Perhaps these particular type of indignities are increasing in frequency because it’s summertime and I’m wearing less, which, floppy, fish-white Formerly body be damned, I intend to continue to do. This morning’s pre-coffee atrocity:
Sasha: “Mommy, I think I see a worm on your leg.”
Me: “It’s probably just a thread from my shorts.”
Sasha: “No, it’s under your skin.”
Me (sighing): “That means it’s a vein.”
Sasha: “But why is it bumpy?”
Me (giving Sasha the are we really having this conversation? look): “Are we really having this conversation?”
Sasha: “Um, yes?”
I have no idea know why varicose veins, which I am indeed starting to develop, are bumpy. I’d prefer not to think about it. I could look it up and explain it to Sasha, feeding her insatiable intellect and perhaps planting a seed for a successful career as a vascular surgeon. Then again, I could learn Arabic, take the subway out to Atlantic Avenue, buy some falafel mix in the native tongue of the saleswoman and potentially do my small part to bridge the divide between our two cultures. Or I could make sure Sasha has sunscreen on, shoosh her out the door to camp, get back to writing my book, and never think about my varicose veins again.
Until Vivian points them out.