And Bingo Was His Name-O
This morning on the way to work, my mom and I passed a sign advertising Bingo events for seniors. Now, I hate social gatherings, and people usually bore and/or annoy me. But I found myself with an intense desire to register for seniors' Bingo night (or morning, probably). Of course, this could be because I'm 82 years old. Or, perhaps, I'm just really excited about the idea of sitting down with a tape recorder and a camera and simply documenting the histories of people I've never met. I wanted to tell little old ladies that they looked exquisite and actually mean the words I said. I wanted to cheer excitedly when Gertrude won for the third time that week. I wanted to listen to John and Ed talk excitedly about the old days while their wives sat by and rolled their sparkly little eyes.
It might sound silly, but I was happily lost in this daydream for most of the morning. And then, as if Fate had heard the wishes of my heart, an old man stopped by the church office. He started off with the Batman / ribbon joke and transitioned seamlessly into a tale about Normandy. (War stories! How did he know? I love a good war story. Or even a bad war story.)
Here comes the troubling part. I woke up this morning at 5 a.m., as you might have read in the previous entry. I didn't die. I then had pleasant thoughts about interacting with other human beings. And I still didn't die. But a bug did bite me on the lip yesterday (okay fine, it was today, but that doesn't fit the storyline as well), which seems to me like sufficient proof that I am morphing into my own archnemesis — a morning person and a people person ALL ROLLED INTO ONE. Next thing you know, I'll be hosting a show with Regis and playing Scrabulous with Oprah on Facebook. You've been warned.