At the zoo, my 3-year-old daughter whines about wanting hot cocoa. On my lap, my 9-month-old infant shrieks, too tired to eat and too hungry to sleep. I feel for her. Actually, I’m right there with her.
I glance up in exhaustion and see an old man grinning at me from his place in line at the zoo’s coffee shop. Now, I’m 6-foot-2, 250 pounds, and have a shaved head. My brow owes more than a little to the Cro-Magnon, and I don’t shave very often. I look, in short, like a burly Serbian nightclub bouncer. The old man is grinning at my wailing offspring and me anyway.