"I look like a bug," I
say to the cute, young, male clerk at Walmart, who leans against the frame
display. "Oh well, they can't be any worse than these," I say, taking
them off and putting back on my even bigger dark glasses.
He
nods.
"You're
not supposed to say that!" I cry. "You're supposed to help me
decide."
He
shrugs.
I
turn toward the seated, young, female clerk with long, black-hair "I need
a woman's help!" I say. Then I see she's
on the phone.
"Oh,
sorry!" I say to her; then to my clerk, "I'll take them!"
He
says, "Are you sure?"
"Yes.
I hate making decisions. They'll be fine."
We
sit. He asks my birth date and types it in, then my first name.
"Your
prescription expired," he says.
"What!
I can't believe this! I thought they're supposed to last a year! I just got my
eyes checked three months ago!"
"This
one's from 2011," he says.
"Oh,
then, here. . . " I open my wallet and find the new prescription.
The
customer, who was seated across from the female clerk, but hidden to me by her
computer, stands. Now I see he
has long, grey scraggly hair and a short grey-and-white beard. He's a little
stooped and approaches shyly.
"Excuse
me for saying," he says, "but you would look good in anything."
I
want to say, You really must need
glasses! but I'm gracious and say, "Oh,
you're so sweet," as he turns and leaves.
To
my cute young clerk I say, "I almost said 'I used to look good in nothing'
but I stopped myself."
He
chuckles. He may be thinking, Yuck, what
a sick old woman. But, maybe not. Maybe he's thinking I bet you did.
II.
Today
in Kerrvile, I tore a sheet from a little cube tablet in the kitchen. The sheet
underneath says, Cube bought 12-15-02
in my handwriting. I like that I wrote a
note to my future self, just like I used to do when I was a kid.
Someone
recently asked me, "Do you write every day," and I said no but then I told her I write in my
diary every night, so that's writing. I
also write dialog in my head every day, practicing what I will say when I call
my mother. I want to have something bright and cheerful to tell. I don't want
to talk about her fragile life, her weakening body, her diminished mind.
So
I call in the afternoon, when the day has had time to bring me a gift that I
can share with my mother, even if it's only over the phone.
