Ask a Stupid Question…

I am the Queen of the Obvious Question. Years ago I passed my Beloved upon the toilet and queried, “What are you doing?” His priceless reply: “I’m building a nuclear reactor.”

My compulsion to question circumstances in plain sight has now merged with early onset dementia with hilarious results. While in Roma I mailed a postcard to Sassafrass. Upon my return to NYC and joyous reunion with Miss Sassy, I picked up the very same postcard lying on her bureau and asked, “Did you get this?” As if there were any other remotely plausible explanation for its living in her apartment besides the Italian and U.S. postal systems having successfully delivered it into her possession.

I guess it’s no surprise that my conversation is peppered with, “Guess what?” as though the person to whom I’m speaking is on my own private version of Psychic Password! Even a stash of childhood camp letters I unearthed at Mah & Daddy’s all bore that salutation. “Guess what? We made s’mores! Guess what? The bathroom here is called the KYBO, for Keep Your Bowels Open. Guess what? I haven’t brushed my teeth the whole time I’ve been here.”

Guess what? The older I get, the stupider my questions become. Welcome to the funhouse.

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