Sometimes we hang with this “young couple,” who mistakenly think, for some bizarre reason, rather-attractive-husband and I are hip and kinda cool, you know, for older parents. (It’s the nose-ring. It fools ’em every time.)
They keep us young, and we’re proof you can survive marriage and parenthood your own person.
Yesterday we had pitchers (plural) of margaritas and hung out in their magnificent, higher-tax-bracket-than-I backyard.
They have two wonder girls, 8 and 10 years old. I brought my own two of equal or lesser value.
While elbow propped on the edge of the pool, strategically keeping the boobs above the water line, enjoying the illusion of days gone by, the 8 year old swims over and begins massaging my feet. Serious, pedicure worthy massage. It was a little weird, but felt good!
“Thanks sugar! You’re amazing! Why the special treatment?”
“I give foot massages to people who don’t look like they’re having a good time,” she said. “And to old people, like my Nonna.”