I was, like, I can’t talk to you anymore
I came home for lunch today and Magda was quivering with excitement. No, Adam hadn’t pooped. It was much more momentous even than that: “It came! His tiny little passport is here!”
Two weeks ago we went to Ljubljana to toss ourselves through the various bureaucratic hoops involved in getting this boy a travel document, and today it came. We had spent the intervening time joking about how such a tiny baby should have a passport commensurate with his physical stature. But really we just couldn’t wait to see how cute the photograph would look when it was all laminated into an official document.
Later in the day I couldn’t resist showing the passport to a few acquaintances. One, who is not noted for her deep acuity, looked at the picture and allowed as to how it was pretty damn cute. “Yeah,” I said, “but I was kind of hoping that the passport would be [gesture to indicate postage-stamp size] teeny.”
“Well, passports gotta be a certain size, dudn’t matter what age,” she said.
I gaped only briefly before I walked away.
Once home again I recounted this to Magda, who has heard innumerable tales of obtusety regarding this person. “Honey,” Magda told me, “she must think you’re the idiot! She thinks that you think that babies do get little tiny passports.”
This is something I can live with. If really really stupid people think that I am an idiot, well, I can’t really see what’s so bad about that.
