So You’ve Been Mistaken for Your Kid’s Grandmother: What Now?

The Scene

Your son and his friend have just been out for a fun afternoon of swimming. It’s a new friend, so you haven’t yet met the family. The mom had offered, via text message, to take your son swimming directly after school and said she would drop him off after they were done.

Cool.

That gives you a little more time to work on the screenplay you’re writing about teddy bears in space. It’s a weird little darling of a science fiction project, you’re not sure will go anywhere, but you’ll never know if you don’t try, right?

You haven’t done your hair today because you’ve been so wrapped up in the scene where Sleepy Bear discovers psychedelic moon crystals and is about to get freaky with Fluffy Bunny.

You’re wearing a salmon pink hoodie you bought at the Walmart yesterday — it’s shapeless and makes you look about ten pounds heavier than you are, but whatever, it’s a comfy writing shirt.

The doorbell rings.

Your ancient dog hobbles over to the front door. You know you look like shit from the baleful way the dog stares at you. It’s as if he is saying, “I know my hair is matted and disgusting from when I rolled in that deer poo the other day, but you, my friend, could use some work.”

You ignore the dog because what the hell does he know anyway? You answer the door; your son comes rushing into the house, screaming about how much fun he’s had. Behind him is the most gorgeous woman you have ever seen.

Of course, long yellow hair pristinely folded up into one of those messy buns that you’ve never been able to successfully pull off. She is wearing a sweatsuit that is like, a size zero.

Comparatively, you are wearing your husband’s pajama pants, which are a little tight in the butt, accentuating your newfound love for chocolate-covered pretzel bites. And, of course, your salmon pink sweater.

“Oh, hello!” The mother says. So fucking perky.

But, wait, you think, maybe this isn’t the kid’s mother. Perhaps it’s his much older sister. There’s no way this can be …

“I’m Jacob’s Mom, Leslie,” She says, shattering your last ounce of whimsy. “You must be Granny,” she continues. “I’ve heard so much about you.” No pause to consider what she is saying; this bitch goes straight in for the kill.

Your son must have been talking a lot about Granny due to Granny’s recent visit. However, you know that YOU are no Granny. Your son knows it too. Granny is much cooler than you.

Your son looks at you awkwardly.

“Yep, that’s me!” You say because you feel like you’re in too deep at this point to correct the beautiful woman standing in your front entryway. That’s when the dog, who is still at your feet, releases his bladder onto the floor and all over Leslie’s track shoes.

It’s awkward for everyone, but at least it saves you from having to deal with this Granny business any longer. You apologize and try to wipe the urine off her shoes with your pink sweater that you’ve just pulled over your head (revealing the glaringly white muffin top that hangs lifelessly over your stretched-thin pajama pants).

Leslie, in typical Leslie fashion, graciously tells you not to think twice about it. Pats the old dog on his head, says goodbye to your kid and perkily hops down the driveway to her car. A fucking Tesla.

It’s a tale as old as time, and I’m sure anyone can relate to being called a granny even though you had literally just celebrated your 34th birthday and actually, come to think of it, you’ve been told that you look young for your age. Not to mention you always get carded when buying wine, and there was even that one time that homeless man made a pass at you, and he wasn’t half bad looking — although, he may have just wanted beer money.

Either way, you are going to be fine! This is fine!

All you need to do, to make this entire situation better is write a humorous story about it (trauma and humour go hand in hand after all) but shape it as though you’re trying to help the unfortunate souls that this has happened to, rather than try to laugh off the godawful truth that you may look several decades older than you actually are.

Also, sit on the story for, say, two years, then self-publish it so you can really soak up all of the self-loathing and bad feelings that you thought time had healed.

And PRESTO CHANGO, now the deep-seated horror of this event can live on the internet and the depths of your soul for all eternity!
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This post was previously published on MEDIUM.COM.

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