mmmmdclxviii

Just Your Average Middle-Aged Riddle

If you’re old enough to be middle-aged
you can remember when that meant
men half your age driving cherry-
colored sports cars with the tops
down and how that meant they 

were overcompensating for a little 

something underwhelming in the 

“bedroom department.” Just this 

morning, for example, a guy 

comes to a screeching halt

in his mommy’s driveway just
to tell his adolescent kid sister
“What’s a poor boy to do,
Genevieve?” Like the pre
cocious child she is, Gen
gets the words that mean
different kinds of generally
red-colored fruit mixed up

when trying to proclaim the

bright color of the new car
and is completely unaware,

or has conveniently forgotten,
that her big brother, who
Mommy insists Gen call
Great Uncle, is actually
the father the poor girl 

never knew. And good 

thing, too, given that 

today is Genevieve’s 

birthday and she’s dying 

to see what Great Uncle, 

whose sports machine is 

pristinely clean, both inside 

and out, unlike the family’s 

modern, elevated terrace, has 

brought her for her birthday. 

Uncle has come direct from

the charity car wash
(because it’s cheap
and thorough).
When Gen waddles
over to the car that’s
so bright Mommy’s
suggested she break
out the sunscreen,
else head on over into
the shaded verandah,
Uncle practically screams
something about no
fingerprints on the 

new wax job. He’s
no idea it’s his
granddaughter’s
birthday. Not
that he would
have went about
the business of his
day any differently
if he’d known. Mommy
notices the birds, how
they’re flying extra low
today, and wonders if
some winged puff of 

a varmint with who

knows what mite-

ridden disease has

gone and built
another nest
in the old
oak that
takes up
most of the

airspace in 
the front yard.

Her face is

the veritable

definition of

grimace for

the duration

of her elderly

brother’s visit.