Towards the end of last year, I was chit-chatting with this one resthome resident who has a (hammy) sense of humor, and he asked me how many people I had to help out during a shift.
"Today, eleven," I was like.
"A lot of guys?", he was like.
"Actually, no," I was like. "By the time you get to this age, it's mostly women, since the guys tend to be dead by now."
"Yeah," he was like, morosely. "The wives make sure of that."
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