My middle sister’s husband is a preacher.
On the first Sunday in June, his church has their annual Memorial Day service. Complete with bagpipes. I’m a sucker for bagpipes, so I go to the “First Sunday in June” service.
(Decades ago, two little country churches shared the same pastor, so one church had the Memorial Day service on Memorial Day and the other church had the Memorial Day service on the first Sunday in June. Even when this little country church got its own pastor, it still continued the tradition of “First Sunday in June.”
So, on the first Sunday in June, after the service, we were eating the pot-luck lunch. I was sitting across the table from one of the ladies in the congregation, and she asked if I was L’s sister. I said, yes, I was. (L wasn’t there; she was sick that day.) Then the lady asked me if I was her younger sister.
I was so tickled! I LOVE it when this happens! I feel sorry for my sister, but pretty happy for me. You see, I am seven years older than said sister! No, she doesn’t look old; I just look young.
And then, one day last week, at work, one of the customers who comes in fairly regularly, and talks with me, was suggesting to me that I go back to school and get my four year degree. (I just have a two year degree.) Then he said, what are you twenty, twenty-five?
I loved it! So I was telling a couple of my co-workers that this customer thought I was twenty-five. (This isn’t the first time this has happened. Customers often think I am in my twenties.) And my manager says, you aren’t much older than that, are you? … wait … we’ve had this conversation before, haven’t we? …
Just so you know, my manager has white hair and is balding. I am only five years younger than he is. He then told me that I look amazing for my age.