At my age, I don’t expect to get smiles or even friendly greetings from handsome young men who cross my path. And I don’t think I ever received whistles, even long before menopause. But a very unusual thing happened yesterday, and I’ve spent some time trying to understand the significance of the exchange.
I was standing at the gas pump at Sam’s Club, waiting for my big old Buick to lap up enough fuel to last for the week. At…..
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