STORIES FROM THE GEEZER APARTMENTS: The Coffee Clique

After living here for 10 months, I’ve experienced apartment life on a whole ‘nother level. I’m unsure if it’s good or bad, but it’s my reality, at least for now.

I’ve avoided the coffee group in the mornings for the past 7 months due to one resident’s proclivity in September for mingling with fellow residents while looking like hell, vomiting in the hallway, sneezing, and coughing. And when offered a Covid test, she refused. Plus, she emailed me, copied 5 other residents, and apologized for not hearing me when offered a test. I “replied all” and reminded her that she twice refused my tests and told me that if she tested positive, she wouldn’t be free to socialize with others due to quarantining. I avoid narcissists and liars, so I have been somewhat of a recluse this winter while she’s roaming the halls and getting into everyone’s business. I don’t want her germs, nor do I want her in my business, albeit a very boring one at that. At age 80 plus, I suppose she figures she’s earned her freedom.
Then, there are the talkers. Having to endure a chatterbox is a problem I’ve had for a long time. I quickly grow impatient and annoyed at people who won’t shut it. They can’t help it, God knows, because they think whatever they must share is more interesting than whatever anyone else might add to the conversation. Worse than that, they can’t read body language. Most normal people I know will stop talking or at least take a breath if they see people yawning or looking elsewhere. Sometimes, the only way out of this hellacious scenario is to excuse oneself to go to the toilet, which isn’t a stretch. Geezers frequently urinate, so it’s a believable excuse. Even worse are the blabbers compelled to describe every personal health issue imaginable. At this age, I want any health issues I might have to be a surprise rather than imagining it before it happens. And I'm learning to ask as a greeting, "How about this weather?" Rather than, "How are you?"
This week, I’ve rejoined the coffee group, as Typhoid Mary is off on a trip to another country, spreading whatever illness she might, unfortunately, acquire on the plane or cruise ship. To my delight, men have joined the group, dramatically changing the dynamics (not in a romantic way, I might add). More topics are discussed, and light-hearted joking occurs, although it’s usually directed at me or vice versa. There were no conversation hoggers, and it was lots of fun to make subtle off-color comments. I was in my element until one of the ladies started talking about a subject she knew nothing about, only to be patiently corrected by several people. She wasn’t having it and dug in her heels. Both sides repeated their points until I thought I would crawl under the table or shoot someone. At least conflict isn’t dull, so I’ll be satisfied with not being bored.
One of the new residents complained that she had no coffee maker because her son had yet to retrieve it from her former residence. I offered a Mr. Coffee machine that I no longer use. She replied, “Well, how does it work?” I looked at her like she had two heads. Let’s see…it has a basket. A filter with grounded coffee beans is placed in the basket. Fill the pitcher with water and pour it into the back of the machine. She responded, “Oh, I’m used to pushing a button.” Geez. Okay, lady, I rescind my offer.
On the bright side, I have new writing material!
To be continued….



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