It is hot – Dang hot!

It is hot. Dang hot!  I don’t do well in the heat. Okay, I’m a sweater. Like most people from Monticello, if it’s above 80 degrees, I’m complaining that it’s hot.

So now that it’s near 100 degrees you can bet I’m sweating and panting like a fat dog after a run.

So the circumstances are not ideal for me to be standing in a line.  I can be a little irritable. The service associate intern I’m talking to is a kid. When I say kid I mean anyone less than thirty with a body mass index in the single digits and an IQ not too far from that who’s wearing clothing that’s altogether too tight and doesn’t know how to use a clutch, back up a trailer, change a flat tire, or carry a pocketknife.

Just for full disclosure and in case anyone thought I was really a pretty good guy, here is a hint that I’m getting to be “that grumpy old guy”:

When the trend was baggy, loose-fitting clothing with a belt slightly above the kneecap, I was also annoyed with that fashion statement. I put these fashion-challenged people in the category of unemployed-starved-for-attention-living-in-mom’s basement millennials who can’t drive a real car.

I know this is shallow and wrong of me, and I am trying to repent, but on the relative scale of my shortcomings I have much bigger deficiencies to be working on; ask any of my neighbors. I feel bad that I’m such a poor example for my grandkids, but change isn’t easy for people over sixty.

So I am hot, dang hot, and in a line, talking to a service associate intern trying to return a pair of skinny jeans that someone thought I might want to wear.  Service intern guy is slower than continental drift. “Next,” He mutters with the enthusiasm of a mannequin. 

He blinks his eyes slowly and I am not sure if he is dozing off or has a migraine. Perhaps his clothes are too tight and no oxygen is getting to his brain. I dunno.

I am trying to make this as painless as possible. “I want to return these jeans.”  Service intern guy: “Do you have the receipt?” “No they were a gift,” I reply.

He continues, “What is wrong with them?” This should be self-evident they are skinny jeans that stretch, and I am sixty. I look at him with dismay. “I don’t like them.”

I don’t want to explain that I hate to wear pants that are too tight because I believe it hampers proper digestion and at my age, digestion and proper bowel movements can be a two-hour discussion with a fellow sixty-year-old.

Service guy says, “I need the credit card they were purchased with to credit the amount back.” My eye twitches as a stray synapse explodes in my brain. I am pretty sure he is early in his training program.

Since most of my confusion comes from people not articulating their words loudly and precisely, I decide to repeat it louder. So I move my lips slowly and add punctuation. “They. Were. A. Gift.”  He rolls his eyes.

We are at a standoff.  He is wondering if my caretakers know I have escaped and should he call a “silver alert” and I am sure that sludge on the bottom of my grandkid’s fish tank has more intelligent life forming substance.

I worry because strange synapse explosions in my brain may trigger something bigger and more life threatening so I use the coping skills my too-kind-and-loving wife practices with me. I breathe deep and smile. I grit my teeth. “Look, I just want to return these and get my money back.”

Service guy says, “I thought they were a gift.” I respond, “They were a gift, but they are mine now. So, I just want to get my money back because I don’t like tight fitting skinny stretchy pants that interfere with my digestion and make it so I don’t have regular bowel movements. Besides, then I can use the money for something useful like a pocketknife. Is that too much to ask?”

Service guy says, “Let me call my manager.”

I sigh in defeat. I leave the pants on the counter and walk out of the store where it’s hot, dang hot! I sweat some more, a synapse fires off, and my eye twitches.