Sometimes it is very trying to have an adolescent, but I don’t mean trying in the way you’re thinking.
Here is this...person who inhabits a body 27 years younger than mine, which functions perfectly with no everyday aches and pains and not a hint of cellulite. Plus, she works out just because.
If I hadn’t been present for her birth, I’d say there’s no way she’s my child.
The other day, I mentioned that at the gym, I had done some of those walking lunges. We were walking down the hall toward the living room, and she was behind me.
“How many?” she asked, interested.
“I didn’t count. I only did the length of the track once. I’m really sore now.”
“You only did one straight side? One time I did 100 of those in my room just because I was bored.”
A second later she was laughing hysterically. “Right after I said that, I fell down!” (We have a sunken living room and she missed the step.)
“Serves you right!” I said. “Making your mother feel old and decrepit goeth before a fall!”
She was gracious enough to understand my reference and laugh at herself.
(And the oh-so-graceful falling? Yeah, she is my daughter after all.)