My friend Joan and I were discussing how weepy we’ve become in our twilight years, how everything seems to make us cry.
We’re like those old AT&T commercials, when the son surprises his mom on Christmas, or the dog jumping in the suitcase cause the kid’s leaving for school.
Sentiment has become our drug of choice.
I have a good friend who recently had a triple bypass healing down south. He told me in an email, his chest is so tender, a T-shirt even hurts.
I remembered J. Crew Men’s makes a soft, cotton one, two in a pack, so I called to order them for him. Clearly the boy who took the call was very young. You heard it in his voice, that…this is my first job sound, striving to be professional and efficient, practically to a fault.
We discussed my order in depth uncertain of the size and agreed, for comfort under the circumstances, the bigger the better.
My friend, who I’ll call Max, is a handsome, hulking guy, former Ford model, top of the heap in his time and one of the kindest people on the planet.
The salesman, after placing the order said, “I’m waving shipping for Max.”
Yeah, you guessed it. I sobbed.