Previously in Rob's blog:
"Kahn!"
"New-man!"
"Zepplin!"
"I have a rash…"
Wha..?
That's right. Yesterday's thoughts lie incomplete (or maybe they completely lie. I can never tell the difference when I'm off my meds). I was discussing options for manifesting my post divorce destiny. Since claiming land for king and country has already been done, I was looking for new worlds to discover.
People poo-pooed my "running naked" option. I think they were afraid of the pale glare coming from the California cityscape. It's true. My special reflective white body tone combined with the flabby curves can actually knock satellites out of orbit. Caltrans wants to purchase small vials of pigment to enhance street signs for night viewing. Crayola might introduce Rob White next year.
So I guess you're right. I won't compete in the county clerk naked marathon. You can open your eyes without fear once more. At least until I decide what to do. I recommend you start suggesting fully clothed and non-toxic birthday options.
"Ok, blow out your—-Hey! Get dressed!"
"Sorry, I though that was what we'd decided I should do…"
"Hey Rob, I think you should sit down with a box of Crayolas and draw your future."
Why thank you anonymous poster. I might just do that, except the only box of crayons is the one MyUnwife left. I bought it for her when she was sick one time. I wanted to cheer her up. Thanks for that bile green trip down memory lane!
What? No, MyUnwife wasn't 12, it was just kind of a smile gift. She was sick, and I went out to buy her some "get healthy" stuff. While I was out, I grabbed her some things to keep her smiling. One of which was a coloring book and crayons. First, because she liked to draw, but even more importantly, we used to joke about things our parents would do when we were sick The comfort gifts. I got comic books. MyUnwife got coloring books.
I wanted to remind her of being pampered as a kid. This wasn't just any box, this was a 120 color box, with the fluorescents and the sharpener! When I go, I go all out! I also suck at pampering. I'm not Florence Nightingale's cousin, The Great Pamperer. Yeah, he's the guy who invented the disposable diaper.
He's good at that type of stuff. I'm not. I try. My efforts usually had full diaper qualities, but no mad pamper skills. That's fine. It's one of those things you practice and get better at. MyUnwife got coloring books once. I don't think she ever got sick again. She probably didn't want to elevate to the Got Milk Barbie.
"why are there overall buttons where her nipples should be?"
"I don't know, maybe because pole dancer Barbie wasn't selling well so they modified her pasties to look like buttons."
"Why don't they just create Unachievable Perfection Barbie and be done with it?"
"I don't know. We got saddled with sadly unsatisfying Ken."
Yeah, relationships never pan out.
Fine. So now I'm trying to think of ways to pamper myself. Ways to set my birthday apart from my divorce. I don't know. I've already proved I suck at the pampering thing. Just because I'm selfish doesn't mean I'm any better at pampering myself.
As a kid, these choices were easy. I could climb on my bike and "go exploring" That meant anywhere beyond my block was something new. That's tougher as an adult. The world gets smaller, and when you fall off the bike into a cactus, you're far less willing to hop back on.
Then again, maybe that's it. Maybe I need to look at this with the simplicity of a child. Maybe the crayons were a good idea. It's the kid in us that loves the simple pleasures. The joy of drawing a seafoam green desert and a orchid purple pony with a beaver brown tail can make any kid feel better. Maybe my inner Robby needs a moment to write his name in the Rob White snow. What are the simple things that I've always loved?
I love the beach. It's been years since I've gone. MyUnwife and I went once, but she's not much of a beach person. It's fine, we all love different things. I moved to California originally because I loved the beach, but once I got here I found that I never went. Maybe now it's time.
1 comments:
Post a Comment