I have mentioned Sista C. before but I have not mentioned the ways in which my association with her has changed me. That's because I didn't notice it until today. The transformation is subtle and incomplete, but significant. I'm happy to share the details of this partial transformation with you.
When I first heard about Sista C's practice of pulling her car up onto her lawn right in front of her front door I thought it was bizarre. Now whenever I pick her up I pull right up to the front door myself. It's just so convenient. It makes sense. "What are they looking at," I think as I ease up onto the sidewalk.
And I used to feel a little uneasy as I repeated the specific and somewhat fussy orders from Sista C. into the drive-up window at Carls Jr. or McDonalds. "No salt on the fries. Extra fry sauce. . . " But now that I have come around to her way of thinking I'm all, "Free senior drink please. . . what the! They're 42 cents now? When did this happen!" And then I roll my eyes at Sista C. and we shake our heads. Highway robbery.
However, I have yet to cross that final threshold into full Sista C-ness. This is most painfully obvious at the pharmacy. There may come a day--I hope so--when I will shake my fist indignantly at the pharmacist who won't give Sista C. what she wants for her diarrhea. But for now, it is all I can do to lean back into the driver's seat, glance sideways at the pharmacist, and utter a weak "heh heh" while she relays details that aren't exactly pertinent, but are, perhaps, helpful. I hope I get over it soon, because that's no way to live.