Turn back before it’s too late
First, I tore the thin plastic bag off its mount. Next, slightly tilting my head upward, I checked which end had a seam. I then moved my thumb and forefinger back and forth, hoping friction would produce an opening. When it didn’t, I wet both digits and repeated the movement. Defeated, I used the bag as a glove to pluck the donuts.
As I waited to pay, I thought about complaining to the counterwoman, who had smiled and said “Good morning” when I entered the store, about the flimsy pouches.
But I didn’t because the symptoms are limitless for someone 75, one year older than Walter Matthau when he starred in Grumpy Old Men.
No part of me, including my mildly neuropathetic mitts, works like it used to. As my cardiologist said, after plopping a model heart down on her desk, “You know, Paul, your heart is 75 too.”
