intervention

“You know those 80 year old bird women who rattle around on their porch and throw things? Well, if you’re not careful. That’s gonna be you.”

She doesn’t say a word, so I know she’s listening.

“I’m serious. You’re headed down a slippery slope, lady. Full of cat hair, senility and tinned fruit.”

She’s staring at me. Head cocked. Lips pursed.

“What are you going to tell your grandchildren when they ask why grandma’s snarling at the post man. Or why she’d rather drink vinegar from a half-gallon jug than stop by their birthday party.”

She’s not liking it. ‘Talk to the hand,’ she’s thinking. She’ doesn’t say it. But she’s thinking it.

“It’s time for an intervention. You’re still an attractive young woman. Life doesn’t end with divorce you know.”

It really doesn’t.

“Now. Let’s go shopping for Sarees and we’ll talk about men. I’ll even let you buy me dinner.”