“WHO’S SHOOTER JENNINGS??????”
Mo, on the next treadmill, is screaming at me. I am terrified. I give her the deer in the headlights look. Not my best look.
“WHO?” She yells at me.
What has Shooter Jennings ever done to her? And how can she somehow blame me? I unapologetically pee in my shorts. I am not a brave person.
He’s Waylon Jennings’ son, I tell her. I’m almost certain she can’t blame me for that.
“I LIKE THIS SONG!” she screams.
Then I realize. She’s got the headphones at 120 decibels, so doesn’t realize that her voice is loud enough that the parents, six hours away in San Angelo, are looking at each other and wondering, _”What? Jenny? Who shot Jenny?”
I motion for her to use her Inside Voice. We finish up and go home. She later concludes she doesn’t care for Shooter Jennings after all. At least she uses her Inside Voice.