Hello, Clotters,
It is interesting how various families establish and perpetuate their own exquisite tribal order. Ours is currently based on and maintained by the bathroom scale. This will cease to be the case once Dennis reaches his original weight of 150. As we speak, he is a robust 128! We are rejoicing. Now that does not exactly rank him among the morbidly obese, or even slightly overweight. But it is funny how the gain of a few extra pounds manifests itself. For instance, we notice a profound difference in Dennis’s armpits. They are no longer the deep, cavernous, crater-like, eviscerated under-arm depressions that no amount of hair re-growth can fill in. There is no residual “echo chamber” effect when we converse while he applies deodorant, which, by the way, is required in every-greater quantities, of late.
It used to be that from the neck down, there were skeletal depressions that rivaled the naked archaeologist’s excavation site. But since he has broken and exceeded the 125 pound barrier, his pits have pudge. It’s like cellulite in over-drive.
Now, I realize that the metamorphosis of one’s underarms is not exactly an engine of re-birth, but it is an indicator of a robust change in features. Don’t misunderstand, Dennis is not about to don a loin cloth and moonlight as a sumo wrestler to supplement the family income. But he is noticeably bumping and nudging his way up the scale. We expect that if the trend continues, he will soon become Limbaugh-esque. (The image makes reason stare.) We consider that as our personal stimulus package!
The dark side of excessive self-absorption is junk-blogging. So, hang on. Here goes.
This weekend we will observe our anniversary. It falls on the Ides of March. Years ago, to commemorate the assassination of Caesar and the efficacy of soothsayers, we got married. I won’t divulge the number of Ides we have passed in matrimony, (No, we were NOT contemporaries of Caesar) because it does not mathematically coincide with my professed age. I could be busted by carbon-dating.
For those who are higher-math impaired, a simple abacus would verify that my marriage took place several years prior to my birth. But I have no remorse, and I do not suffer from arithmetic envy. I simply subscribe to the Bernie Madoff accounting system, whose numbers substantiate the preposterously impossible. I really don’t see a problem.
However, in spite of my age, or perhaps because of it, I have been asked to be a surrogate. Yes, surrogate…grandma, that is. Apparently I have all the necessary qualifications to make me a viable candidate…correct number of wrinkles, appropriate sagging, disproportionate thigh size to cleavage, varicose veins that rival the Blue Danube, hot flashes that are a major contributor to global warming, and incontinence. Dennis’ ear and nasal fur, along with the vast expanse of gray in the beard, have made him the front-runner to be “grandpa by proxy.” Our selection as “fake grandparents” was ratified unanimously (eat your heart out, Tom Daschle!), and we will, no doubt, present quite a family tableau. We are honored!
There is so much to savor and celebrate…enlarged armpits, anniversaries, soothsayers, surrogates, and…Barbie turned 50! She and I have a lot in common, with the notable exception of age and physical proportions. Other than that, we’re indistinguishable!
We rejoice in the countless ways our lives are blessed. And we are grateful for dear friends and sweet companions.
All our love,
The Clot
