The "um' people still irk the Old Coot (Jan 27,2021 Tioga County Courier article)

 

The Old Coot Rediscovers the “Um” People.

By Merlin Lessler

 This isn’t the first time I’ve written about the “UM” people; actually, it’s the fourth or fifth time I’ve covered my favorite target for people watching. It never fails to give me a chuckle. This latest encounter was in a donut shop. She was in line, fortunately not the one I was in, staring at the racks of donuts. When her turn came, she was dumfounded. The clerk asked, “What can I get for you?” She replied, “Um,” and then tapped her chin with her index finger and repeated the UM. Finally, she got started. “Let me have two jelly donuts, followed with another UM. All through the selection process her dialog was interspaced with UMS. UM people are never prepared for the task at hand. When the exasperated donut shop clerk finally got her order finished and said, “That will be seven dollars and sixty-eight cents,” she shifted into a new UM phase, as in, “Um, where did I put my wallet?” Everything that comes UM people’s way is a shock. We all do this from time to time, but UM people remain stuck in the groove.

 Old coots are the exact opposite of UM people. We know what donuts we’ll order before we leave the house. We come prepared for line situations. We know what it will cost; we have our money ready. We make the exchange, accept the, “Have a good day,” and step out of the way. Like customers of the “Soup Nazi” on the Seinfeld TV show, we are obedient, compliant and unobtrusive. We do this because we hate lines, inefficient lines. It’s why we go to dinner at four o’clock in the afternoon; we don’t want to wait in line for a table. It’s an ailment that’s incurable. It’s limiting. But on the positive side; we get a real kick when we witness an UM person in action.    

 Our line-phobia is a handicap, that’s for sure, but it does have its good points. It’s made us experts on line behavior. We don’t get in lines where we suspect an UM person is in the queue. We sit off to the side and watch the show. It’s especially entertaining in a deli when an UM orders a submarine sandwich. They become overwhelmed by the number of decisions forced on them. First, the size of the sub: six inch or one foot. That’s good for two or three UMs. Then a bread choice confronts them - Italian, whole wheat, white, etc. That’s good for another few UMs. That’s when I swivel in my chair to get a full view of the UM symphony, the choices of meat, cheese, vegetables and garnishes. The crescendo of UMs is deafening. The fatal blow comes when the clerk offers a final option, “Would you like that toasted?” That does it; the Um person’s brain reaches overload. He runs out of the store, waving his hands in the air and screaming at the top of his lungs. It’s what I’ve been waiting for. The clerk looks over to me and asks if I want a free sub. “Um,” I reply. “What are my choices?”

 Comments? Complaints? Send to – mlessler7@gmail.com

Old Coot spots a lie. Tioga County Courier Article 01/20/21

 

The Old Coot wants the truth.

By Merlin Lessler

 The big lie, “I’ll be right with you.” You get this when you’ve been in line for a while and finally it’s your turn. You step to the counter and hear, “I’ll be right with,” as the clerk runs to the storage room or answers their cell phone, or heaven forbid, closes the counter and goes on break.

 That’s bad, but the medical version is worse. You go to the check in desk, hand over your insurance cards, your driver’s license, state your birth date, answer a list of questions and find a seat after being told, “The doctor will be right with you.” Sometimes the doctor is, but more likely, you face an indeterminate wait: 5 minutes, 10 minutes, 15 minutes; time crawls by, because you don’t know how long it will be. And that’s just the first round. Next, you’re taken to the “little” room and get a second, “The doctor will be right with you.” No, they won’t! You get to gaze at anatomy charts and pictures of horrible repercussions of the malady you came to have checked out. It’s a grim wait. The minute hand on your watch barely moves. Each tick takes forever; you tap your watch to see if it’s working. Ten minutes becomes a lifetime, longer than the time between Thanksgiving and Christmas when you were a five-year-old kid.

 It doesn’t have to be this way. We don’t mind waiting for doctors if it’s because they are taking time with another patient to provide thorough and quality medical care. It’s not knowing how long the wait will be that causes the angst. It would be so much easier if you were told it will be 10 minutes; it will be 20 minutes, or whatever. And, then updated when that promised time has elapsed. The information is at hand; the person who told you the doctor will be right with you knows. It just isn’t dispersed and is the reason so many people are on blood pressure medicine. The profession calls it the white coat syndrome. But, it really is the undefined wait time that causes your pressure to go up!

 The next time I’m told that the doctor will be right with me, I’m not going to let it go unchallenged. “How long will I have to wait? And, what’s your name and birth date so I can follow up with you if you lied?” Let their blood pressure go up for a change.    

 Comments, complaints. Send to – mlessler7@gmail.com  

Old Coot is a fake 80. Tioga County Courier, January 13, 2021 article

 

The Old Coot is a “fake” 80.

By Merlin Lessler

 I want to say, “I’m 80!” Do I wish I were 80? Not exactly, but at 78, I’m at that awkward age – two years to go to the next decade; it feels like being in my “terrible twos” in reverse – an age of stubborn, obstinate, uncompromising behavior. I expect, at eighty, to be mellower – four score years old, an Octogenarian, eight decades on the planet, a respected elder.

 I have two years of no man’s land ahead, just another old guy stumbling along and mumbling to himself, getting no respect. When asked how old I am, I usually reply, “Eighty minus two.”  I get that eighty out there; it helps get me that, “Wow, you don’t look that old.” Lie or not, it’s good to hear. Tossing the eighty into the mix helps evoke it. It also helps that I still have hair on my head and that I don’t belt my pants halfway up my chest.

 You go through life, at least I did, in dread of entering the next decade. Turning 30 shocked me more than any other; I slid into my 40’s, 50’s and 60’s with only a day or so with a grimace on my face. Seventy was a surprise, nothing like turning thirty, but it did shock me a bit. It seems like I just got started through the decade and all of a sudden, I’m 78, two years shy of the almighty eighty. It’s a decade that is passing faster than any of the others. 

 I’m anticipating, that when I turn eighty, a serenity will settle in. “I did it! I made it to the promised land.” That’s what I’ll tell myself. I’m not wishing away the next two years. I know they will slide by unnoticed, one lightning-fast day at a time. But, when I arrive at eighty, it will be with open arms. Like, greeting a long-lost friend. But that’s another 100 articles away. I better get cracking.

 Comments, complaints? Send to -  mlessler7@gmail.com

Old Coot spots a fashion flaw. -Tioga County Courier 1/06/21 Article

 

The Old Coot is a fashion guru?

By Merlin Lessler

 This is a fashion critique. What does an old coot know about fashion? With pants belted at the rib cage, white socks with black shoes, a Mister Rogers sweater and the like? Not much. BUT, like the little kid in “The Emperor’s New Clothes” who pointed out that the emperor wasn’t wearing anything, I point out that today’s “emperor” equivalent are men in skinny pants whose legs are stuffed into a space that is too small for the stuffing. Like the story emperor, nobody tells them the truth either.  

  It started as a young person fashion, these skinny pants, but now it has gone mainstream. A nice look, I’ll admit, on teens and the under thirty crowd. But it slips off the fashion runway with older wearers. TOO skinny, is the problem. Men in suits wear the pants that bag up, above and below their kneecaps, creating a lumpy gnarled mess. Not bad for a waist up view, but not so hot when the wearer stands up and we get to see skinny pant legs.

 It reminds me of my junior high school days when the fashion rage was pegged pants. Pant legs tapered from mid-thigh to shoe top. They were so tight at the bottom you could barely get them over your foot. Some of the rich kids had zippers sewn in at the bottom so they could slide them on.  

 My parents wouldn’t spring for a tailor, which was the only way you could get pegged pants. They weren’t available off the rack. My mother said,” NO,” when I asked her to alter mine. So, I did it myself. But, not very well. My taper started at the knee and went straight down to the ankle. No taper at all; a perfect pair of riding pants for a horseman, which I was not. I tried to act cool as I strutted down the halls of West Junior High, but it was a hard image to retain amid the giggles, chuckles and finger pointing at my back.

 Now, 60 odd years later, I can do the chuckling at the men strutting around in pant legs all wadded up. “If you don’t have skinny legs; don’t buy these pants”, is a warning that should be attached to the merchandise. “Try the slim fit and see how that goes.” Enough said! Women in leggings is next on my fashion critique. If I’m smart; I’ll never get to it.  

 Comments? Complaints? Send to – mlessler7@gmail.com

The Old Coot's head is full. Tioga County Courier 12/30/2020 Article

 

The Old Coot’s head is full!

By Merlin Lessler

 This is an article that ran in February 2020. I’m using it as an excuse for the reason I forgot to write a new article this week. It was Old Coot Article #860; I edited it a bit, I can now claim it as Article # 907.

 It finally happened; my head is full. I can’t put another thing in it. I thought it would be names that would put me over the top, but it was numbers that did it. I discovered the issue when I went to the college swimming pool after a 7-month absence. I had to renew my membership to get in. “What’s your old entry code,” I was asked? “Uh… I think it’s Sink 21.” But no, that wasn’t it. I had to start from scratch: full name, driver’s ID. Then my code popped up – Sunk 76. I paid up and made it over that hurdle. It was similar to what happens when you check into a motel and they ask for your license plate number. I never know mine. We have two cars and I can’t remember which plate goes with which car. THAT’S A LIE! I don’t know either plate number. As I started this out, my head is full.

 Anyhow, I got registered at the pool, headed down the hall to the locker room door and punched 756 into the keypad; nothing happened; the door wouldn’t open. Wrong number? Back to the main desk, to ask if I remembered the code correctly. “Oh, we changed it; it’s now 648.”  Off I went chanting 648, 648, 648. I didn’t want to have to go back to the desk and remove all doubt of how much of an idiot I am. I made it in, got into my suit, and using a combination lock, secured my clothes, wallet and cell phone in a locker. My combination is 7-25-7 That didn’t come out of my head; it came from the back of the lock. I never removed the sticker that it came with. I knew, at some point, I’d forget it, and wanted to avoid going to the front desk, dripping like a drowned rat, to ask if the janitor might have a set of bolt cutters to cut open my lock.

 That’s the issue; all those numbers in my head. Three sets to go for a swim. Four digits to get cash from an ATM. Go to the doctor and be asked, “What year were you born?” Knowing your name isn’t enough to get you into the exam room. It’s not a problem for me. I may not know how old I am but for some reason, I never forget my birth year.  I guess it’s because I use it all the time to figure out how old I am and then gasp in shock.

 When cell phones went mainstream, society got a reprieve. The phones took over the task of keeping track of phone numbers. But, it only lasted a few years. Eventually, a new bunch of numbers to remember came our way. Now, I barely remember my own phone number. I can retrieve my childhood, five-digit number along with several others from that era. They are deep inside my brain, and apparently insulated from memory lapses.  

 We’re inundated with numbers and codes: ATM pins, Social Security ID’s, passwords, library card ID’s, license plate numbers. It’s a long list and a challenge to keep track of them. I hope I’m not involved in an emergency; even 911 is getting difficult to extract from that swamp between my ears. Think it’s not a problem for you? Have you dated a check or a document this year and found you wrote 2019 instead of 2020? No? Then your head’s not full yet. But it will be.

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