Easing Into 40
To thank me for helping him with all those boxes, my brother took me to lunch yesterday. We went to Villa Capri in Doylestown. This is where I go for lunch during my workday when I have a yen for pizza or a hoagie or a meatball parm sandwich. As it's right up the street from my brother, he and his wife go there a lot, so his wife can get whatever miserable combination of victuals deemed aceptable to her vegan palate. (Just think, "Pizza, hold the cheese," and you get the idea.)
So we go in, my brother, his wife, me, and there's the guys who make the pizza. They know me, they know my brother and his wife, but had never seen us together before. Their eyes darting back and forth between my face and my brother's, they made the connection.
"Oh," one of the pizza guys said to my brother, "is this your son?"
My brother, of course, looked like he had been kicked in the stomach.
"Yes I am!" I said.
"No, we're brothers," said my brother.
My brother is fifteen years my senior. But still...
At the table, his wife asked, "Do you think they thought that I was your mother?"
"Nah," I answered, "He divorced my mother. You're the trophy wife."
Much yuks all around at my poor brother's expense.