a conversation with my mom

"look at my skin," my mom said to me, leaning in close to me and rubbing at her cheek with her fingers. "i'm using a new lotion, and it makes my face look good! no more wrinkles!"

i obediently obliged and leaned forward, peering at her face in the area she indicated. "yeah," i said affably. "your skin looks great."

"i don't look my age!" my mom said triumphantly. "no one ever thinks i'm fifty-blank years old!"

"it's because you're asian," i replied to her in an exaggeratedly patient tone, as if that explained everything.

"if you say so," my mom said doubtfully, disdainfully.

"it's funny," i mused out loud to her, kind of absent-mindedly. "at work, i tend to hang out with a couple of twenty-three year olds and one twenty-one year old. one of them asked me how old i was today when we were having lunch. when i answered him, they all said they would never have thought i was much older than them -- they said i act and look as if i were much more closer to their age!"

"we don't act our age," my mom said.

i agreed. "yeah," i told my mom. "you're kind of goofy."

"no, i'm not," my mom said, slightly affronted. "but there is no mom who is as fun as me, huh? there is no mom who does the things i do!"

"very true," i said reassuringly. "it's 'cause you're goofy." i smiled laughingly at her.

"no, i'm not," said my mom.

"yes, you are," i said.

"no, i'm not.