Wednesday, September 23, 2015

64. Laughing at Myself
That night I was sitting in my recliner, working on the laptop.  I heard a car horn.  My daughter came bounding down the stairs in short shorts and a bikini top.
Seeing the stunned look on my face, Blondie said, “Daddy he’s twenty-seven, he drives a Mercedes, and he’s going to show me his parent’s lake house. Don’t spoil this for me.” With that she flew out the door.
I dropped the laptop, struggled out of my chair, and burst through the door.  All fear of incarceration left me as I prepared to dismantle Mr. Didn’t-ring-the-doorbell-too-old-for-my-daughter-lake-house man.
What did I find? No Mercedes, no twenty-seven year old, just Brat Boy with a camera.
“OMG – the look on your face,” he said, not recognizing the danger he was in.  He showed my daughter the camera’s display.
“Gotcha so bad!” Blondie said. “I told you I’d get you for pushing me off the couch.”
I took a deep breath, glared at my children, then looked at the display. I couldn’t help but laugh at myself.  I was grateful I could. 

Today I will be grateful when I can laugh at myself.

Writing My New Story © 2015 by Ken Montrose

(Just a reminder: Writing My New Story is a work of fiction.  Any resemblance to anyone you might know is purely coincidental.)

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