Once again, Zoe has disobeyed me. Despite my heated requests and pleas and screeching beseeching, she absolutely refuses to stop growing up. She will turn sixteen this weekend and I am in the process of stapling my eyelids open because I’m scared that the next time I blink, she’ll be headed off to college.
And then down the aisle.
And then past the elevators through the maternity doors on the right.
And then down one floor to pull the plug on her mother whose last words were WHAT THE HELL DO YOU MEAN, I’M A GRANDMOTHER ALREADY?
Within thirty seconds of hitting sixteen, Zoe will be getting her permit and learning how to drive. On real roads. With real cars. So many cars that it might be construed as traffic.
All you drivers out there? Please do me a solid and hot glue rubber tires all over your cars because honestly, you can never have too many bumpers.
And all you pedestrians? Stay home.
Same goes for you bikers. And rollerbladers. And golfers who shank and slice and can’t keep track of your wayward balls.
Let’s make this easy.
EVERYBODY WATCH YOUR BALLS AND STAY INSIDE.
If you absolutely must go out, because you’re hemorrhaging or shoes are on sale somewhere, please please please, for the love of God, keep an eye out for Zoe. She’ll be the one in the bubble wrapped Honda equipped with supersonic strobe lights on its roof so that you can see her coming a mile away. You should then have plenty of time to get the hell out of the way as she will be approaching at a maximum speed of ten miles an hour, if my handiwork on the Honda was successful.
Zoe, you were worth every single one of those sixty hours it took to bring you into this world. Happy sixteen, babe.