When I Grow Up

I believe that I’ve mentioned this, but the lady who’s in charge of the four-apartment building where I live is this little old lady named Maria. She’s about four-foot nine but acts as if she’s five eleven and owns the place. A couple of days ago, we went to tapas, and, I’m not kidding you, she got digits. Granted, it was the phone number for this middle-aged couple and their family who thought that she was adorable and wanted to invite her to dinner, but still.

Anyhow, a while back, she said the following (I’m translating here):
“When I get older, I’m going to stop doing this.” She was taking a bucket of laundry to hang on the roof, which is on the equivalent of the American fourth floor.

She continued, “I’m going to go live in an apartment building with an elevator, and central heating, and an induction range. I will do that when I am eighty-eight.”

By her accounts (which I suppose are the only ones that matter), she’s eighty-two.