A Wise Old Man Once Said...

When one has nothing to do, thoughts keep running, and little experiences can stick, especially while standing around to usher people for a football game.
So here I was waiting for people to ask me where their seats were while getting rained on a little bit. I noticed that 80% of the crowd consisted of senior citizens, which I thought was interesting. It made me think about what I would actually be doing when I reach that age, and what hobbies I would have. If I end up becoming a gung-ho blank-prided, American-football loving, knitting freak, cookie-baking granny, then I would believe that I must have succumbed to The Stereotype, and perhaps evolved as a result of marrying a southern white dude. It somehow led me to think, I would rather suffer in poverty for a while and have built character than live out the American dream, progressing prosperity to secure my comfort. Not if but when I am old and I am able to enjoy any event with my best friend, whom I also call husband, then I would have secured something a lot more valuable than standards or accomplishments. I thought perhaps, if I am able to do what I love and recognize God at the same time, I would have achieved a great more than the measurable and tangible products of knowledge or skill. Easier said than done.
In any case, as I was wrapped up in these thought processes, I turn around and see a little old man coming down the stairs towards me. He takes one step at a time, meaning, he waits for both of his feet to be on the stair to step down to the next one; kiddie style. Leaning on a cane, wearing a hunched back and a kind, warm smile, he asks me, "Are you a student here?"
I reply, "Yeah, I am," with a rather sheepish and hesitant smile. Standing right next to me, he's a lot taller than I had expected.
"What year are you?" he asks.
I say, "I'm a junior," all the while worried at where this spontaneous conversation was leading to.
"What's your major?" the old grandpa asks.
"Creative writing," I reply with a raised intonation at the end, as if I was asking a question.
"What was that?" he asks, and leans his ear closer to me.
I say, "My major is creative writing," this time with a little more assurance.
He says with the most welcoming and heartfelt smile a person could give, "Ohhh. You have a gluttony for punishment."
I laugh, without knowing why, and look down at my shoes.
He walks away.