Manufacturers of cups, plates, tables and picture frames have been tracking my aging process. They hate me. Yet, they want my money.
For all my previous years, we have gotten along well. They make stuff. I buy their stuff. It’s been a symbiotic relationship. Then, they turned on me – just about the time I turned 65.
Nine years ago, in a secret meeting room in a suburb of Chicago, they got together to plot against me.
Plate maker: “Let’s use our magic glue on price stickers and put them on the bottom of anything Don purchases.”
Picture frame maker: “I’ll stick my label right on the glass. I’ll turn up one corner so it will look like a no-brainer for Don to pull off.”
Table maker: “Hee, hee, hee. He’s getting old. He has those dull scissors he uses to scratch off labels. I bet he cuts himself on his wrinkled pinky finger.”
Cup maker: “Super. With his daily aspirin, Don will bleed on his new rug.”
Plate maker: “And the old guy has no idea where he put his box of Band-Aids.”
So, for nearly 10 years now, my house has been full of products with little white label leftovers securely attached.
I pretend not to notice them. And my Band-Aids stay in the top left drawer.