With my son in New York, my daughter and I have been shopping for her school clothes so he does not have to suffer the indignity of coming with. Further, we’re on the scooter most of the time, to enhance our good time.

“I told Izzy you were a girly-girl today,” she said. Izzy is one of her friends.

“Whaaaat? What makes you think that?” I asked. “Me? A girly-girl?”

“Well I am sorry, Mom, but it is what you are. I don’t mean to label you but you are wearing pink and I just want to help you accept your nature.”

“My nature? I am not wearing pink. This is melon. This is cantaloupe for Godsakes.”

“It’s pink, Mom. Pink I would not be caught dead in. Anyway, I told Izzy how you got a boyly-girl out of your body. Me.”

“Well I’m not going to argue. She’s your friend, so tell her whatever you want but this blouse is not pink.”

Later we were shopping sunglasses. My daughter just got new contacts in lieu of glasses and needs them sunglasses to ride the bike. She started trying on the big trendy ones…

“These are good,” she said wearing a big honkin’ pair of sunglasses on her face. They actually did look good. My daughter has a knack for putting her clothes together in interesting ways.

“Yeah, they’re good,” I said. “But they’re men’s glasses did you happen to notice?”

“So?’

“Oh. Okay, I see your point. Pick what you like then, I doubt you can go wrong.”

“No?”

“No. You have taste and it’s better than mine.”

“It is?”

“Well yeah. You shop at garage sales. You wear all this junk, you just pile it on and you manage to look fetching and interesting at the same time. People say so all the time. Do you think I can do that?”

“No.”

“Me neither. So pick your own glasses. I am sure whatever you pick you’ll wear them and if people talk you’ll just be that much happier. I’m just glad you are not inhibited and I hope you keep it that way.”

“Okay, mother,” she said with a smirk.

And then today. We were shopping pajamas and I held up a pair of pajama pants.

“Think these will fit you?” I asked.

“Let me see,” she said. “She grabbed the pants and stretched the waistband to wrap around her neck to measure. “Yep, perfect!”

I laughed. “What was that?”

“It’s a way to measure clothes to see if they fit. Someone taught me that at a yard sale,” she explained.

I snorted. “A yard sale? Oh for Godsakes. Someone told you that? That doesn’t work. You can’t measure your waist around your neck.”

“Sure you can, Mom. That’s how I measured a pair of pants I bought once. Pants that are now in the trash,” she added.

We both snickered.