Where Are You Going?

When Bill and I go to the pool, we put on our swim suits and Bill throws on a tee shirt and I don a swim cover up. We have our beach totes and an armful of colorful beach towels. And, as we walk through the living room, heading for the garage, our flip flops happily flapping, Mom always asks, “Where are you going?”

Bill usually rolls his eyes and keeps flip-flopping toward the garage. I always respond over my shoulder, “To the pool.”

As we get into the car, Bill always says, “When will she figure out that when we’ve got on bathing suits and we’re lugging towels and beach bags, we’re going to the pool?”

I always respond. “She hasn’t figured it out yet, so she probably never will.”

When Bill and I go to the gun range, we always have our gun bags, which are neither small nor unobtrusive. They’re large black squares with red trim and measure a generous 16 x 14 x 8 inches and expand even larger when they’re full of gear. They can’t be confused with a purse but, apparently, can be mistaken for luggage. The first time we carried them through the living room on our way to the car, Mom became noticeably concerned. Her normal, mildly curious question of “Where are you going?” took on a decidedly alarmed tone.

“To the gun range,” I said.

“Oh, okay,” came her obviously reassured reply. “I thought you were going away somewhere.”

“No, Mom, these are our gun bags, not overnight bags.”

“Well, good, that’s a relief.”

Now, whenever we leave for an hour of stress relief at the range, she still continues to ask, “Where are you going?” but there’s no longer any panic in her voice. I’m guessing she remembers we aren’t toting luggage, she just forgets – or chooses to forget – that the bags hold our guns and ammo. She also doesn’t take the hint from the three foot by two foot paper targets that flap in our wake as we make our way through the living room and dining room and out of the house.

And when we get into the car, Bill always asks, “When will she figure out that when we’ve got our gun bags and targets we’re going to the range?”

And I always respond. “She hasn’t figured it out yet, so she probably never will.”

Now, who’s crazier? Mom, because she can’t connect that a beach bag and bathing suit implies pool time, or that gun bags and big targets with bulls eyes stamped on them means shooting at stuff? Or Bill, who keeps asking the same questions and expecting a different answer? Or me, who keeps pretending it’s a new question and keeps giving the same answer?

Frankly, I believe that, in our own way, Bill and I are just as wacky as Mom and probably shouldn’t be allowed anywhere near deep water or guns. I think we should just drive to a secluded tropical island somewhere and live on Pina Coladas, fresh seafood and love.

island



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