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?