Yesterday I applied a little mascara, ran a brush through my hair, grabbed my four-prong cane and was good to go. My husband and grandchildren joined me in line for the annual Blues Festival in Rockland.  I glanced behind me, and a man – a stranger about my age – bald, wearing a colorful Woodstock t-shirt. and leaning on his cane, looked at me and said, “I feel like you look.”  

“You feel like I look?” 

“No offense,” he gestured towards my cane, “but YOU know what I mean.”

I do?

He continued, “I’ve had triple bypass surgery and I only have one lung. I’ve brought a blanket to lay down on and if I’m not comfortable, my camper’s parked right over there.”

Ok…

Which reminds me: Some months ago my friends and I were leaving a restaurant. Due to mobility challenges, when I head down steps, I have to walk backwards, kind of hunched over, cane in tow, holding a railing, which was what I was doing when a man heading into the restaurant, gestured towards me, and said to his wife, “She’s had more to drink than I have.”

My friends thought surely I must know this guy.

Uh, no. Didn’t know him.  Never seen him before. 

Which reminds me: A few weeks ago I had a Maine adventure in Reny’s clothing department.

I stuck my arm between a section of bright pink Maine embossed sweatshirts on a circular rack. As I searched for the right fit, to separate the size sections, I gave the shirts a little shove to the right.

A woman, probably in her fifties, probably no more than five feet from me, probably a Mainer, yelped to no one in particular, “I’m not ‘blanking’ with her!”

“Her” being me.

Me being the innocent shopper just trying to score a cozy sweatshirt on a rainy Saturday in June.

And speaking of me, is it me? 

Do I give off some kind of vibe which shouts FEEL FREE TO SAY ANYTHING TO ME?  I mean I expect middle school kids to be filter-less (“Miss B, you have resting teacher face.”  “Miss B, would you be interested in starring in a horror film with me?” “Miss B, you walk funny.”), but what’s up with boomers commenting on my frailties?

A decade or so ago, I was debarking the school bus when a first grader asked me why I always go down the steps backwards.

Because it’s easier, I told him.

Next thing I knew a string of first graders was following me down the bus steps.

Backwards.

I spent my career teaching middle-schoolers, but you gotta love first graders.  

Although there was that six-year-old, who looked up at me on the playground my first day back at school after a long absence, and proclaimed, “When I grow up, you’ll be dead.”

And then, as if he felt he needed to back up his observation, add evidence to his proclamation, he added,“That’s because you’re old.”

True that. 

And no offense taken.