My friends and I were walking through downtown Lincoln, Neb., on a particularly sweltering night.
We had just come from a wedding, were dressed to the nines, and thought we’d take a stroll to see what the local nightlife was getting into.
A chattering group of little boys rode past us on bikes. They slowed down to give us a once-over.
“You all models?” one of them asked.
“Yes,” I said instantly. Because lying is what I do to children.
“She is,” Betsy said at the same time. “I’m her agent.”
Another boy eyed me critically as he rode past. “You don’t look like one,” was his frank assessment.
“Screw you, kid,” I responded. Because I am an eternal adult.
“Hey!” Betsy yelled at him. “Well, you’re riding a pink bike!” Because she is an adult too, apparently, and not above gendered slurs.