Reunited with family in Montreal, a younger sister-in-law helps to juggle our schedule. It’s important to see everyone.
“The only way to do it all,” she says, “is a triple header.”
“I’m 42, Lisa,” I moan, “I can’t do triple headers any more.”
And we all laugh because I am old now.
Once the hilarity has died down after a full twenty minutes or so, I realise I’ve misunderstood. By “triple header,” she meant three parties over three nights.
I thought she meant three parties in a day.
God, I’m smashing.
I didn’t let on about the confusion though, in case it looked “old” baffled.