I told the Grown Son that I don’t like his use of the term “Karen.”
Our next-door neighbor is Karen.
And she’s lovely.
The Grown Son confirmed that next-door Karen is not a Karen.
And neither am I.
He assured me, however, that I am still annoying, even if I’m not a Karen.
By the time he got through his long-winded, backhanded compliment, I had stopped listening.
I had also stopped caring.
Does that make me a Karen?