It’s a gray day in my neighborhood, and the waiting room in the Dermatologist’s office was relatively empty.
Masks are obligatory, and both the other occupant, a mature white-haired gentleman and I, were suitably attired.
As we sat waiting to hear our names called, suddenly he turned towards me and spoke asking how long I had lived in the area.
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Of course that led to a more profound discussion, mostly on his part, of weather, politics, and opinions.
I am always reluctant to tell too much about my viewpoints, but I decided that possibly he was nervous and needed to talk.
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Consequently, I listened and smiled a lot.
Soon we both forgot to worry about when we might hear either of our names announced by the Doctor’s assistant,
His range of topics continued with the history of his Covid infection and then an unexpected leap into a youthful visit to “my” city, The Big Apple.
Suddenly, he inquired what year I had lived in that famed metropolis.
When I replied, he said in shock:
“When were you born?”
After I replied, he gasped in astonishment, and loudly announced to all in hearing distance:
“You are older than my Mother (but you really look good).”
Fortunately, then I heard his name called by the Receptionist, and fervently hoped our conversation had ended.
Not so, however, as standing up he called out again in a loud voice:
“Can you believe, she’s older than my Mother?”
I am not reluctant to share my age, but I am not thrilled about broadcasting it either, and still, I thought:
“Sometimes you just have to laugh,” and that’s what I did.
Although next time I think maybe I’ll bring a book to the various waiting rooms I visit.
