A Case of "Freaky Friday"

My parents were picking us up for dinner at 3:00. 

I told my (teenage) daughter to be home WELL BEFORE then.     

I believe my exact words were:

     "I don't want you running in the house, just seconds before, keeping granddad waiting."


In the meantime, I had planned to go walking with a friend,
     and be home in plenty of time to take a shower and get ready for dinner.   

After our walk, however, my friend and I decided to go for coffee at the local Starbucks.  

     Which is where I was.

                                 When my daughter called. 

     At 2:40.

     "Be home in a few minutes!" I said, calmly.

I hung up the phone, and . . . . . .

     "It's 2:40 ?  OH SHIT !"  

There would be no time for a shower (which seems to be a theme, lately),
     and barely time to change my clothes and make myself look presentable.  

I raced home, hoping to make it there before my parents.  

I wanted to avoid the scene of my parents, waiting by the curb,
     as I show up (late) in my exercise clothes.  

Which I did, thank goodness.

I ran inside, washed my face, slathered on some deodorant, dabbled on some make-up,
      threw on a pair of jeans and a top, and . . . . . .

Voila!   

Just as my parents were "entering the building".   

I walked downstairs to greet them,
     where my very prompt, obedient,
and well put together teenage daughter was ready and waiting. 

     "Oh," said my dad ( to me ).

     "You might want to change your clothes. 
                      They don't allow jeans in the restaurant dining room."

This is where I thought to myself,
                                          somewhere during the last 24 hours,
                                                        my daughter and I have switched places. 

And I ran upstairs and changed.

                  Again.