We are late for an appointment with the oral surgeon. Since I had been to the oral surgeon's office multiple times over the past year and a half, I was sure I knew where the office was and arrived just in time ... at the dentist's office. By that point, I had realized that I was at the wrong building, but since I had also forgotten my cell phone, I decided to go to the dentist's office to ask for directions to the oral surgeon. "Hi, I have an embarrassing question to ask ..."
After the very nice receptionist gave me directions, we drove for another two miles to the correct office. It looks vaguely familiar. My daughter and I sign in at the oral surgeon's office and settle in for a wait. Apparently, we both decide to read something that seems interesting, in small, sporadic doses. She picks up one of the I Spy books. I pick up The New Yorker.
As she searches away, she is stumped by one of the descriptions. "Mom? What does 'pot-bellied' mean?" I look over at the book, thinking it might be referring to a pot-bellied pig. I am a little surprised to see that it reads, "Find a pot-bellied man."
I think about describing what this means, and realize I can do this very quickly, with very little effort. "This is a pot belly," I say, pointing to the squishy, pillow-like gathering of flesh that looks like it is sitting on my lap.
"Oh -- okay," says my daughter, quickly locating the pot-bellied man in her book.
Sigh.
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