I’m Too Old To Sit At The Kids’ Table, Mom

A man sits at a dining room table eating with kids of varying ages.

Mom, we’ve talked about this! I’m done sitting at the kids’ table!

Look at Uncle Ron’s new stepdaughter Lucy, Mom. She’s just sitting there, picking her nose. And her brother, Paul? Don’t even get me started on Paul. He’s obsessed with Pokemon, but refuses to engage in any sort of intellectual discussion concerning the merits of the Charizard evolution. Just completely uncivilized.

Oh, you’re going to go there? You want to talk about that again? That was years ago. Jesus, you put straws in your mouth to look like a walrus one time, trying to keep things whimsical, and all of a sudden, it’s all “Derek, you’re thirty-two years old,” and “Derek, you’re ruining Christmas.”

The steak? That’s your other reason? Just that I sometimes like to have another grown-up cut my filet so as to not aggravate my carpal tunnel? And sometimes I need the crusts to be cut off my sandwiches due to the refined nature of my palette? That’s “kids’ table behavior” to you? Get a grip.

You want me to go sit by Mark? He’s seven, mom, and look at how he’s drinking apple juice out of a sippy cup instead of a Champagne flute like a civilized member of society. I don’t belong with him.

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