Mundane For Breakfast

I live in a little town where the average age is pushing sixty or has pushed past and we haven't gotten the word yet from the officials. This morning, at a self-imposed, post-christmas, celebration, over a big steak, medium-well, “no blood, please”. I read the papers and overheard: “I can't breathe through my nose!” The breakfast conversation then segued to a mutual friend that had to have his jaw bone scraped because his screw-in tooth didn't take after the implant. The four, bent over their eggs and noodles, pondered how much air should put in the Posturepedic for a good night's sleep, and the realization that they had ordered stir fry for breakfast. Oh my gawd. The littlest and frailest lady remarked how she had missed a question on the driver's test because she hadn't noticed the tiny hand sticking out the window in the illustration indicating a right turn. This same woman drives a three ton SUV through town, with a pet Llapso under her chin as she maneuvers through mid-day traffic with a double latte in her hand. Yesterday, I ate my soup while listening to some geezer describe his eye surgery and the more graphic story about his friend that had his eye removed from the socket while they scraped the cancer out of the void. I dreamed of the days that people kept their intimate conversation to themselves, and excused themselves if they belched or made wind fiercely enough to make the silverware on my table rattle. I scraped some more lean meat from the bone and finished my meal.