I asked my wife to sit for a few minutes after supper.
“I have to tell you something important.”
“Okay.”
“I’ve wanted to tell you this for a long time, but I wasn’t sure you’d understand.”
“This sounds ominous. What is it?”
“It’s not bad, but you might call it life changing. Are you ready?”
“All ears.”
“I’m a royal.”
“You’re a what?”
“I’m a royal.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means as it sounds. After much soul-searching, I’ve concluded that I am in fact royalty, and I am not ashamed to say so.”
“I’m pretty sure it doesn’t work that way. You can’t just declare yourself to be royalty. It’s the sort of thing you have to be born into.”
“Listen to yourself. That’s so twentieth century. You’re obviously not awake.”
“I’m not what?”
“You’re not awake. You need to be awakened. Someone needs to wake you.”
“I think you mean, I’m not ‘woke.’”
“That’s what I said.”
“Not exactly.”
“Nonetheless, now that you know I’m a royal, I adjure you to use appropriate terms when addressing me.”
