A couple of weeks ago, I started taking lunch at the local senior center.
At first, I enjoyed it. It was a way to get a cheap($2), nutritious and filling meal without having to cook. The cheerful volunteers and staff served us on real plates with real tableware, and they were pleasant and almost embarrassingly attentive.
I met some nice people, and except for a couple of mild tongue-lashings about my being late, or not calling to cancel when I couldn’t make it, the experience was overall pleasant and civilized.
Recently, though, it hasn’t been much fun. I found myself at a table with some people who were intrusive in the way old people sometimes are – wanting to put their paws on anything that isn’t nailed down, especially when it comes to food.
One rather rotund man asked me, out of the blue, “D’you want that milk?” referring to the small carton next to my plate that I hadn’t yet opened.
I’d figured out that some folks have dietary or other restrictions and that sharing food was not uncommon, so I told him he could have it.
He then proceeded with great ceremony to pass it down the table, then turned to me with a defiant look, kind of a “wanna make something of it?” look.
There have been other such incidents, culminating yesterday with a series of “saving seats” rituals ala elementary school that put me in an awkward position.
I’ve had enough of cliques and in-groups, and can live without the spectacle of old people acting like little kids.
If that’s the way it is in rest homes, then I’ve got to remind Peter, again, about his promise to put me on an ice floe when I can no longer hold my water or if I wake up one day thinking I am the reincarnated Empress Josephine.