That’s how old my Grandma is as of yesterday. She also had her first margarita. I asked her how she liked it.
“Goooooood. I can’t believe none of you have ever given me one of these before.”
A few weeks ago Mark and I visited her. She’d had a bear in her yard recently, and we could tell by the dozens of unattractive piles, just what he’d been binging on. We were picking all of her apples so his feast would be gone, and he’d stay away. Never one to stay inside while someone was working in her yard, Gram came out to supervise the apple picking. It was cold, windy, and she had been sick, so I told her that we were just fine, and that she should go back inside where it’s warm.
“Kid, don’t you tell me what to do. I’ll go inside when I’m good and ready. I’ll stay inside when I’m old.”
Then after a long pause where I had shrugged my shoulders because there’s really no point in arguing with Gram, “How old am I, anyway?”
“Gram, in two weeks you’re going to be 92.”
“Oh hell, I’m old. I’m going inside.”