Monday, June 2, 2008

From the Desk of the Jeremy Crow R&D Department - Volume 9

Again I type away on my cell phone as I sit in the waiting room at my father's cardiologist. This could be his last visit on this trip and it could be the start of another series. I never know these things until he gets in there so here I am hoping for the best. The 68 year old man sitting next to me is after all my best gauge of my own mortality so perhaps I have taken more of an active role in his health than most people would have, but at the very least I owe him that. He hadn't seen a doctor for 30 years before his accident last September and now he is making up for it whether he likes it or not.

On the subject of my own mortality, I should point out that I have this new aggravating thing going on in that department. My beard is sporting so many grey hairs in it that not only is it obvious, but it is quite alarming. It actually makes my cool, youthful looking; novelty beards look a bit foolish. My signature “James Hettfield” style side burn to mustache that makes people think “Hugh Jackman” is making me think “Millard Fillmore” when I see it in the mirror. I can cover this up by going goatee but that is starting to make my face look fat. Shaving it all brings out my eyes, or should I say it directs attention to the huge dark circles under my eyes. As you can clearly see the real dilemma here is that I am becoming old and think that I am radically becoming vain. Who could have seen this one coming?

I used to get pissed off at all the snerts that would take pot shots at my vanity when I assumed I didn't have any. Now I appear to finally have it when I am losing my reasons for it. Ain't that a rancid pickle for my lunch box? Of course everything about me these days screams "don't give a shit" from my shoulder length unkempt hair to my untrimmed and rapidly graying beard. My daughter suggested that I get some of that beard dye that she has seen advertised on television, but here is a place where my ego is interfering. I immediately thought that that was a stupid idea and shelved it in the recesses of all the various things that come to mind on a lark and never get fulfilled because I am not standing in a line at the store holding them. How’s that for vain?

Perhaps I should start a new to-do list of things that I plan to buy someday when my “don’t give a shit” hairstyle finally grows inward and affects my brain? Compile the list now and then someday when I am either completely without pride, or have so much of it that I can spare some at the register in the local Wal-Mart perhaps? It would be a long list, and in all reality the “Just For Men” gel would simply be the thing you put at the end of the register. Off the top of my head, I need Enzyte {because ALL men want to be bigger down there!}, some of that West Coast Fruit Frap {because when you get to be my age you always think there is stuff left over in your ass you would like out of there}, the huge jar of prunes {same reason as the last but when you have a back problem regular bowel movement is the key}, and a few of those magazines wrapped in the brown paper {sure I can download it off the internet but I need something for when I am hiding in my closet at work!} and then sit there saying, “Yeah I know, the beard is grey!”

It’s funny really what poses for vanity and what will actually make me embarrassed on a day to day basis. I don’t seem to have problems going into Wal-Mart each year and admitting that my waist has grown an inch each year. The last round of 32 inch waist jeans was the last jump, but it was a bit overdue. I had realized through my doctor that has honesty issues of her own, that squeezing my rapidly expanding ass into jeans that are too small doesn’t make me happy to get out of bed in the morning. Between that and her fixation on pointing out to me that every health issue I don’t take care of will immediately affect my nether regions {see Enzyte above for example, it’s a brilliant strategy that always gets me to take the pills she prescribes me for cholesterol or whatnot} I appear to not be THAT vain. Then there was my ability to simply go out and “buy the stuff” that made your wife happy {or at least for the moment} which included the mundane items that no man should be caught in line with like, tampons, pads, yeast infection medication {oh bullshit they have all needed it} and the like. Of course I could always fall back on the fact that it obviously wasn’t for me, and the repercussions of not coming home with these items was a fate worse than death anyway.

Then there was the “getting her something pretty” department which had mixed uses on my vanity. For every time I stood at the counter at Victoria’s Secret holding packages of thigh highs with that “he he he they are for me kinda” look on my face, there was that time that the woman in there wanted to explain how men’s eyes are bigger than reality, probably just to enjoy the shades of red that they can turn you. My favorite story in that regards was the first time I had gone into a Victoria’s Secret and couldn’t find the brassieres, so I had to ask the sales girl. Victoria’s best kept secret was that they were all hidden in drawers along the wall, so she kindly walked me over to the C cups {99.9 percent of women are a C cup, just ask them} and then the wonderful spoiled 6 year old lecture she gave me about “fantasy” when I asked where the D cups were. Fortunately my ex-wife was the kind of bitch that made sure I took her back there every day until the one who scolded me was there so she could exchange the D cups in front of her. That was the first time I knew there was a G cup, but realistically speaking I would have rather not gone back in the first place.

In the end I am starting to think that the only solution to all of these vanity issues is to diet. Perhaps I can take care of the new found “fat face” issue and skip the next round of upsizing in my jeans. Then I can shave off the sideburns and grow the goatee. See how amazingly simple that was? Ok maybe not, but the dark circles aren’t going anywhere fast. My children will see to that, and I can figure out ways to stop killing myself with a spoon. Eating is the last bastion of comfort I seem to have in this hectic world, but being somewhat deranged I think that I can fool myself into thinking celery tastes like a Snicker’s bar. I can try anyway, and if that doesn’t work I can just go to plan two. Go to a Wal-Mart in another state and load up on all the vanity items at once {said with a grin} ;8o)

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