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Yesterday morning, while contemplating the state of my affairs, I received a knock at the door. It came from an old man with large, light blue eyes. Not a complete stranger, this old man is the father of my neighbor. I opened the door to a new mess, the news about his cousin, his older, 80-year-old cousin, had accidentally backed his truck into my parked car.

Allegedly.

Downstairs I find the truck blocking the road, the 80-year-old cousin on the brink of a stroke and my car with a huge dent in the rear bumper. I surveyed the crime scene methodically, two cars, two guilty old men and me, in pajamas. The men were anticipating my reaction like an official statement –  and their directive whether to laugh or cry.

Being the pleaser that I am, I sent them on their way.

Seriously, what was I going to do with old and older? One of them was on the brink and I wasn’t performing CPR, no way, not with dentures.

Only after they had gone and I had the rest of the afternoon to think about it that I realized I was royally screwing myself. I was going to have to pay for the repair just because I am incapable of screaming at old people.

So I went downstairs and settled the score. I bumped into my neighbor’s car.

Allegedly.

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