CurfewPosted: October 17, 2011
Okay, so it isn’t bad enough that Bill and I have lost our jobs, are apparently too old to be hired by anyone else, have lost our home, declared bankruptcy and are now living with my 86-year old mother. No, this isn’t humiliating enough. Now we have to put up with being grilled before we go out, after we come home, and face the possibility of having a curfew. Bill is so frustrated by this, he’s living vicariously through his new deodorant, which touts a scent of palm trees, fresh air and freedom.
Whenever we leave the house we have to answer the question that is the bane of teen-agers everywhere: “Where are you going?” And when we get home, we have to answer the same question in reverse because Mom forgets what we told her when we left. And we don’t dare stay out past ten o’clock. We tried it recently. We went out to dinner and our annual movie excursion and didn’t get home until 10:20. Mom was waiting up for us.
“We went to dinner and a movie, Mom,” I said. “And it’s only a little after ten.”
“Well, I was worried about you and I couldn’t go to bed. Maybe you should go to earlier movies from now on,” she suggested.
“Considering we only go to the movies once a year, we’ll keep that in mind,” Bill grumbled.
She snorted once and toddled down the hall to bed, flicking all the lights off as she went. Bill and I stood in the dark, looking in the general direction of each other and he asked, “Does this mean we have a curfew?”
“I suppose so, honey,” I replied. “I guess we’ll have to sneak out after she goes to sleep. Maybe she’ll think it’s just people who talk outside her bedroom window at two o’clock in the morning.”