The Joys of Not Being 13

This weekend I spent most of the weekend being grateful that I am not 13. Because, at 13, if my father had spent the weekend striding around Tucson with me in this hat:

I would have died. Not figuratively. I would have hurled myself off of the nearest structure, or started swallowing the contents of my purse in the hopes that it would kill me. As you probably surmised my parents were here this weekend. My parents, and this hat. Every time we left the house: "oh! I forgot my hat!" Anytime I complained of the heat: "would you like to wear my hat?" If he saw me putting on sunglasses: "I don't need sunglasses, I have my hat!" At one point he was wearing baggy cargo shorts half hanging off of him (he's lost weight, but lord knows he couldn't use that as an opportunity to update his wardrobe) a demin looking cargo shirt (yes, they make cargo shirts. By "they" I mean minions of Satan) that was not actually denim but some space-age technologically advanced fabric (did I mention the shirt was unbuttoned??) thick hiking socks pulled all the way up, and his fabulous hat. Women were swooning in every direction.

As it was, I was able to laugh it off. At one point I even tried on the hat in public. I made sure that I was laughing while trying it on to prevent anyone from thinking that I had actually spent my own money on this combination sun bonnet-Lawrence of Arabia turban-Australian bush hat. But at 13 you would have found me under the table of the restaurant wearing dark sunglasses and reading a guide to emancipation of minors.

I should mention that he also had the audacity to mock my purchase of some tasteful plaid capris from Express. They are very cute and fashionable, even though my mother, father, and husband made simultaneous gagging noises when I brought them out.

Cute, right? I thought so. I'll bet if they a 20 pockets, zip off legs, 35 straps and a matching headlight he would probably wear them himself.