I'm a big fan of old ladies.
They've got experience. They've lived. They're comfortable in their own skin.
Maybe I'm too much of a fan.
Last night I was driving home from a late meeting and I saw an older woman that lives one block down from us lying near the sidewalk in front of her home.
Any time I see an older woman on the ground, I think about my granny, and how she had osteoporosis and broke her hip, then got a blood infection, and then was wheelchair-bound, and then died from complications due to lung cancer.
So, I stopped. Well, technically, I backed up after I stopped, and I asked her if she was OK.
She then PROCEEDS TO STAND UP AND TELL ME SHE WAS WEEDING HER FRONT LAWN. IN. THE. DARK.
This would be clue No. 1 for most people. For me? Not so much.
So, she walks over to my car, and says all sorts of "Bless you, Jesus, thank you." And then she starts asking for my information.
All I wanted was to make sure she didn't break a hip, and now she's acting like I'm captive in one of those secret prisons.
So, then she asks if I have a husband.
"Can he push a lawnmower?"
"Uh... he has back problems."
"Oh, well, can I have your phone number?"
"Uhhhh... here's my card. You can call me if there's an emergency."
"What house do you live in?"
"Well, I need to get to dinner."
And I drove off. I immediately began to regret giving her my card. Dave said it was a stupid idea, regardless of whether she was the grandmotherly, lonely, break-her-hip, I've-fallen-and-I-can't-get-up type. He said I should be more discreet.
And folks, he's right.
She called me while I was at work today. I was on deadline with a million things up in the air. I told her I didn't have time.
"YOU MEAN, YOU DON'T HAVE THE TIME TO TELL ME YOUR HOUSE NUMBER???"
"Uh, yes, and I'm sorry, but I do have to go."
And I hung up.
And so, my good karma streak ends.