Bubble Butt
I like to drive the shopping cart when we’re at the grocery store, and my wife humors me.
She says I’m practicing for my old age. “It’s a rolling walker,” she says, “all you need are those little hand brakes and you’ll be set.”
One day I’ll make a mistake and say “Whatever do you mean?”
She’ll say, “well you know sometimes when you get older you get unsteady on your feet.
“I’m steady,” I’ll say
“But someday you may not be.”
“And”
“You’ll be old an unsteady and need a walker, and walking around with a shopping cart is your way of preparing.”
I don’t use a shopping cart to prepare for a walker.
“Then why the obsession with the cart?”
“I’d rather not say.”
“That’s just your way of not admitting that it’s walker practice. ” “No really, it’s not walker practice.”
“I’m not buying it until you explain yourself.”
“Oh all right.”
“I’m waiting.”
“I do it because I like controlling the cart, deciding where it goes, what aisle we go down next.”
“That’s it.”
“Yep, that’s it.”
I explain, when I control the shopping cart I can skip the junk-food aisle. You know, the aisle that is packed with stuff that clogs your veins and puts extra padding on your hiney.
“I control the cart for you Dear, because I love you, and because I don’t ever want to see a bubble on your butt.”
“You’ve never skipped the junk-food aisle before” she’ll say, “and without your walker to hold on to your bubble butt would go bouncing down the aisle.”