One pastime Dad and Mom love to do with me when I visit them in Florida is to point out everyone’s age. Dad especially enjoys this. He boasts about it like it’s some kind of accomplishment.
“See that man over there?” he says to me one day at the pool, “He’s 85. Doesn’t he look no more than 70?”
“Well, it’s hard for me to tell, Dad,” I say.
“And you know my friend Harold? He’s 77. He still plays tennis every day – sometimes twice a day,” Dad brags.
“That’s impressive,” I reply.
“And there’s an absolutely adorable couple who live next door to Flo and Irv. He’s 84 and she’s 81. They go out almost every night to dinner, and he’s still driving,” Mom chimes in.
“They sound adorable,” I say, although I cannot picture an old couple that I would describe as ‘adorable.’
“And that nice man who lives downstairs from us,” Mom continues, “He’s got himself a girlfriend.”
“Wouldn’t that be ladyfriend, Mom? I bet she’s at least 75,” I ask.
“Actually, she’s 88. And he calls her his girlfriend,” Mom answers.