and hands you a new one. It’s the only explanation I’ve got for the horsefuckery that I’ve witnessed with old people.

Yesterday I went to the grocery store to rent some videos and retrieve supplies to get me through the near deadly round of the flu that I was gifted. Don’t jump down my damn throat; I was careful not to spread contamination. I only touched what I bought and only licked and carefully placed where I wanted others to find, that which I hoped would make my intended targets ill. It was planned though, so it’s all good. That blonde that chewed her gum too loudly and obnoxiously took selfies had it coming; “maybe” I had to sneeze. “Sometimes” you can’t direct those things – at least that’s how it went down in my fantasy-land. She was horrifying though, that part was real. I stumbled through the store in a daze on a mission to retrieve a few measly items and when I had gotten them into my arm-cart aka basket, I made my way to the check-out.

We’ve established that I have an arm-cart. I’ve just coined this term by the way, so when this shit blows up later, you know where it came from. You’re welcome. Arm-cart, remember that. Let me paint you a picture: sweat pants, wet hair, vacant stare, t-shirt and probably a little drool from the left…no right corner of mouth. Got it visualized yet? Great. I have a fire log and frozen lasagna in my arm-cart so obviously I’m in great shape. I’m now slow motion walking towards the register. From the canned foods aisle comes speedracer with her wheelie cart; we’re both headed for the express lane. There is a brief moment of hesitation when we see what’s about to happen; one of us is about to take our earrings off. 

This hoe has hella shit in her “for real” cart. I am about to die with my two motherfucking items. She doesn’t hesitate and pulls her Cadillac in ahead of me. How is this ok? Is there a supermarket police? You dirty old bitch! Swear to God, if my mother didn’t raise me to respect old haggard ass ladies such as yourself and I wasn’t about to die of consumption, I would club you with this frozen lasagna. But I’m a grown-up, so I keep my mouth shut and just huff loudly. I cannot roll my eyes hard enough; they hurt too badly. I’m not sure this old lady can see me through the 15 layers of makeup she’s wearing anyway. Avon hasn’t made that shade in at least 12 years so I know she’s dedicated to her causes, I don’t know if I really want to get into a fight with her; she goes the distance.

I stand there patiently waiting my turn, when the next person takes their place in line behind me. I turn around to see that this person has but one item. I glance at her to notice that she is wearing the store uniform. Deductive reasoning drops me off at the conclusion that she works for the store and that this is her lunch break. It’s a cup-o-soup. I let her go ahead of me. Hey! Did you see how that worked you old hag? That’s called curtesy and decency. Try it sometime.  As I left the store that employee was filling her soup with hot water at the Starbucks and as we passed she looked me squarely in the eyes and said “thank you so much for letting me go ahead of you, we only have short breaks; I really appreciate it.” Yeah, that owners’ manual you get that allows for douchiness as you age; you can keep it. I’ll keep my scruples.