I Made a Little Old Woman Cry
Hi. I've got lots of excuses for not posting, but I won't go into them here, as they're long and complex and very serious and don't actually exist. I'm just in one of those ruts in which you have so much free time that you actually don't have any. Stifled by excessive free time, that's what I am.
Anyway, I've been working weekends as a receptionist at a nursing home (oops, sorry, "Assisted Living Center"), and I love it. I never thought listening to crazy old people tell me the same incoherent story over and over would be my cup of tea, but they've totally won me over. I love pressing the elevator button so the doors won't close on them as they hobble in with their walkers. I love giving them their newspapers in the morning even though they don't know what day it is and forget the articles right after they read them. And I love zipping up their jackets and fixing their collars and talking to them and listening to them and helping them and directing them back to their rooms because they forget where they are.
And even though I can't write about something mushy without making crass jokes about it, I think working there is making me a better person. I've always been a little bit afraid of old people, walking (or hobbling or wheeling) reminders of time and mortality. But my fear isn't there anymore--just like how i was afraid of kids until I started working at an elementary school, and now I adore them. I wish everyone who fears another type of perosn could be forced to spend a few hours with them each week. They're not going to eat me and their age and dementia isn't contagious and they actually really like me.
But then there was that time I made a little old woman cry. But that's a story for another day.
Oh, I owe my pal and frequent supplier of comments-section sass Tom $2.53 from online hearts. In lieu of cash, he has agreed to accept a priceless piece of the cupboard, and will be staining this webpage with his own brand of juvenile humor any day now.
Hi. I've got lots of excuses for not posting, but I won't go into them here, as they're long and complex and very serious and don't actually exist. I'm just in one of those ruts in which you have so much free time that you actually don't have any. Stifled by excessive free time, that's what I am.
Anyway, I've been working weekends as a receptionist at a nursing home (oops, sorry, "Assisted Living Center"), and I love it. I never thought listening to crazy old people tell me the same incoherent story over and over would be my cup of tea, but they've totally won me over. I love pressing the elevator button so the doors won't close on them as they hobble in with their walkers. I love giving them their newspapers in the morning even though they don't know what day it is and forget the articles right after they read them. And I love zipping up their jackets and fixing their collars and talking to them and listening to them and helping them and directing them back to their rooms because they forget where they are.
And even though I can't write about something mushy without making crass jokes about it, I think working there is making me a better person. I've always been a little bit afraid of old people, walking (or hobbling or wheeling) reminders of time and mortality. But my fear isn't there anymore--just like how i was afraid of kids until I started working at an elementary school, and now I adore them. I wish everyone who fears another type of perosn could be forced to spend a few hours with them each week. They're not going to eat me and their age and dementia isn't contagious and they actually really like me.
But then there was that time I made a little old woman cry. But that's a story for another day.
Oh, I owe my pal and frequent supplier of comments-section sass Tom $2.53 from online hearts. In lieu of cash, he has agreed to accept a priceless piece of the cupboard, and will be staining this webpage with his own brand of juvenile humor any day now.
