Monday, April 06, 2009
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The text buzzed me while I was in a cubicle filled with students looking for help on their English essays.
My daughter was in school, but that never seemed to interfere with her ability to text. The trick, she'd told me, was to look straight at the teacher and the teacher would never glance down to see my daughter's hands busily pushing keys on the bright purple phone.
I couldn't wait to find out why my normally subdued daughter used a word as effusive as "great." Must have been bomb scares and fire drills that kept them out of class all day.
"What happened?" I texted back while feigning interest in an especially scintillating narrative that compared life in a nearby suburb with the gritty toughness of our community college.
"We had awards in French club and I won best legs!!!"
I pictured the high school boys sitting in their wooden desk perusing the girls legs as they jutted from beneath the desks. And even though I knew she'd worn jeans that day, I suddenly pictured her in the plaid shorts that ended high on her thigh, her legs pale and bare as the boys raked them with their eyes before casting a vote for her.
I felt protective, but, as someone whose legs resemble Greek columns more than sexy gams, I was a little proud. My daughter, standing nearly five inches taller than me, and those five inches all in the legs, would never have to hem pants or settle for ones that fit tight in the thighs and loose around the waist. Best legs.
The phone vibrated again.
"Oh, I was nominated for National Honor Society too. Love you."
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