And you'll never convince me otherwise, so don't try.
this year I'm going to tell you a story.
When I was about 7 or 8, my mom and flew to meet my dad somewhere. We had gotten upgraded to first class and I remember the glares of the businessmen (for it was all men) as we settled in. I remember being offended that these businessmen seemed to think I was going to act like a screaming baby, so I decided to show them how mature I was.
Instead of removing my Barbies from my tote bag, I decided to have a quiet conversation with my mother.
Anyone who has talked to me after a glass of wine should be able to imagine my 7 year old version of "quiet".
There'd been something I'd been meaning to ask her anyway, because my mom answered - or tried to find the answer to - everything I asked her. In the days before the internet, this took a lot of effort.
I don't think it made me the intellectual giant she was exactly hoping for, but I am fabulous at Trivial Pursuit.
In some commercial or magazine ad or comment in a book I was probably too young to be reading, I'd read the word "douche". I had no idea what one was and I couldn't let that stand. So, surrounded by scowling businessmen on a crowded plane, I began our conversation with,
"Mom, what's a douche?"
To my mom's immense credit, she answered me. . .albeit much more quietly than I think I'd ever heard her speak. I don't remember exactly what she said, but I do know she got to the gist very, very quickly. And then I think she gave me a new book that she'd probably been saving for when I was bored and whiny later on in the flight.
And I was more than happy to read that book, because learning about douches was not as much fun as when she'd explained what suffragettes were.
