|Pfff . . . kids!|
Men really don’t pay much attention to age.
At least the men in my life.
Not like women do.
Cases in point:
I had just turned twelve.
An important milestone in my world.
I could now go to 4-H.
And youth activities in our church.
Of course, there were drawbacks.
The price of admission to any of our local movies doubled.
From twenty-five cents.
But I was twelve.
It had taken me twelve long years to get here.
And I wanted the whole world to know it.
Dad was taking us kids to the movies.
And was in the process of buying tickets.
“One adult, three youth and three children, please,” he said.
“Da-ad!” I said. Loudly.
All eyes in the theatre foyer turned to us.
“I’m twelve now!”
“Oh. Are you?” I’m sure he was embarrassed, but he covered it well. “When did that happen?”
Kids aren’t tactful.
Even when they’re twelve.
Moving ahead several years . . .
My Husby and I were at the home of some friends.
Dinner was over.
The visiting had begun.
The conversation had turned to the inevitable - and painful - progression of old age.
My Husby and I were speaking from the advanced ages of twenty-nine and twenty-eight, respectively.
But our friends had both rounded the corner and were into their thirties.
My Husby was teasing the wife. “Well, speaking from the advanced age of thirty-six, you would . . .”
I don’t remember the rest of his statement.
But I do recall that the wife turning an instant and remarkable shade of red. “Thirty-six!!” she said. “Thirty-six?!” She got up and looked in the mirror. “I just turned thirty-four!”
Later I asked him what on earth he was thinking.
“Well,” he said. “I thought I was really exaggerating. You know? Over-estimating?”
Oh. Note to Husby. When over-estimating, REALLY over-estimate.
Missing by a couple of years is . . . dangerous.
Because - as it turns out - age, to women, is important.