I was at an outdoor event last night where I knew most of the people. Tasha was chasing Hugh and his bubble wand around when a middle aged couple walked up next to me and asked whose adorable child that was. Instead of saying, “He’s ours,” indicating Tasha, I just said, “He’s mine.”
It’s true. Sometimes I choose the short-cut with people I don’t know. Also, I made an assumption about them. They were in their 60s, wearing expensive clothes, had coiffed hair, perfect tans, and old school Southern accents.
A minute later, as we chatted, Tasha walked up and they said, “Do you two work together?” And I said, “Nope. She’s my partner, Hugh’s other mom.” I only take the shortcut route for a limited time because I’m way too old and beyond caring to outright lie.
I figured the conversation would find it’s awkward pause when instead, the man replied: “Did you get married somewhere where it’s legal?”
Taken aback, I said, “Yes, in New York.”
“Congratulations,” smiled the woman with the perfect teeth.
“Our daughter is gay,” said the man. “But she works for a big corporation and isn’t very comfortable about it.”
“Yes, she’s very quiet, I guess, about it,” said the woman. “Except on Facebook. There’s a picture or two.” And we all laughed.
“Aren’t the politics here just awful,” sighed the man with his Southern drawl.
“They could be better,” I agreed.
We sipped our sangria and watched the evening sky grow dark.
Sangria contest table at the event