I experienced my first bout with angina at 28 years old while walking through a Wal-Mart parking lot one cold winter night with Liz, my former stepdaughter, who was a gangly 13 year-old at the time. A pickup truck full of men, appearing to be in their 20s, drove by us and honked, hooped, and hollered. At LIZ. Not at me. I’m sure their cat calls were for my precious 13 year-old because I donned the world’s largest, bulkiest, floor-length coat that night. Liz’s long legs were covered in skinny jeans, topped off with a cute puffy jacket.
Along with the curses I hurled in the direction of the pickup truck, I remember turning to Liz and putting my hand on my chest.
“Oh my gosh, it’s my first official chest pain.” Apparently the idea of my precious Liz being eyeballed by perverted men was too much for me.
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