It Depends

I'm in charge of the purchase and delivery of Depends for a family friend. I won't get in to too many details, but he needs two Costco-sized boxes a month dropped off to his nursing home. Mens size L/XL. I'm happy to do it. He's a nice guy, or at least he was when he used to know who I am. I get sort of a "what goes around, comes around" karma feeling when it's that time again (but I do put the boxes on the bottom rack of the cart to avoid unnecessary embarrassment at the store). He lives in a nice place. It's always spotless and the home-cooked food the nice Romanian couple doles out always smells so good. Then it hit me. Is this what I have to look forward to? Wetting my pants, living with strangers, eating all kinds of beef stews and sausages and watching church on TV for hours every Sunday morning?

I called Shana, hoping for a little support, and said, "Just shoot me, okay?"

"Deal."