Everyone who knows me knows that I don’t wear shorts. There are several good reasons for this. One, because my legs are so much lighter than my face and arms, each time I’ve worn shorts I’ve been arrested and questioned for possibly stealing someone else’s legs and literally walking off with them. As you know, possession is nine-tenths of the law, and there really is no way to prove that your legs are your own when you’re backed into a corner at a police station. Think about it. What would you say? Exactly. The last time Sergeant Bilco took me in for questioning, I didn’t have a leg to stand on—except for the two I’d stolen, of course.
Another reason I don’t wear shorts is that my legs often become topics for discussion. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve had to grit my teeth and force a laugh when someone mentioned that my legs were so light they were almost transparent. In fact, the other day, I was minding my own business at the pool when a complete stranger walked up to me and said, “Here, you need this more than I do,” as he handed me a bottle of Banana Boat dark tanning oil. I admit that my legs were a little pastey that day, but I certainly didn’t think they were that bad that a random person would offer me a whole bottle of tanning oil—especially since I’d already been to the pool several times that week to darken up to that particular shade of white. The nerve of that guy!
Feeling slightly offended, I took the bottle and began spraying myself down like it was nobody’s business. If he wanted to see dark, I was going to give him dark. Four hours later, as I peeled myself off the beach chair, I realized that I might have overdone it just a tad. Apparently I’d passed the point of tanning and had entered the stage of burning. I’d wondered why I stared to hear something sizzle and begun to smell bacon. I had no idea I was the source of the sizzle and the smell. By that point I was so red and in so much pain that even the slightest breeze made me want to run home crying to my mommy. Because my legs were burnt worse than any other part of my body, I realized that it would be a few days before I’d be able to wear pants or allow anything to touch my legs again. I wonder what my job will think when I show up tomorrow in my boxer briefs. I mean, I’ll at least match them up with a nice button-down shirt. Shouldn’t be a problem. We’ll see.
As some of you may have noticed, I didn’t post anything on Monday, July 4th. Well, that weekend I’d accidentally gone on a trip to Virginia Beach with a few buddies. Because I know what my readers expect of me, although I was on a mini vacation, I did try to get the blog done during the five-hour drive to and from DC. However, it’s hard to be humorous with gangster rap blaring in the background. On the flip side, I did get to learn some very colorful words in case I ever decided to be a thug. “Ay yo, ma, what you mean I gotta clean my room, son? Yo dats wack, son.” Yeah, you have to end everything with “son.” It makes you sound more official. Obviously I’m going to need some practice, but I believe I’ll be able to pull it off eventually. And once I get really good at it, maybe I’ll be able to join 50 Cent or Lil Wayne on tour. You never know.
Another thing I was exposed to during that weekend was a fad known as planking. For those of you who don’t know what planking is, it involves a person lying face down at some random place and having their picture taken as proof that the mission had been accomplished. Granted, at my age, I can typically be found lying face down in some odd places, but I usually just call it napping. My friends, however, planked on a ledge at the gas station, on top of narrow tables at the hotel, and then wanted to plank on top of the car. When they asked me to join in, I declined. I’m just too old to grasp the point of it all. That said, if you see pictures circulating of me lying face down on the conveyor belt at Walmart or on the median strip of some highway, just know that’s the place where I probably passed out after a long day, and that I was not planking.
Speaking of being old, I think I’m getting to the point where I’m starting to have senior moments. Recently, I was trying to explain a simple concept to someone when my brain just shut down and went completely numb. It was as if I was being questioned on the laws of physics when really I was just trying to show someone how to get to the restroom. I probably set myself up for failure when I used the diagram and referred them to a flow chart when I should have just said that it was at the end of the hall. Even worse, one day last week I was trying to explain to my boss’s boss’s boss who to return a document too and I completely forgot my coworker’s name. I just stood there, like a helpless deer, saying, “Give it to…uh…you know…umm…that other guy…umm…the tall one.” I couldn’t have felt more like a heel. Fortunately, two minutes later, while I was still standing there, it came to me. “Michael. His name is Michael. Yeah, give it to Michael.” You would have thought that by us having the same name it’d be easy to remember. Apparently not.
In closing news, I now realize and fully admit that it was a bad idea for me to take my fish to the pool. I mean, it just seemed like a natural thing to do. They swim all day for gosh sakes. I just wanted to give them a slight change of scenery. Being cooped up in an aquarium all day, what type of life is that? Certainly not one that I’d want. Regardless, I did learn a few valuable lessons from the experience, though. First, it’s best if you use an SPF 15 sunscreen before taking your fish for a walk and dumping them into the pool. Second, just because they’re fish, doesn’t mean that they don’t want their own goggles and nose pieces to use when swimming too. Third, some fish like their bikini bottoms to match their tops. Who knew? And lastly, it’s a good idea to get a fish trainer to teach your fish to do as you command. It’s been three days and I’m still trying to get them out of the pool and back into their aquarium. What a bad idea!
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