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PARACHUTE CLUB
Yesterday, my daughter emailed me yet *again*, asking why I don’t do something more 'useful' with my time. 'What, lounging by the pool with a glass of wine isn’t useful?' I teased her back. She seems to love bringing up how I should be spending my time in more 'productive' ways.
She told me she was 'only thinking of my well-being' and suggested I head to the Senior Centre to socialise. So, I took her advice.
But later that evening, I thought I'd have a little fun with her.
I emailed her and casually mentioned that I had joined a Parachute Club. She responded almost instantly, 'Are you out of your mind? You’re 84, and now you’re jumping out of planes?!'
I told her that not only had I joined, but I had my official membership card, and I even sent her a picture of it.
Moments later, she called me in a panic, yelling, 'Dad, where are your glasses? That’s not a Parachute Club membership – it's a Pro*stitute Club!'
'Oh no,' I replied, trying to hold back my laughter. 'Well, this is a problem…'
'I already signed up for five jumps a week!'
Then, the line went dead.
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