I don’t know if any of my readers like watching women’s tennis, or any tennis, or if they like pulling their own hair out or keying their own cars, but I’m going to assume no.

Yesterday while bumming around the parental castle I found myself listening to the announcers for a lady-game my dad was watching. What struck me was not their frequent mispronunciation of words but rather their focus. These women, they play the tennis. They play it tough and well. But the announcers seemed really concerned with the players’ mental states.

Announcer 1: You know, Bob*, I’m not seeing a lot of enthusiasm from Anna** today.

A2: She’s never been what you’d call stoked, Jim. Whoa, what a hit!

A1: That was a fantastic hit from Anna, Bob!

A2: Now you would think she’d be jumping up and down there.

A1: Just doesn’t seem real excited by things.

A2: Not a rewarding player to watch, Jim.

A1: I’ve seen more excited players.

A2: Now Venus, she’s a good time.

A1: Anna, really a so-so player in terms of jumping around after a good play.

A2: Jim, I couldn’t agree more.

I like to think of these guys following me around in my job.

A1: Now, Bob, even after she successfully fixes the copier, you’ll notice she seems pretty tepid.

A2: True, though, Jim, let’s not forget she has copier ink all over her new skirt.

A1: It’s irrelevant, Bob. I’d like to see more enthusiasm from a secretary of her caliber.

Or maybe they could follow me around my current job.

A1: Bob, do you think she seems really pumped about sitting around on the couch all day?

A2: Why the hell would she be, Jim?

*Unlike Sean, I am not a big enough sports fan to note the actual names of announcers.

**Ditto for the tennis players.

The Lad and I are still trying to find a good solution to my problem of phonelessness; until that happens I must maintain radio silence and I spend my days with la Nin in kind of a dream state.

Anais, I say, what do you think of all this?

I have raged at the wall growing denser between myself and others. I do not want to be exiled, alone, cut off.

It’s not so bad, I tell her.

We need adventures, she says.

We need clean laundry, I say.

I rile at the human condition, which means domestic life, chores…

Well, tomorrow we can go lie in the sun all day, I tell her. We are dogsitting Molly this weekend.

What new loveliness is there in Molly, she wants to know.

I say, The loveliness is not so much in the dog, although she is lovable. The loveliness is the sun on our skin, the fresh fruit and coffee by the pool.

I enjoy breakfast, she admits.

In the meantime, you and I must wait in the house for the cable man, I tell her, and do the dishes and the laundry, tidy up the clutter, and have a day of housewifery.

I never minded the monotony of housework, she says, as long as my life has its lyrical climaxes, its high moments, the certainty of full living.

Two months in Europe seems fairly lyrical, I say, so let’s throw the whites in the wash and scrub the rice out of the pots.

Home at last. Home means hanging out with Michele, and hanging out with Michele means complaining to her about how old we are getting. “Do you realize,” I said, “that there are freshmen in high school now who were born in nineteen ninety-two?”

Those of you inclined to lust after the younger generation (you know who you are) should pause and take note. These children believe “Ray of Light” was Madonna’s best album. The only Prince they know is that lovable scamp William or the rebellious young Harry. Metallica is a shade of nail polish. To these fragile flowers of the schoolyard Michael Jackson is just another creepy old white guy from Santa Barbara.

These kids read the first Harry Potter books at the correct age to read them. They have no idea why pricey designers make clothes that look like they came from thrift stores. Not one of them can spell out “you are,” “laugh out loud” or “please.”

Perhaps most distressing is the thought that had the Moms not gently talked me out of sleeping with a certain Goth in high school, I could conceivably have given birth to one of these children. Even now we could be having screaming arguments about her wardrobe. (Me: Do you really have to wear pants that show your entire damn thong? Why don’t I just buy you some assless chaps, would that make you happy? Oh hell. Just get in the car.)

My only comfort is the thought that perhaps some of my older-than-me friends will read this and be disgusted. Do you realize, they will say, that this kid was born in nineteen seventy-nine? Music does not begin with Madonna, you know. Why, when I was her age…

Whatever, grandpa. If you’ll excuse me, my ten-year reunion is coming up; I really don’t have time to stand around chatting with you.