Cliches: The perfect storm

I eyed the couple from across the store as they walked in. There was something classic, stereotypical about them. The man, sporting wiry glasses and a ripe bald spot supported himself with a wooden cane but still held the door open for his wife. Her hair was puffed up white in classic curls on top of her head. Her sweater depicted a kitten. 

Right away, her eyes spotted my elbows. Caked in at least 10 different flavours of ice cream with a few peanuts thrown in there, the sticky residue pulled at my arm hair and rubbed off on my uniform at the hips. “Oh ho!” she exclaimed, “I bet you have to shower pretty good when you get home!”

 Yes ma’am, yes I do.

Her husband stalked up the isles of freezers, musing over the flavours. We have more than 60. “There are so many to choose from! I'll be here all day!” 

Certainly sir, but I have faith in your decision making skills regardless.

After much deliberation, he settled on a small cup, ½ chocolate and ½ vanilla. His wife doubled the order. I scooped with fervour, topping the cup with a scoop worthy of the advertisement. 

“You must get strong wrists, working here!” he speculated.

Yes sir, yes I do.

“Oh, I don’t know how you can be here all the time and not just eat all the ice cream!” she said.

With difficulty ma’am, with difficulty. 

I handed them their ice cream. “Wow!” she cried, “Is that really a small? I’ll never eat all of that!” 

Yes ma’am, yes you will. 

“I’ll just go for a jog around the block a few times to work this off,” she justified, joking.

No ma’am, no you will not. 

They left with their ice cream, ½ chocolate ½ vanilla. I watched them go through the door, considering myself a better judge of character than I’d thought.

It’s always the seniors equipped with the best of the stereotypes….or maybe it’s the worst.