Happier at Eighty-Five?
What Would Muriel Do?

On the Bus

I didn’t ride my bike to work the other day, so I took the bus home.  It was a rainy early evening and I was lugging a big purse, my brief case and an umbrella. A young man with a trim red beard offered me his seat, and I refused saying I was fine standing.

Shortly after we were underway, the person next to him got up to get off and when no one else took the seat, I did.  I told the nice young man that I didn’t sit down because I was old, but because I was carrying so much, and, in fact, I normally ride my bike to work. 

He said that although he’s only known me for two minutes, he can tell that I am spry.

“Spry”, I thought—that’s a word to describe old folks.

So much for the start of a beautiful friendship.


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