Today I found myself conversing with a 13 year old. “How old are you?” she asked.
“I’m…old.” I sighed.
“How old,” she thoughtfully demanded.
After I revealed my age, she responded, “You don’t look like you’re over 18.”
I was rather pleased.
Then she asked her next question: “Can you drive?”
“Well yeah.” Her eyes lit up with such delight I felt compelled to let her know that I can drive and I have a car.
“My car’s over there,” I said nonchalantly, pointing to my car in the parking lot. I knew actually seeing the vehicle would impress her even more. The car would do all the talking.
“The Benz?!” she responded, wide-eyed, clearly astonished with the black convertible Mercedes Benz, glistening under the bright sun. It was sunny out, so the top was down, showing off its sleek, leather interior.
“No no, the Toyota right next to it. A beacon of stability.” I boasted. “Plus, I can go up to like 60 mph in that thing, which is 5 over standard speed limits. If you could drive, you would know that’s really fast…. It’s illegal to even go that fast. So I wouldn’t. But the point is, I could.”
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