“Oh such a pretty girl. Such a gorgeous girl. What a beautiful girl.”
— My grandma, over and over, while meeting her great grandchild for the first time today.
He’s a boy.
We went with it, though.
There is a staff photo wall in our school, with pictures of staff members partaking in activities they enjoy. My photo is an action shot from the NYC half marathon I ran.
Kid: “Ms. Emily, you look different in that picture on the wall downstairs.”
Me: “I know, I look super tough and athletic right?”
Kid: “No. Just younger.”
Then I ripped up the paper he was working on and flunked him.
“Because she was standing there, inches away from me in the greeting card isle at CVS, looking at birthday cards and whining about how old she feels now that she and all her friends are turning 23.”
— me, in my statement to the police, when they asked why I decided to punch this random stranger in the face.
Kid: “How old are you? You look late 20s.”
Me: “You’re my new favorite person!”
Kid: “How bout Miss [coteacher]? She looks younger than you.”
I hate you.