Last Sunday, I had a few "Grandpa Moments"--all in a very short time. I need to preface this with a little description of our Sunday-morning routines.
On Saturday night I feed my sourdough starter, and the next morning I put some of it back in the fridge for the future and then bake something with the rest of it--bread, rolls, pizza, biscuits, waffles, whatever.
Then, cleaned up, we head off on our "rounds"--to the nearby Panera for breakfast, Sunday Times, laughing and talking.
Afterward, we make our two local grocery-story stops: Acme and Heinen's (neither store has all of what we want/need/crave).
Then, at home, we put stuff away, and both of us go to work until lunch. ... That's enough of a background.
Okay, last Sunday (the 15th) ... here are the "Grandpa Moments":
- Coming down the stairs, getting ready to head off to Panera, I realized, about halfway down, that I was still wearing my bedroom slippers. Not shoes. Which were back upstairs, nearly (but not quite) speechless with dismay (Where is he?!?!). An awkward mid-stairway turn and back to the bedroom for some remediation. (Where have you been?)
- In the car, talking animatedly with Joyce, I made a wrong turn and had to
- pretend I'd done it on purpose;
- figure out a way to get where we were going without making it obvious that my body language, soaked in insouciance, was a lie.
- At Panera, I realized I'd left the Times back on our dining room table. I dropped Joyce off and drove home, occupying that soggy emotional terrain between humor and depression.