The last two shifts I worked, I felt not-good-at-all for the last half of them. My back ached, my knees ached, there was just a general ache all over. In a phone conversation with Susan (in California), I told her I halfway hoped I was getting sick, because I didn’t want to believe that hurting like that was just how it was now. I don’t mind getting older — hope to keep doing it for a long time — but I’d just as soon skip the inconveniences that come with it.
By the time I got home last night, I had chills … so, yeah, sick. The good news was that low-grade misery was not now the new normal; less desirable was that I spent most of the day (a day off, thankfully) in bed.
A morning shift tomorrow, then two days off. I might even get some writing done.
Last night, I had two customers in a row buy cigarettes, one waiting right after the other. I didn’t ID the first, because he looked like he was easily past forty; the second only looked like he was almost certainly old enough (but not absolutely definitely), so I asked for ID. He got indignant about that, demanded to see the manager, and complained about racial profiling …
Yes, he was black. So was the guy before him.
I don’t think those words mean what you think they mean.