Exchanges
Judy Conlin
I bought all those new gowns for Nurse Judy for our country’s big birthday celebration, and she promised she would return the ones she didn’t use. I knew that wasn’t going to happen at the time, but I remained hopeful and have been nagging her to return some.
“Oh, I will,” she says blithely, “but I haven’t decided which ones yet.”
“You only wore one, and that was to church,” I say. “The rest can go back.”
This was probably not the best way to get her to cooperate. It made her remember that we went nowhere over the Fourth. “That was your fault,” she declared. “You have gotten old and don’t want to go anywhere out of your comfort zone. I am not old. I am in my prime, and I need to be free to enjoy life. You are dragging me down with you.”
“Hey,” I say, “you are the same age as I am. You are my alter ego. If we don’t start returning some of these clothes, it is going to be too late, and they won’t take them back.”
She grasps at this statement like a life raft. “I think it is too late already,” she says. “I guess I’ll just have to keep them all. I can’t possibly be the same age as you. Who says alter egos must be the same age as the other person in the relationship?”
“I can’t afford that many dresses for you,” I sputter, “and alter egos always are the same age as the real person, and there is nothing you can do about it.”
“There is some mistake here,” she says. “I am so much younger-looking and more vibrant than you. I can’t possibly be the same age as your old bag of bones.”
“As I said, you are my age, and there is nothing you can do about it.”
There is dead silence for a moment, but then she chirps, “There is something I can do about it, and I’m going to.”
“What could that be?”
“I am not going to exchange my new clothes. I’m going to exchange alter egos. I will pick a young, beautiful, sylph-like person, and I will be their alter ego, and you can just be your old fuddy-duddy self all alone.”
I had to laugh. “That’s impossible. You can’t trade alter egos like they are a pair of old shoes you want to replace. It doesn’t work like that.”
“How do you know that?”
“I’m smart. I’ve read about it.”
“I don’t trust you. I’ll research this myself.” She rushes off. Soon, she’s back. “Who should I ask?”
“You don’t have to believe me,” I say. “Go to the library, ask Alexa, look it up on your phone, look it up on your computer, or go to AI.”
She pouts, but she leaves for a long time. When she returns, she is discouraged.
“I’m stuck with you,” she says sadly. “I will exchange two dresses for something cheaper.”
I was hoping we could just return them, but I didn’t want to upset the applecart.
“Okay,” I say slowly.
The clerk at the shop was delightful. Nurse Judy was happy with some new sandals and a pair of earrings. I was happy with a $7.98 refund. All was well.
As we returned home, all was peace and calm. I began thinking about this exchange policy. Wouldn’t it be wonderful if they had a store where I could return a few items? I wasn’t thinking about material things. I’d like to exchange these old knees for a newer model. How about some slimmer hips? How about a flat stomach? Let’s just get our money back for all the extra flab, eye bags and wrinkles I’ve added over the years. It seems the only thing I’m willing to keep is my dimples. They’ve been good to me all my life.
I’m awakened from my daydreaming by Nurse Judy.
“What are you going to do with that $7.98?” she asks.
Reality returns. I know none of that can happen. I might as well enjoy this old, dilapidated body while I still can.
“Let’s stop at Dairy Queen for a couple of sundaes,” I say.
“Yum,” says Nurse Judy. “Make mine sugar-free.”
More later,
