The other evening I attended a book signing by my favorite author, Sherrilyn Kenyon. I had the kiddos with me, and they behaved fairly well. I think Miss Diva was intrigued by the concept that I know real live authors. I know more than a few, actually. However, I would not claim to “know”, as in talk to on a regular basis, the wonderful Ms. Kenyon. I’ve met her once before. Two cons prior to the last MidSouth Con, I moderated two panels on which she spoke, and got to eat dinner with her group. I was in fangirl heaven. She remembered that I was the woman with insanely small hands. She herself has small hands and finds it interesting on the rare occasions she meets someone with hands that are smaller. Add in that I’m several inches taller, and I suppose that means I have freakishly small hands. Hmm. Never thought about that….
Anyway, after the book signing, the kids were bombarding me with questions; a normal state of affairs.
Mr. Smarty-Pants: “How old is the lady who was signing books?”
I’m a fan, not a stalker, so I didn’t know off the top of my head. I did know that her youngest son (of four boys) was older than my eldest child. So, with that in mind I estimated. “She’s probably in her late forties, no more than early fifties.”
“Dang!” Mr. Smarty-Pants says. “She looks like she’s maybe in her thirties.”
I have to agree that Ms. Kenyon does indeed look younger than her age.
Then, ever the flatterer, Mr. Smarty-Pants adds, “But you look younger, Mom. I think you look like you’re twenty.”
I laughed. “It depends on the day.”
“Oh, yeah. ‘Cause like when you get up, you look seventy.”
Amazingly, Mr. Smarty-Pants is still breathing. I know, I’m a forgiving soul.