Just like me

This cartoon has absolutely nothing to do with this post except that it reminded me of the lift chair of one of the residents where Mother lives...

Today I learned once again that the very thing we dislike in others is often the thing that we struggle with ourselves. I was reminded of this while chatting with Mother this morning as I hooked up her TV to the cable outlet in her new senior apartment.
"I have to tell you," she began, "that I can't believe how many of these ladies in their 90's around here have Alzheimer's!"
"Really?" I was surprised.
"Oh yes." Mother began laughing. "I was sitting outside with one of them--what's her name? ...I don't remember it...and she told me the same thing three times!" She threw her head back, wheezing with laughter.
"Did she realize it was the third time she'd told you?" I asked.
"No!" Mother continued laughing. "I just listened to it each time to see if she told it the same way."
"Did she?"
"I don't remember," she chuckled.
"What did she tell you three times?" I was curious, because Sam accuses me of repeating myself already. But I do it because I'm trying in vain to get a response out him.
"Well..." Mother stopped cold, staring at me, her eyes widening. "I don't remember what it was now!"
We both cracked up.
"Who is this lady? What's her name?" I asked.
Mother doubled over laughing. "I don't remember that either!"

I was glad Mother was laughing and not crying. She's become quite forgetful and is aware of it sometimes. It could be very hard for her.

Driving away later, my mind drifted to the time I followed a woman into the post office. She was moving slowly, leaning on a cane. Because it took several minutes to walk up the path to the front door, I was able to scrutinize her closely. She was wearing those kind of polyester pants that have the front crease sewn in. Only she had them on backward and inside out. There, down the back of her legs were these odd looking seams and then little fringes at the edges of her pantlegs where the raw edges of the seams were flapping back and forth with every step. I wanted to laugh out loud. Too bad I didn't have a friend with me. I could picture myself pointing at the back of this lady's pants and holding my stomach in mirth, my mouth wide open and my eyes crinkled shut.

It gave me a twinkle in my eye as I stepped up to the clerk and mailed my package. By the time I walked out the front door into the sunshine, the lady was driving off. How hilarious! That was rich! I could probably put that little incident into a sermon, lecture, or article. It was just too good.

I kicked a stone down the path as I tried to fix the image of the lady's pants in my mind's eye.
My gaze dropped to my right shoe. What's this? My right shoe was brown. My left shoe was gray. Where was my mind when I got dressed that morning? What could I have been thinking?
I could hear the crunching of gravel as someone walked behind me. Probably laughing at my mismatched shoes. I was no better than the lady with the inside-out-backward pants. I slunk to my car, mortified.

Isn't that just the way life is?