It takes so little to make me and my son laugh uncontrollably. Last month, for example, we were in Miami. Our friendly bellhop gave us a lot of excellent hints. Here is our favorite:
"There's a stool in the bathroom."
My husband, who acts like the grownup he is, thanked the bellhop for the information. My son and I glanced at each other and knew--immediately--we were in trouble.
I wanted to ask the bellhop why no one had flushed the toilet or--if need be--cleaned the floor. But I was otherwise occupied, biting the inside of my cheek in the hope that pain would triumph over laughter.
My son was standing nonchalantly in front of the window, pretending to admire the view of Biscayne Bay. His strategy failed. The curtains, moving to the beat of his silent but convulsive laughter, gave him away.
My son laughs in a dignified manner; I howl and cry. The minute the bellhop left the room, we let loose. After four or five minutes and a few false attempts, we composed ourselves well enough to explain the joke to our loveable but clueless roommate; then we fell apart again. And again. All weekend long.
It's not that we didn't appreciate the bellhop's hint. In fact, we gave him an extra-generous tip. And we included a lovely compliment in the evaluation form we filled out at the end of our trip: "Thanks for the stool in the bathroom."
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