Monday, April 21, 2014

It's a Battle of Wits, and, Hopefully, I Will Lose

The Wife and I have a real humdinger of a battle going on. It has stretched on and on for several months now, with a new skirmish pretty much every night. I will compare it to Gettysburg, Antietam, and Custer's Last Stand all rolled into one, but, you know, without the guns, cannons, swordplay, arrows and death. OK, maybe comparing our battle to war was a silly thing to do. I apologize.

We are having a heated battle, though. And, instead of weapons we are battling with our wits, which can get pretty serious.

It all has to do with my perfectly-manicured goatee, if I do say so myself. Every night I keep lamenting the fact that I seem to be finding new white whiskers at the rate of about 4 billion per second. It reminds me that I am getting old. It doesn't help that I am excellent at math (notice two sentences ago), which allows me to calculate that I only have 76 days left in my 30s. Yes, in 77 days I will turn the BIG 4-0, and I am not real excited about it. The fact that my facial hair is quickly turning from a rugged and burly dark blonde to the color of the albino squirrels that live in our neighborhood makes it all worse. It's enough to make a grown man cry, even though I'm such a manly man that I never cry. Please don't ask the Wife to verify that last statement...

The Wife, being the wonderful woman that she is, listens to my nightly lamentations about the color of my beard, and then calmly counterpunches with the line "White hair is going to make you so sophisticated and handsome. I can't wait to grow old with you!", which immediately causes me to retreat, for the time being at least. Tomorrow, I'm sure my field officers, Captain Mirror and Colonel Vanity, will talk me into launching another attack. Someday maybe I will give up the fight for good. I'm sure the Wife can't wait...
In our nightly battles, the Wife is essentially the entire United States Army, and I am essentially a black fungus gnat. Yet, I keep attacking her with my wits (or lack thereof) every night. Someday, perhaps, I will learn...


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