Being Shorts With Mom

(My father passed away shortly before Labor Day, so my mother [his ex-wife] and I have driven to Tennessee together for the funeral, and to bring back several antiques that he was storing for me after his parents died. All throughout packing for the journey, Mom has been insisting I pack shorts. I don’t like wearing shorts, and instead pack jeans.)

Mom: “[My Name], you’re going to burn up! It’s going to be just boiling when we get there!”

Me: “Eh. I’ll be fine.”

Mom: “Just one pair! You’re going to be miserable, and I don’t want to have to put up with your complaining!”

Me: “Whatever.”

(And wouldn’t you know it, for the entire 900-mile trip up there it is cold, wet, and miserable. I, in my jeans, am perfectly fine, while my mom is complaining about how cold it is. We are there for three days, and only on the day of the burial is it nice and sunny.)

Me: “’[My Name], please. Bring shorts. It’s going to be so hot. You’re going to be so miserable. I don’t want to hear you complain.’”

Mom: *laughing, and trying to sound angry* “Shut up. If you don’t shut your mouth, I’m going to kick your a**!”