My husband is quite fond of his new-to-him cup that he picked up at the thrift shop the other day. He was sipping tea from it while we ate dinner recently.
I turned the cup to look at the 1776-1976 marker on the back, confirming that it had been part of our country’s bicentennial celebration back when I was a tender two years old.
Setting it back on the table, I commented to my children, “This cup is older than Uncle Aaron is.”
Before they were able to articulate the question, I answered it, “But not as old as me. Because… I. Am. An. Old. Woman.” Continuing on with my exaggeration of age, I then pointed both fingers at my face and addressing my daughter, said smugly, “Take a good look, because this is exactly how you will look when you are forty.”
“Unless I get plastic surgery. Did you think of that?”
My husband began to cry foul and Jane hurried to redeem herself.
“I mean. I’m sure I’d look much worse than you if I had plastic surgery.”
Surprised realization hit her eyes and then they fell to the table. She picked up her food and muttered, “I’m just going to be quiet now.”