Today is the day I leave early from work so I can dash and pick up TinyTuna at school and shuttle her to ballet, followed by choir, followed by costume crew for a children's production of Winnie-the-Pooh. And no, before you ask, she's NOT overbooked. She simply has no time today to watch crap television, which, if you think about it, is a good thing.
Because she has to go straight from school to ballet to choir to Pooh without passing GO (or home), I am commanded to bring her a drink and a snack in the car, which, if you think about it, is only fair.
So I toddle off to the snack-a-teria that all academic libraries now possess, because heaven forbid anyone should have to study without a latte in one hand and a cell phone in the other, which, when I think about it, makes me want to commit crimes for which the word justifiable was invented.
As I am standing in line, an older woman in front of me is jawing with the cashier. She stops and takes a look at me and notices my sweatshirt. Today I'm wearing my most favorite Hofbrauhaus sweatshirt from Munich. I'm wearing it in celebration of the fact that most of the students are still gone, which, when I think about it, means I get to wear whatever the heck I want.
She: (stumbling over the words): Munchen? What's that?
Me: Munich. Germany.
She: Oh! Is that where you are from?
(I'm about as White Bread Midwest Rust Belt as one can possibly be)
Me: Oh, no. I'm not from Munich. I just got this sweatshirt there.
She: Oh! Did you go to the Olympics or something?
Süsses Baby Jesus auf einer Brezel! The Munich Olympics were in 1972, for Pete's sake. So did she think I looked extraordinarily young for a geezer, or far, far older than my tender age? Either way, I suddenly felt ancient, which, when I think about it, blows.