Bananas. They’re so funny. I just heard a story about someone who feels called to deliver bananas to old people in nursing homes. Not apples. Not oranges. Just bananas. Oh, the implications. I nearly did a Danny Thomas spit-take, and I think the story-teller would have understood. My great-grandmother would have understood. Old people are funny, too. I look forward to being funny like that. It will be a nice way to wind down this crazy life. I’ll be the same ‘ol me doing the same ‘ol things, but I’ll be old, so when I eat a banana the same ‘ol way, it will be hilarious. I’ll guffaw the loudest, probably inside, because on the outside I will be my same ‘ol dry witted me. I’ll still hold the banana up to my ear and pretend to make a call. It will be cute instead of stupid then. I’ll display it under my nose like a big yellow grin. I’ll make a crude joke with it and feel insulted when everyone laughs like I shouldn’t be sexy anymore. Or maybe I’ll still be sexy like Mamie Van Doren, and they’ll laugh awkwardly. From inside my aged body, I will hear their patronizing tones, and I’ll think about how surprised they’ll be when they are in my banana slippers. I’ll feel young, so young that when I pass a mirror I won’t know who that old lady is. Bananas will keep me young, not the fruit, the attitude. So here’s to all the banana ministries out there. And the moral of the story is, don’t question your calling. Somebody needs your bananas.