Those are the words that try my soul.
They mean I’m in for a lecture on how I should, among other things, grow and cook and serve my own rutabagas. I should pickle my chives. Clean and alphabetize my garbage. Buy the world’s most exciting dental floss.
I should also be campaigning to fire somebody in charge of something. They’re all crooks.
I didn’t ask for advice, and I mostly don’t want it, but everyone’s got something to share.
Self-appointed advisers know how to cure almost everything that ails the human race.
Go by a construction site, and you may get your body assessed – for free!
If you wrench your knee, as I did, strangers will nag you to get a replacement (“my cousin loves hers”). They’re panting to describe the operation in gory detail, including saws and axes.
Strangers have grabbed my arm, even lifted me out of my seat.
Others assume I’m deaf and shout at me.
When I snarl to friends (what are friends for?), I’m always told, “They mean well.”
What if they meant ill?
Shudder.
