I walked into class one evening with my helmet under my arm, minding my own business and trying to focus my tiny little brain on the matter at hand. Since class hadn't started yet, someone commented on the helmet and started to make some reasonably cogent motorcycle-related small-talk, apparently based on some reasonably interesting experiences in another country where motorcycles are much more the norm than automobiles.
At that, Miss Abercrombie N. Fitch perked up from her cheetos-fueled slumber and decided she had something to contribute to the conversation, a conversation that up to that juncture had been successfully maintaining its momentum without her intervention.
"Ooh..." she sneered. "Somebody must be having a MID-LIFE CRISIS."
I shot her my best withering glance. "Dear..." (I paused to let that word hang in the air for the maximum irritation factor) "My motorcycle is older than you are. I have been riding it, year round, since before you were born." (Both true, by the way. And as far as I could tell, my motorcycle was smarter and better mannered than she, to boot. But I didn't say that at the time.)
"...And who are you to suggest this is my MID-LIFE, you little punk!?"
Well. That put an end to that line of commentary.
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