Actually, I don’t have anything to say about either of the above topics, although putting the two together might yield interesting, if not unfortunate, results. It’s just that I’m aware that things have been a little serious around here lately. Even though I have actually gained a few new followers and engaged in some interesting conversation on the basis of the last two or three posts, the fact remains that blog traffic is down, which I guess is not surprising, with post titles like “Tears of Advent” (“tears” = depressing; “Advent” = religious) and “Slaughter of the Innocents” (entire title = curling up into the foetal position, speaking of innocents). And anyway, it seems really shallow and sketchy to profit popularly via posts about such sombre topics.
But a few days ago my Paul observed, “It seems like your blog has changed from light and funny observations about life, to more intellectual and theological topics.” It drives him crazy when I read meaning into face value, so I won’t say this is what he meant, but what I heard was a tactful way of saying, “Um–it’s getting a little serious over there. Could you lighten things up a little?”
So I am. Here:
The other day I was driving home via some roads I don’t usually take, and I saw this:
First–I think this sign needs a little surgery (or something), too. I was going to say something about how used to be more “taut,” but something about that sounds questionable, so I’ll just say, it seems a little the worse for wear since I saw it the first time.
Second–Guys. Do not believe the words on this sign.
As far as I know, most women have something physical about themselves that they wish were not true. I might have more of those things than most. I have a big nose (with a weird bump on the bridge of it) and terrible skin and my chin is somehow simultaneously receding and overly heavy. I have brown teeth. I have a little cellulite and a few spider veins and a flat chest. But I am also myself, and while I don’t, anymore (like I used to think in high school) think there’s anything wrong with doing whatever is in my personal power to mitigate some of these flaws (eg. make-up and even getting the broken tooth fixed–because it was broken), I also know those basic things are a part what makes me who I am, and if, say, my Paul handed me a parcel on Tuesday and inside it was a gift certificate to this plastic surgery, I think I might have to do something that would render him in need of more plastic surgery than I am. (Not that I would actually succeed in this endeavour–I’m a wimp–but the desire to do that would be my initial response.)
I told him about this sign and he burst out laughing and said, “Talk about buying a gift that’s more for yourself than the person you’re giving it to!” Then he said, “Guess I’ll have to take that gift certificate back . . . ”
But I wasn’t worried. Although on occasion he comes up with some unusual ways to compliment me (they’re G-rated but . . . difficult to explain), this is also the guy who spontaneously told me he thought I was “absolutely beautiful,” in front of my parents and a Visiting Londoner. And that, my friends, is a fine Christmas present indeed.