“I don’t want to go with him,” my 17-year-old daughter said.
“Then tell him ‘no’,” I told her.
“Then he’ll think I don’t want to go,” she said.
“But you don’t want to go.”
“But I don’t want him to know that I don’t want to go.”
“Then go.”
“No. I don’t want to.”
“Then tell him.”
“You tell him I can’t go.”
“I don’t care if you go.
“But he doesn’t know you don’t care. Tell him you care.”
“I’m not going to tell him I care.”
“That’s because you don’t care about me.”
“I care about you.”
“Then why are you letting me go with him?”
“I trust him to take you out.”
“I know,” she sighed. “That’s why I don’t want to go.”
“Because I trust him?”
“The guys you trust are kind of, no offense. Mom, but they’re kind of boring.”
“No offense taken.”
“They’re so boring, it’s like I listen to them and my eyes go out of focus and kind of cross.”
“Not a good look on you,” I agreed.
“Would you go out with boring guys? Oh, never mind, you would. You married dad.”
“And I trust him.”
“That’s boring.”
“You should go with guys you can trust.”
“But I’m not getting married. I’m just having fun.”
“You can’t have fun with a trustworthy guy?”
“Not normally,” she said thoughtfully. “It’s not very exciting.”
“Then explain to him that he needs to acquire a few more corrupt characteristics before you will consider accompanying him anywhere.”
“Mom, you can’t tell a guy that.”
“Oh, my bad,” I mimicked their phrase.
She rolled her eyes and then moaned again. “I don’t want to go.”
“Then tell him.”
“He’ll feel bad.”
“And you don’t want him to feel bad?”
“No, just because he’s boring doesn’t mean he ought to be sad.”
“Then go.”
“I might have to,” she said miserably. “It’ll be boring though. Just like getting married or something.”