For some reason, I notice I have a spring in my step this morning. It’s as if I’ve been depressed for years and my new medication is starting to work. I’m whistling as I walk. I’m hearing birds chirping outside, singing songs of happiness. I have purpose. I have ambition. My god, I haven’t felt like this in a long time. It’s the same feeling I get when I’m down south at an all-inclusive resort. It’s a real-life Irish Spring commercial.

Then Georgia suddenly appears in front of me in the hallway, dressed to the nines, and says, “Dad, I need you to drive me to the soccer complex at 8:30. I’m meeting the girls there and we are watching a boys’ soccer game at 9:00.”

“Why are you dressed like you are going to the prom at 7:45 in the morning?” I ask her.

“Hardly. Anyway, please don’t drive anyone anywhere until you drive me first.”

“Sure, Georgia. I’ll just stop the presses for Vicki Vale.”

“Who?”

“Never mind. She was a character in Batman and—“

“Dad, seriously.”

“Well you asked. Anyway, I can’t drive you anywhere because I have to take Lucas to the library. You’ll have to ask mom, or see if Molly-Jo can drive you.”

“What? No. I told them I’d be there and you could drive us.”

“And you checked with me, when, to see if all that was doable before you told them?”

“Ugh. That’s not the point.”

“Yes, Georgia, that’s a pretty big point.”

Please, somebody shoot me. I can’t hear birds chirping anymore—they’ve probably all being eaten alive by teenage girls.