Old people are the best. I look at them with envy that I imagine some look at athletes or supermodels. Most old people I know do not have the same characteristics as an elite athlete or the figure of a supermodel, so that might not make sense now that I say it.
Regardless, the jealousy I have for old people far outweighs the annoyance they bring my daily life.
You know the annoyances. Their slow walk on a sidewalk in front of you when you are late to a meeting. Or their inability to turn right on a red light. Their constant reminders of what it was like before all this technology took over our brains.
I love old people because they really don’t care what people think. They are not preoccupied with the reactions they might get when doing something or saying something outlandish. They just do whatever they want.
Grandpa Jones, the oldest member at the club, was 88 years old and has been a member since hickory sticks and President Taft. His wife died years ago and his kids and grandkids only come around on his birthday or to randomly check-in on their inheritance. The golf club is his home and we are his family. He wears his pants high, his bucket hat low, and has one of the worst golf swings known to man.
He blames it on his mobility and 88-year-old back, but we all know for a fact that he is just plain sucks. But that dude loves to play golf and gamble and always pays his debts. So when the chance came to play him, I took it. This specific Tuesday, Grandpa was chipping balls at the putting green, right next to the sign that said, “Putting Only. No Chipping.” He was taking huge divots, and skulling a majority of them 10 yards over the green. With each terrible shot, he would mutter, “Stupid game.”
I said, “Hey Grandpa. You playing today.”
“You looking for a game kid?” He responded.
“Not with you old-timer. I want to finish before dark.
“Plus, don’t you have to get home to let out your dumb cat?” I asked. Not even knowing if he had a cat. Sometimes you can just tell.
“Hell no. Let’s go play.” He yelled as he picked up his clubs and shuffled to my cart.
He sat down, let out a sigh, and challenged me to $100 a hole. I said ok out of respect but deep down I felt bad about it. I mean the guy is a thousand years old. This was easy money.
We got on the first tee and he hit his tee shot right down the middle 125 yards.
I hit mine out of bounds. I reload and fire again, hitting it out of bounds.
“Shit! Ok, Grandpa. I’ll concede this hole. Let’s move on.” I said.
“Ok. You owe me $100,” He said deadpanned. “I have to go and let my cat out.”
And with that, he picked up his clubs and walked into the clubhouse.
So I owe him $100, I guess. Now we play the waiting game.
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