Last night I had dinner with my daughter. One of our rituals is to compare our busy calendars to plot out our future get-togethers. Hers was somewhat crammed, thanks to extended visits to Mexico and a Colorado mountains ski resort. “Mexico? You’ve got to be kidding.”
“My friends have been talking about going forever. Now’s the time. It’s cheap.”
“So is Kabul, but you don’t see anyone rushing over there.”
“We’re staying in a tourist area. They’re giving big incentives and making sure everything is cool to bring business back.”
“The people spraying the lead around aren’t with the convention & visitors bureau. They probably didn’t get the memo.”
“Whatever.”
“And this ski trip, is that with what’s-his-name? The guy who studies his shoes every time I look at him?”
“Couldn’t have anything to do with you calling him what’s-his-name or the way you stare at him.”
“Why’s he got to drag you off to Colorado?”
“Because I said I’d like to go skiing there this winter. I’m sure you did what you wanted at my age.”
“I wasn’t running all over the place.”
“Your choice.”
“Not really. I was changing your diapers.”
“Like I said, your choice. And, you were complaining about granny questioning your choices.”
She’s right. I’m turning into granny.
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