My Incomparable First Wife and I were sitting in one of the large waiting areas, as I had begun filling out the forms for a first-time appointment with the doctor to whom I was assigned.

Then I heard “Francis Houston. Francis Houston.” It was loud enough that even I clearly heard it. (I had my hearing aids in.)

Once more “Francis Houston,” and then she saw me walking toward her. The look on her face when she saw me was one of, maybe surprise, or uncertainty.   It’s a look I see fairly frequently when someone sees that “Francis” is a man. And, of course, as I often do, I asked her “Did you know that Francis was a man’s name long before it was taken (and spelled differently) by women?”

She shook her head “no.” That was news to her. Then I asked, “You’ve heard of Pope Francis?” Again, a head-shaking “no.” Didn’t know that either.

She led me to where I was to answer additional questions of a first-time patient. I noted that she kept looking at me in a countenance of almost disbelief.

Looking at some forms in her hand, info about me gathered prior to my appointment, she said, “Is this really your age?” It was said in wonder and almost disbelief. I responded in the affirmative.

At this point, I was feeling a bit pleased that she just didn’t think I looked my age.

She even showed the form to a colleague who peered around a corner to take a look. She was impressed also.

“But I don’t act my age,” I said. Wasn’t that a clever remark?

Then, looking again at the form in her hand, she asked me, “When is your birthday?”

“F 15, 1939,” I responded.

Then, a smile broke over her face, erasing the look of incredulity that was so obvious.

“This says you were born in 1919, and that you’re 98 years old!”

Well, now. So much for my “I-don’t-really-look-my-age” ego.

I then said, “I’d like to think I would be back here when I’m 98.”

Maybe.