Good grief. I am home from the mall after making one of the biggest mistakes in the sisterhood of moms (the first being: never, ever assume anyone is pregnant unless she is actively giving birth in front of you).
I was at a store counter, returning some clothes that I had bought for my kids.
Clerk: How old are your kids?
Me: Four and eight.
Clerk: Oh, I have a 39-year-old. He’ll always be my baby.
Me, incredulous: You? You have a 39-year-old? (She didn’t look a day over 50.)
Clerk, not so friendly anymore: I have an about-to-be-9-year-old. How could I have a 39-year-old? I’m not even 39.
The rest of the transaction was, to put it lightly, very awkward. In hopes of reconciliation, I signed up for a frequent shopper program, but you really can’t come back from that one.
I’m sorry, Nice Lady.