Gramma’s been telling everyone for the last month that I’ll be 29. They usually say 21? No! Says the gramma. Twenty NINE!
And then I go, I don’t think they think I”ll be that old, gramma. And gramma says, right, because you are young. I don’t think twenty nine is all that young, gramma. She says, twenty nine is young! I’m old! I’m seventy five! I don’t think you’re old, gramma. I am, says the gramma. I say, I like you just the way you are.
Then she laughs and I laugh.
This gets replayed often.
I don’t think the strangers care.
But it’s our thing and we giggle.
Three weeks ago, she was telling the pharmacist about it. Friday, it was the hairstylist.
Today, it’ll be everyone.
The gramma and I are making a day of it today, going to the outlet mall a hour away, and I’ll be taking along a chevron scarf and socks and who knows what else. Two hours of unfettered knitting time!
We will be eating lunch at a cafe she picked out special, and I already warned her I’m having dessert first.
