Lucy Castle, contributor
You show too much leg. There was a time in the early 1980s when it was acceptable for straight men to have a Magnum P.I. mustache and wear daisy-dukes, and you rocked that look! It was also more than OK for you to wear a Speedo when we were stationed in Italy, but even I knew that you probably shouldn’t do that when we were stationed in Hawaii. Now, at the golden age of 66, your bathrobe is way too short. Like, short short. You’re tall and lanky and have nice, white legs, but I’m just afraid that you’ll bend over to get a skillet from the bottom cabinet for breakfast, and I won’t be hungry anymore.
You’re legally deaf. If the ever-patient Mother Theresa and Ghandi had to be passengers in the car with you and my passive-aggressive mumbling stepmom, they would probably open up their doors and pitch themselves out onto the freeway. It’s a fabulous shit-show of her micromanaging the heat and A/C while asking you if you need to take the next exit, and you leaning over and hollering, “Do what?” every few seconds. I have to put pillows over my ears when we watch a movie on TV, what with the blasting volume and the feedback from your turned- up hearing aids. On the upside, my sister and I can talk about our drug use freely in the same room with you, and you just smile and pat our knee occasionally.
You sit like a lady. I thought men were supposed to cross their legs with one foot on their knee, all sprawled and entitled- looking, so their junk could hang nicely. You cross your legs at the knees demurely, and you also bounce your foot up and down like a fucked-up metronome. I do that too, but I’m a chick, so…
None of this really matters, though. You make really good cheese sauce for the broccoli, and you will pick me up at the airport all day, any day. It takes you forever to tell a joke, and they aren’t really funny, but your laugh makes me laugh. You knocked my mama up with a one-two punch and gave me a twin sister, whom I love almost as much as I love you.