Scene: a coffee shop, ordering cookies for the kids. The kids were “exploring.” I like to call it a “controlled explosion.” Other people might call it running rampant. Whatever. Nothing broke. (This time.)
Me: “I’d like a blue and pink fish cookie and a pink flower cookie. Or purple, whatever you have.” So far, so good. I had rehearsed it beforehand and was quite pleased with the clarity of the delivery – these sorts of orders have a hair-trigger and can blow up in your face at any time.
Counter-intelligence (smiling, of course): “Aren’t you a bit old for that?”
Me (in store): “No.”
Me (just out the door):“Oh, right. I’m too old for the cookies. Next thing you know, my kids are too young for scotch and soda.”