Last night, one jumped out of my granddaughter’s backpack. A second had to be freed from the zipper.
When I recognized what they were, it was like running into a best friend from second grade.
“Great. Cootie Catchers!”
“What’s a cootie?
Etymology rears its morphing head. This is personal. It stings, like the upper-two-digit birthday.
I explain the Zen of cootie.
“We don’t have them anymore. This is a Hippy Game. Just like you, Gammy.”
I will not take the bait. I will welcome to another Japanese invasion. First came anime, and then Kendamas popped up, now an origami revolution. It’s welcome because I haven’t seen a child bent over an iPhone or iPad lately. At least not while they’re on the playground.
“Want to play?”
“Of course.” I try to follow the rules of Improv. Always say ‘yes.’
“Pick a color.”
“R-E-D. Now, pick a number.”
Fingers flying. A swift count to eight.
“Choose another number, please.”
I chose three.
She gently pulled back the number-three flap. “Do you really want to know?”
“Next Tuesday you will take me on a cruise to Hawaii. If you don’t, your novel will be rejected.”
I suppose you could say it was a win-win scenario.