I realize now that one person’s headache is easily another person’s humor.
Which is what my son provided first for me and then the gray haired lady in Fred Meyer who clamped her hand to her face in the jacket department as my son, still sniffing the wilted basil leaf he’d found ten minutes earlier near the tomatoes, spanked the bottom of the mannequin posing in a discounted coat.
The woman gasped. Then howled.
I looked up. At which time my blushing son slunk past me to hide in a display of sweaters.
The woman was still snickering when our carts exchanged ‘hellos.’ “I needed that,” she said. She mimed the swat with her hand.
Then before I knew what words to say, she wiped her eyes and walked away.