…to my already pandemic battered psyche.
It all started a week ago Sunday. Garv and I decided to go for a drive just to get out of the house and have a change of scene. About an hour into our drive I realized it wasn’t just a drive. We were on a “Sunday drive,” the kind old people take.
My grandparents were big fans of Sunday drives. My grandmother would wear her navy wool pill box hat complete with hat pin. My grandfather usually wore his houndstooth suit jacket, felt fedora and a splash of Old Spice. Off they would go in their Nash Rambler going nowhere in particular, looking stylish. Proper. Civilized.
I glanced at Garv. He was not wearing a fedora but his hair was having a party! (Picture Doc from the movie Back to the Future…that kind of party.) Equally pulled together, I was sporting slippers and no pants. Well, I was kind of wearing pants, leggings actually. But it’s no secret that leggings are just well marketed long underwear. Obviously we lacked my grandparents’ sense of flair and refinement.
We blew past a sign and I’m certain it read, “Oldageopolis City Limits.” I said, “Garv, we are officially old.” Ironically, he did not hear me.
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