“Two girls said I was nice,” my mother told her friend on the phone.
“I have learned to ignore it,” she continued. “People always say odd things to old ladies.”
Yeah.
But the two gals said nice or sweet as I wheeled her out of the women’s room at the odd lot store.
It was my sense that they weren’t talking about the old lady who just peed, but rather about the poor shlub who just took her to the bathroom. It was the wheelchair pusher who was “so nice.”
But that’s not how my mother saw it.
It was all about her.
And not at all about me.
