If you’ve been reading this blog for a bit now, you’ll know that I love to tell about my Babcia, partly because I adore her, and partly because she’s hilarious. (You should know that she’s a strong, independent woman who looks like a cross between the queen of England and Barbara Bush.)
I met her for a recent cardiologist appointment, as I tend to do. (Don’t be jealous: I also take on dentist appointments, periodontist appointments and, if my mom isn’t able to join her, any other astonishingly fun medical outings that find their way onto our schedules. We’re a wild bunch of women.)
When I went to assist her down the steps of her living facility’s shuttle bus, where the amazing Kiko had driven her someplace other than the Dollar Tree, pedicurist and Winn Dixie this week (don’t judge… Kiko is amazing!), she proclaimed, “I don’t need help. Don’t treat me like I”m old.”
Again, let’s revisit the fact that she’s 91 years old, but admire that she doesn’t FEEL 91 years old, and still dresses with more pizzazz than I do on any given day.
The woman wears Jones New York suits to Publix, folks.
Fast forward to the end of the appointment.
Upon being asked to “hop down” from the exam table (seriously?!), the nurse left the room. Babcia looked at me, and we both knew there’d be no hopping. I’m fairly certain all hopping ended years ago.
With that, I helped her as she sat up and she put on her brilliant royal blue jacket. I carefully helped her off the exam table, her little legs dangling off the edge, and looked her right in the eye.
“I’m not helping you because you’re old,” I said to all 5’2.5″ of her. “I’m helping you because you’re short.”
And with that, we were both in stitches of laughter. She’s totally fine with that. Just don’t call her old.