Last week, when I went to the dentist, I had a fun interaction with the guy who did my x-rays. Just to break the silence, he asked me the usual empty questions like “did you get today off in school?” so I replied politely “no,” and that I had graduated already.
“Oh. What school did you go to?”
All my life, I’ve had to mentally and carefully assess my answer to this particular question. There are two ways to go about it: “Citrus Valley Christian Academy,” which is the politically correct answer, but then people want to know where that’s located and blabi-blah. Or, “I’m homeschooled,” which has a 95% success rate of killing any and every would-be conversation, stone dead. It’s really quite magical.
This particular morning I didn’t feel like getting into it, so those two magic words were the ones that came out of my mouth.
He stopped, x-ray-chip-thingy-halfway-to-my-mouth-now-left-suspended-in-air, and looked at me. “What school?”
This is when I knew. We were about to have a moment.