Summer's Antis

It's official.

Old people hate me.

I don't know if they have a mental list containing all the necessary elements one needs to gain their approval, but if they do I've managed to lack every one.

For one thing, my hair is wrong.  One time I was in a bathroom washing my hands and minding my own business while countless old women attempted to fix their appearances.  When one offered me her hairbrush and I politely declined, she oh-so-politely mentioned how "the new style must be bad hair." Now, those may not have been her exact words, but her intention was crystal clear.

My second problem is my incompetence...  Apparently it is thriving.  I swear, every time I try to do anything professionally some old crone walks up to me, grabs my arm, and say "how are you hanging in?" in the most condescendingly sympathetic voice they can drum up.  If they were genuinely concerned with my well-being it would be one thing, but single-handedly trying to force me into a grocery bagging position is another.  I swear, the next time one of them asks I'll say "oh I'm fine, but would you like help remembering which retirement home you live in? It must be terrible going this long without your Alzheimer's medication."

Thirdly, I have a rotten personality.  Well, that observation could be chalked up to brutal honesty...

Now, before you get the wrong idea, I feel I should clarify: I don't hate old people.

They just hate me.

Am I sad about this?

Not really.

Am I proud of this?

A little.

Less than three,

~ Summer