There are two things that God in His infinite wisdom intended for young people to wrangle. The first, of course, is toddlers. Who has the patience for marker experimentation on white walls, or endless repetitions of "why?" Not us old geezers, with our lawns off of which young'uns must get.
The second thing reserved for youngsters is low-slung cars. When we're young, we women assume that we look like the lovely Marion Cotillard as we slide lithely out of the back seat. We don't have those legs or that hair or those shoes and our purse is a quilted diaper bag instead of a black clutch, but we have that grace! That poise!
Or at least we have the panache of the guy getting out of this car:
This week Pearl is having some cosmetic surgery done. (A hailstorm did a number on her roof some time ago so it's being lovingly ironed and painted.) I'm driving Boy#1's car which we've been car-sitting while he and Lovely Girl are living in the nation's capital. The grandcar is much lower slung than Pearl and I remember now why I wanted an Escape rather than a Taurus when we were downsizing from the Suburban.
When I exit One's car, I look like this:
I apologize, people who have been seen me arrive at work this week. Please don't film it for YouTube--some things are just not fit to be seen.
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