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"Rachel," I said, on the way over the next week. "Don't let him get away with that this time. Hit him on the legs with the ball picker-upper tube and tell him to help."
I sensed a doubtful silence emanating from the seat behind me.
"Never mind," I told her. "I'll show you how it's done."
I fumed about the unfairness of the situation all the way through the 2-mile walk I took during the first part of Rachel's lesson. If any puffed-up blowhard of a dad thinks that MY DAUGHTER should pick up after HIS SON, I told myself, then he's going to hear about it from me. I arrived back at the court fired up with righteousness, a post-menopausal avenging angel for all the indignities ever visited upon the fairer sex.
|Hillary would have known what to do.|
My plans were laid.
But, wouldn't you know, that wily kid was actually doing his fair share that day? I'm thinking that, in typical male fashion, he vaguely sensed the feminine fury headed his way. So there I was, left with noone to instruct on the nature of true gender equality.
What happens to a diatribe deferred, anyway?
[Tennis ball tube image: ExpertLaw]