Carolyn J. Rose
Recently Mike and I were privileged to spend 24 hours with our five-year-old friend Tristan Stone.
That’s when we discovered that we’re crinkly.
Like most kids, Tristan sometimes seems older and sometimes younger than his age. He sleeps with a stuffed lamb and needs a little help brushing his teeth. Later he reminds Mike to wash his hands and tells us we should drink plenty of fluids before we go to the pool.
That’s where we found out we’re crinkly.
Tristan informed us he could swim by himself all over the pool. Visualizing his parents drawing and quartering me if anything happened, I made the case for staying in the shallow end. I made another case for one of us being by his side at all times, claiming the lifeguards would throw us out if we weren’t.
Tristan agreed, but told me he wouldn’t need me because he was a better swimmer. “I’m young and like a monkey and my skin is smooth. You might sink because you’re all crinkly.”
“Yeah.” He pointed. “Especially around your eyes.”
I refrained from the snappy comebacks I employed when I was a kid, world-class insults like: “Your mother wears combat boots.” or “Your father voted for Nixon.” I also refrained from sticking out my tongue because that would only create more crinkles.
After all, Tristan was just stating the obvious. Like it or not, I’m 67. And I’m crinkly.