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Recognized Social Butterfly



Last week, I was to deliver a thank you package to our neighbors down the hall who collected our mail when my wife and I were on the Mainland. Before I left, my wife told me that the couple was expecting me and that I should make sure to knock on the right door. What a silly request! I knew exactly where our friends were located, the first unit on the right past the elevators. I had briefly visited with them many times at their place.

When I turned the corner, I repeatedly knocked on the door: no answer. Perhaps our friends needed another reminder, so I then called out my name: still no response.

I was dumbfounded until I noticed that there was an inscription on the upper half of the door: Trash room. What a revelation! I have unloaded my rubbish there hundreds of times, but I unaccountably mistook that area for my friends’ unit.

And so the saga of my senior moments continues.


The Escalator Blues

At one point at the airport in Honolulu, while I carried two suitcases, I was to follow my wife to the upper ground level. Just as I stepped on the escalator, I lost control of my luggage. Both suitcases spun around a bit before clunking ahead of me to the top of the escalator. When I finally caught up with them, I stumbled over the biggest one, slightly wrenching my arthritic knee in the process.

By the time that I righted myself, I couldn’t see my wife. She obviously knew nothing about my mishap. When I eventually located her a few minutes later, she reminded me that I should have taken the elevator next to the escalator. What elevator? I wasn’t aware that there was one nearby, never mind a few feet away from me.

My New Year’s resolution is to scrupulously scan my environment before making any moves. That way, I have a chance to ward off misadventures. Otherwise, my troubles could well escalate.


Boobs and Boo Boos.

Last week in Waikiki, after picking up some prescriptions for my wife, I crossed onto Seaside Avenue. I soon saw a couple walking toward me. The young man was nondescript, but the young lady revealed lots of cleavage. I didn’t stare at her breasts; I just quickly glanced at them. At that moment, I fell on the pavement. One of my bloody knees was extensively scraped, and my right hand was badly bruised and swollen.

The young man kindly gave me some napkins to staunch the wound on my knee. He then helped me get up. What happened next took me aback. He apologized on behalf of his girlfriend: she was to blame for my fall. Her abundant cleavage unnerves every man, no matter what age. I probably would not have tripped if I had been able to avoid looking at her breasts.

He might have been right, but I cleaved to my own account: I said that I am so clumsy that nothing in particular triggers my falling down. In fact, I tripped six months ago on the same street while I was searching for Ross’s department store. And no one was nearby to distract me then.

I have enough trouble keeping my balance when I am alone. I certainly don’t need to be tempted by a femme fatale who lays booby traps for me.



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