In which a veteran of cultural studies seminars in the 1990s moves into academic administration and finds himself a married suburban father of two. Foucault, plus lawn care.
Earlier this week, The Boy’s baseball season ended, and the team went out for ice cream. The Girl and I had been at the game, so we went, too. While the team took over the inside booths and did the things that sugared-up eleven year old boys do, TG and I stood in line by the outside window to get our cones.
While we waited, a girl in front of us in line -- who knew TG -- offered her advice on what to order. I’ll call her Other Girl.
Other Girl: You should be careful what you order. A medium here is like a large, and a large is like an extra large. You should get a small, because it’s like a medium.
TG: A small is like a medium?
OG: Yeah, and a medium like a large.
TG (deadpan): So if a small is like a medium, and a medium is like a large, and a large is like an extra large, then a small is like an extra large.
The other girl looked perplexed. I smiled and told TG she had a good point.
After discovering the transitive property, she proceeded to make short work of a small cone that really was like an extra large, and then to arm wrestle -- successfully -- the younger brother of one of the players.
World, you have been warned. The Girl may be small, but in her way, she is like an extra large.