A few days ago I was killing time with a bunch of other
gray-haired people. We were at a local library waiting for an event to
begin, and we were talking about recliners.
That is, everyone else in the group except me was talking about
recliners. I was out because I don't own a recliner. I always
figured that I could slouch very well in a chair without needing a levered
contraption to help me. And one time I sat in a vinyl-covered recliner
whose surface was so slick I thought I was going to slither down to the floor.
But ownership of a recliner was unanimous among the rest of the
group—one man owned two—and they lauded the values and comfort of the device.
So, based on a limited sample of available old people, it appears
that a person must have a recliner to really be considered old.
Or maybe not.
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