Little boy toys are like Barbie shoes: nothing has its match, and there seem to be 80 pairs of one. Clutter had overtaken me once again.
“My house is trashed. Trashed, I tell you.”
I was being melodramatic, throwing myself across the kitchen counters, very reminiscent of 15-year-old me when I didn’t want to do whatever I didn’t want to do.
My mom (also reminiscent of the parent she was of a melodramatic teenage girl) didn’t look up from the computer. She said, “You’ll survive.”
I held my splayed pose and turned only my face toward her, with further drama.
“What?! I thought for sure you’d give me sympathy for this, after all those years I spent trashing your house.”
Still, she didn’t look up. Deadpan.
“That’s how I know you’ll survive.”