― Rodney Dangerfield
“When we remember
we are all mad, the mysteries disappear and life stands explained”.
-Mark Twain
Feeling a
bit down in the dumps lately. Not what I’d call serious depression. I mean, not
do a Greg Louganis off the Golden Gate bridge or join a tribute band kind of
depression, but I have been eyeballing a week-old hard-boiled egg with morbid
interest. To most that may seem rather harmless, but for someone with severe expiration
date-o-phobia, this would be akin to playing Salmonella roulette. And if you
had ever witnessed my usual reaction to expired food, you'd quickly surmise I
was now one nip and tuck short of Caitlyn Jenner and banish me to a rubber
(though fabulously upscale and chic) room.
I guess the
depression could be nothing more than winter blues. After all, the temperature
has been in the low 70’s and it did rain for two (don’t be a hater) days. Added
to that, I find it extremely hard to work out when it’s chilly. Lay off the
weights too long and my body begins to resemble a marshmallow left out in the
sun too long. It may also be the ridiculously bad haircut I received recently.
I sincerely believe if 100 monkeys were given scissors, a cheap rental space,
and three weeks, they would be outperforming Supercuts by the fourth week. 'Nuf
said.
I was
thinking a new hobby might get the old juices flowing again. I briefly
considered teaching myself how to play the violin, but I love my wife too much.
And knitting is out of the question as I am not allowed to play with sharp
objects. Origami might be doable because no cutting utensils are required.
One of my
millennial co-workers suggested I get a tattoo. You know, colorful body art
might make me feel better about myself. Hmmm…
Got one of
those. At 18, under the influence of something, I allowed my friend to wrap a
needle with a bit of thread (don’t wanna go too deep now) and then proceeded to
give me a permanent reminder of my teenage stupidity, that hurt like ##%!! and
"branded" me like an ex-con.
Oh, and we
used the wrong ink. The day after the vicious micro-assault, I had half of a
faded tattoo. It took another two hours of embroidering ink into skin that was now
as raw as hamburger for my new tat to be realized. I don’t recall, but I assume
much cursing and drugs of some sort were needed for this second session.
After all, I
couldn’t go through life with half a hoosegow tattoo, could I?
Seems
teenagers occasionally make good decisions, right?
K.G.
