I was out for a walk alone yesterday when I bumped into my postman — we’ll call him “Benedetto” to protect his identity — and after exchanging the requisite “Heyas,” he asked me how my “Old Lady” was doing.
I stopped for a moment and wondered if he was talking about my mother.
Benedetto is an older Black guy ready for retirement after 37 years of service, and I’m a little younger and a Pale White Boy.
“My Old Lady?” I asked back.
“Yeah! Your WIFE!,” he shouted back at me, even though we were less than a foot apart.
I told him using the “Old Lady” moniker for my wife would likely get him a punch in the stomach — not from me — but from my wife!
He laughed and said, “Everyone calls their wife, ‘Old Lady.'”
I told him I thought we were experiencing a cultural disconnect — because people I hang out with would never call their wife an “Old Lady.”
Benedetto laughed from his gut, “Okay, so how’s the ‘Young Woman?'”
I laughed back and smiled, “Now that will get you a kiss on the cheek — not from me — but from my wife!”