Making Faces

Last night my wife leaned over me, her lips on the verge of kissing me goodnight, when her head suddenly changed direction and landed on my shoulder. As I considered being offended, her body started shaking from...crying? No, she was giggling. Uncontrollably. When she looked at me again--red faced and teary eyed--I made a face. She laughed even harder. She kept looking away and I kept making faces. (Such a simple thing, making faces.) It was the funniest thing we'd done all day.

We might need to get out more.

Oftentimes the simple things get me thinking. When my wife walked around the bed to turn out the lights, and the happiness of our life together surged in my chest, I couldn't help thinking how one day we're going to end. Not because one of us stops loving the other, but because one of us, if not both, will die.

I know how this sounds. Doomsday much? But seriously, sometimes I can't help picturing our wrinkled bodies spooning on our Craftmatic adjustable bed. I can't help seeing us moving towards each other--so much slower than in our youthful years!--but moving towards each other nonetheless. And I can't help feeling our wrinkled hands desperately holding on to each other as one of us is on the edge of expiring.

Whoa. I thought this was supposed to be some funny, sarcastic shit, not a reminder we're all going to die! I should have kept it to myself, huh? It's so goddamn depressing, right? Yeah, I know. Only I'm under no illusion that my moments of extreme happiness will spare me from experiencing extreme devastation.

With all that in mind, I still can't help smiling, for my life is full of love and random acts of silliness.

Such a simple thing, making faces.

Lazy Bastard

For the past fifteen days my butt has basically left the comfortable confines of my sofa for two reasons:

1. Peeing
2. Pooping

I drink a lot of water so I've gotten off the sofa more than one might think. Still, when I'm standing my butt feels weird, like it's lacking major support. When I'm standing, the sofa looks like something is missing. Something invaluable, irreplaceable. Something only I can offer.

I've allowed my butt and sofa to develop a deep, meaningful relationship.

Some might even call it love.

I like to pretend it happened separately from me, without my involvement or knowledge, but I cannot deceive myself so easily. I know I joyfully brought them together. Not once did I turn away when my butt gratefully sank into the comforting arms of the sofa. Never did I blush, scramble to find something else to do, when the sofa, ever so gently, lovingly, caressed my butt. No. I heralded their joining of forces. I encouraged it.

Tomorrow, I'll be a contemptible bastard. Butt and sofa will blame me for letting them spend so much time together only to tear them apart. I'll return to work; they'll return to being weekend lovers. I like to pretend it won't bother me, ripping two lovers apart so suddenly, but I know myself. It will hurt me, too. All I can give them is one unforgettable last day. A day I'll keep my liquid intake low.

Hail Mary

The clock strikes the two minute warning. Cameras pan to the Denver Broncos' sidelines. There, in his Jesus crouch, is Tim Tebow; eyes earnestly closed in prayer, lips moving.

In all fairness, I have no idea what Tebow is saying. He could be pleading for the return of our troops in Afghanistan, or for the violence in Syria to stop. But seeing how Denver is down by four points with two minutes to go, I'll bet my kingdom in Heaven he's not asking for anything outside himself. Praying for strength, or guts and glory so your football team can go to the playoffs makes you look like a douche, Tim. I don't care how much money you make; you're goals aren't that important. Jesus has a lot on his plate. There's no way your playoff hopes are even warming in His oven. 

Lean in, Tim. Let me tell you something. If you put half the effort into studying pictures of defenses, talking with the offensive coordinator, rallying receivers, patting the offensive line on the back than you do praying, maybe you'd have scored more than three points. Besides, where is the praying getting you? A soon to be nice spot on your season-ending sofa is where. Jesus doesn't belong to a fantasy league, Tim. He could care about your little game's outcome. But Satan? I hear he runs a fantasy league worth billions.

With all your look-at-me-sincerely-praying-even-though-I'm-not-stuck-on-a-roof-after-a-hurricane-or-in-a-burning-building, I like the idea that the Devil is fucking with you.