Stetson

I walked to the grocery store because I don't have a car. I feel pretty good about not having a car, but I seem to be the only one who feels that way. It was snowy and slushy and icy, all the more reason, thought I, to be glad that I don't have a car. The only slipping and sliding I have to worry about is from my own two feets.

There was an old man trudging through the parking lot behind me. He breathed like an old man. He was 60something, 70something. He had a wrinkly old weathered face and he wore a thin brown jacket. He wore brown pants too, really tight ones that showed off his surpringly plump butt. There were cowboy-style curley-somethings on his back pockets. He wore cowboy boots and a white cowboy hat, a tall one, that was not the least bit dirty. Someone in an SUV came driving our way, the wrong way down the parking lot lane.

"Yer goin' the wrong way, dummy!" the old cowboy yelled. The driver honked.

I laughed and I thought, yeah, you are going the wrong way, dummy.