Dearly Beloved and I attended high schools 200 miles apart, so we didn’t know each other during our teen years. I don’t mind at all. That way, I can believe without any doubt that he was as terrific a football player as he says, as Troy Donahue-handsome as his mother says, and as hard-working and industrious as his friends tell me.
In contrast, he pictures that I was not the plain, skinny, mixed up girl I remember (an awkward stage I didn’t outgrow until my 30’s.)
Would I attend one of my own class reunions? I’d sooner empty Miss Piggy’s anal sacs.
On the other hand, Dearly Beloved’s class reunions are held locally, so it’s easy for him to attend. He has another one coming up this month– the big 5-0. I’ve attended two of them and know that the record of the couple who produced four children in three years will remain intact and that the guy who had been divorced four times may have increased his lead, since the astonished expression on his new bride’s face at the last reunion revealed that she was unaware of his dubious distinction.
If they recognized the guy in the best physical shape, DB would be a strong contender. Sure, his medical records have as much ink as the rest of us, but his exercise regimen–walking a couple of hours a day– has him looking as trim and muscular as he must have been in high school.
Earlier this week we were driving somewhere when he pointed out to me that the sport shirt he was wearing was one he hadn’t been able to wear for some years because it had been too tight. To show me, he said confidently, “Reach over here and button the collar.”
I leaned over and gave it a try. No dice.
“It’s not going to work because of your turkey wattle,” I told him.
“My WHAT???” He looked genuinely stricken.
“This,” I said, reaching under my chin and flapping my own seductively at him.
“You and I don’t HAVE turkey wattles,” he said, quite definitely, yanking down his visor to confirm his statement in the mirror.
See? Rose-colored glasses! I love that about him!
He reached up and buttoned the shirt himself.
“LOOK!” he said smugly.
I nodded quickly so that he’d undo it before his eyes started bulging.
“Oh yeah. Lookin’ good, Babe,” I answered.
Here’s a question for you: Is it a waddle or a wattle? If you want to waste an afternoon on the internet looking into it, let me know what you decide. I tried, but stopped to try some of the exercises one could do to get rid of it, like bending your head from side to side but not touching your ear to your shoulders. The cellophane sound popping in my neck was so annoying that I moved on to Option B–something about rubbing female testosterone on it. I couldn’t imagine DB being interested and, since we plan to waddle through life together, I looked no further.
Maybe I’ll knit him an ascot. They worked for Cary Grant when he could no longer button that top button, not to mention Elvis. Heck, he couldn’t button down to his waist some days.
Nah. DB wouldn’t wear it and it doesn’t matter anyhow. His reunion is the week before Thanksgiving.
(Fabulous photo of the ascoted turkey is being used with the kind permission of LynnGuppy. Her blog is LynnGuppy: Live Music, Fine Art, and General Mischief. I’m not sure whether this is art or mischief.)