You Know You Are Old When…. « Shoot Me Now

Shoot Me NowYou Know You Are Old When….

You Know You Are Old When….
Published on Friday, September 18, 2009 by

old lady pictureFollowing my coffee run today, I have a little less spring in my step.  And a little less shake with dem fries.

I’ll call one of the guys who works at 7-11 “J.”  He is a tall man, about 23 years old.  And frankly, he looks MUCH older than 23.  But that is probably sour grapes on my part.

Earlier this week I noticed the Dark Mountain Roast was low.  J told me he would be happy to make a new pot.  “Oh, I can do it,” I replied.  He laughed and said, “No, your coffee making privileges have been suspended.”  This is why.

Today I found the coffee to be even older.  Both the men were busy at the counter, so I took the coffee pot and went STEALTH as I maneuvered my way to the sink.  Behind the creamers, around the hot dogs, OH HE IS TURNING TOWARDS ME!, safe, phew.. tip toe to the sink.  Pour.  Slink back, mentally making myself invisible.  I knelt down to where they couldn’t see me, grabbed a bag of dark mountain and began the pot.

A few minutes later the manager came by and we chatted.  I told him J had suspended my coffee making privileges, but I had snuck by him anyway.  The manager laughed and told me in HIS book, I could make as much coffee as I wanted.

Then up walks J.  He looks across at me and I smile.  Big smile.  Then I point to the brewing coffee.  Then I pointed to me and mouthed, “I DID THAT.”  Snicker.  He pointed up to the light on the ceiling, then pointed at me and shook his head “no.”  We both laughed.  This guy cracks me up.

The manager walked away and J turns towards me.  He smiles and says, “You know, I haven’t had a date in a while.  Do you have a daughter?”


When I finally got my voice back I spilled out, “Yes… but she is EIGHT.”  I plastered on a fake smile, finished getting my coffee, paid and left.

I used to BE somebody.  I used to HAVE it.  I had a shake with my fries.  I was all that AND a bag of chips.  But now, I am simply a model of what my potential dating-aged daughter could possibly be like, age subtracted about a hundred years.

My daughter is EIGHT.  That means I had sex eight years ago.  Well, technically, make that nine.  And I think I’ve had it a few times since.  And I was probably pretty good, too.  Sigh.

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