I was recently at a store picking up some medicine for a sickly person in my household where I had the "pleasure" of being attended to by a rather scary older woman. Now, I have to say right away that a lot of old people freak me out because, let's face it, some of them age badly and look like mere sacks of strained skin clinging with all they have to bone. While others of course, age very fine, like Sean Connery or the KFC Colonel. This particular person was of the first variety and looked like the newly risen undead from her ancient tomb, only with big afro hair. Ordinarily, I like afros (hell, I even enjoy the undead from time to time), because I have a respect for things that are so much larger than I am, but this was one case where I just didn't feel the same.
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None of the previously mentioned topics is why this trip was disturbing, however. You know the idea that fingernails continue to grow after you've died? Well, her being the newly risen undead and all, I think this proves it. They were an inch long sticking off of her finger tip, at the very least. Now, I know some might think "perhaps they were fake" and I'd agree, except they had that neglected, real fingernail look to them. If they were in fact fake, I believe she'd be best off firing the person who did it, as the moldy yellow color of them isn't exactly flattering. She needs to be stopped before they set little fake diamonds and stars on them.
I've always held a certain emnity towards fake fingernails since, quite frankly, they look retarded, and I just prefer real ones instead. After today, it is apparent that I prefer not only real, but short ones. Oh, and non-yellow.
Sure all of this bothered me, but I was to be in and out, so it really couldn't influence my day much (besides the nightmares that are coming tonight). It's not like I had to shake her hand to complete the transaction (and if I did, well, the sick person in my family would just have to fall into an unfortunate state of death) and I could avoid looking at her goblin hands much like the way you avoid looking at people who scratch themselves while talking to you (no wonder people didn't look me in the eye back when I was in high school).
The problem arose when I turned to leave, and had evidently left my car keys on the counter. Rather than call out to me, she said "excuse me sir" as she laid a hand on my shoulder, while still being a good five feet away. Now, I'm not the authority, but it was very much like I imagine the cold, life-less hand of Death reaching from the darkness beyond would feel like. Only rather than the bony hand of Death, it was the pokey, much scarier, clawed hand of some crazy old woman. I'd like to claim I didn't jump like a little kid, but I hit the roof. I suppose I should be thankful, but it's not like I'd have left without my keys. I mean, it's twenty feet from my car to the counter, and I drove to the store as it is. Not much detective work would have been needed to locate them.
The big problem I have with her having remind me is that it's not unlike Death reminding you. "Hey buddy, don't forget your car keys...BWAHAHAHAH!" You just know there is a hidden reason behind it.