The Blizzard of 2015

I live an austere life. I don’t spend money for things I don’t need. When I go to a ballgame, I refuse to pay outrageous prices for hotdogs and a Coke. I wear most clothes until they look goofy or wear out. I don’t feel that I need to reward myself every time I feel like it. It sounds as though I am the Ebenezer Scrooge of the 21st century. I hope not. I am very giving in other ways. I contribute to my church every Sunday, I recently helped one of my sons out with a sizable deposit in his banking account in order to get him out of trouble and asked him not to repay the financial gift. I use grocery coupons and tell the Kentucky Fried Chicken and Taco Bell employees that I am entitled to a senior drink. In summary, I enjoy thrift. Therefore when I finished dinner recently and thought how delicious a Blizzard from Dairy Queen would be, I immediately began talking myself out of the idea, realizing that it was not something I must have. However, some voice inside me also kicked in, saying that it has been years since I had left the house in the evening just to purchase something I wanted. I soon found myself at the closest Dairy Queen, purchasing the most delicious Blizzard with brownie mix that I have ever tasted. As we used to say in South Carolina, my home state: I was right proud of myself.


About bobosbest

I am an 80-year-old retired English teacher whose writing goals are fulfilled by publishing these blogs. I have a wonderful married partner, Dimitris Tsitsiras, who is from Greece. Life is good and still an adventure.
This entry was posted in Uncategorized and tagged , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s