I step out of my car and immediately see her.

She doesn’t see me, but I can tell we’re heading for the same place.

I pick up my pace. (Don’t judge me.)

She has to be at least 80 years old. (I know. It’s getting worse. Just stick with me.)

She’s moving slowly, but I’m farther away.

About ten steps from the finish line (a.k.a the front door of our bank), I break into a light jog. It’s going to be a photo-finish.

Yes, I’m locked into a footrace with an elderly woman.
No, I’m not winning.

And yes—this st...