The night I betrayed feminism.
I blame it on old age, even older house, and a freakishly warm night in Scotland. If my house hadn’t been the victim of 150 years of floorplan fiddling, the loo wouldn’t have been at the end of the hallway and down a half flight of stairs. If I hadn’t entered such an advanced state of geezerhood that nocturnal visits to said loo are now the norm, I would never have been in the bathroom when we met. And if Scotland hadn’t been so weirdly warm, I might have been wearing something more than—well, what I wasn’t wearing—when she arrived.
But there I was, multitasking as I took care of my personal business while looking at my phone to
stalk check on my children*.
*[Don’t judge: 0-dark:30 in the UK is an excellent time to see what offspring in the US are posting.]
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