This morning I went on what will probably be the last run before my triathlon.  The alarm woke me at five a.m. so I could meet my friend and running partner by six in order to beat the oppressive heat hanging over Chicago.  Bleary eyed, I reached into my drawer and slipped on the first thing I laid my hands on – an old pair of black Nike running shorts and my requisite white tank.  A few sips of coffee, a splash of cold water on my face, a quick braid and I was out the door.

I returned, sweaty and exhausted, to find my daughter sitting in the kitchen eating her breakfast, regarding me with a puzzled expression on her face.

Hannah: Where did you get those shorts?

Me: I have no idea, I’ve had them forever.

Hannah: Why is the waist band so high?

Me: Not sure, they were made a long time ago.

Hannah: You should at least roll the waist band down so they don’t look…like that.

Me: I’ll remember that next time.

Hannah: Who were you with?

Me: Mrs. Roemer.

Hannah: Where did you run?

Me: Mrs. Roemer’s neighborhood.

Hannah: So it’s POSSIBLE that somebody saw you.

Me: Alright, in the goodwill pile they go.

I should have known this day would come.  Being embarrassed by your parent in some way or another is a rite of passage, isn’t it?  I remember once begging my mother to please not stand on the front porch in her fuzzy pink bathrobe and wave to me as I boarded the bus.  For some reason, I just didn’t see today’s pink bathrobe moment coming.  Shopping, anyone?