Dear Old Person
Dear old person across the aisle. You’re old. Nothing wrong with that. I very much hope to be old too someday. But I at least hope to have a modicum of dignity when I’m at your age.
I don’t know much about you but I’d put your age at around mid-70’s, and I can surmise that you’re either somewhat nostalgic or a spendthrift. You have a full head of thick white hair which is admirable for someone your age, and I’d call your glasses “retro” if not for the fact that you’ve probably had them since they were actually in style. Nothing wrong with that, they work for you. They’re even somewhat cool in a Michael Caine-ish sort of way. No sir, the issue I take with you is those tight blue short shorts you so proudly sport.
I touched on the questions of nostalgia and spendthrift earlier because as far as I can guess, the only reasons you could continue to wear those shorts is either because they remind you of a time when shorts like that were in style and presumably looked good on people, or you simple see no need to spend money on replacing a perfectly good pair of shorts that have served you well for at least thirty years.
But sir, please spare some thought to those of us who must sit across from you and be blinded by the sun glaring off of your spindly, pale, varicose-veined legs. It’s a long journey and I have food, but I’m too nauseated to eat due to your nose dripping, faucet-like, on the seat and floor. And I understand we all need to engage in some basic grooming, but I don’t think a bus is the place to clip your fingernails. Where are those cuticles going? I certainly don’t see you collecting them.
Sincerely, your fellow traveller.
Update: When we arrived at Union Station and he asked the driver something, “he” turned out to be a woman. I’m not sure if that makes it somewhat worse or not. At least it explains the full head of hair. Greyhound is a fantastic exercise in people watching. And it was decently cheap.