Friday, December 18, 2015

The Ballad of the Fibber Fox

Margaret is a champ.  She has refused to allow the fact that she has been married to a complete moron (take my word on this - I know him) for close to a quarter-century ever impact upon her innate unflappability.  

Case in point.  At 11:14 a.m. on Wednesday morning, I sent her this e-mail: 


For me to go back to school to learn how to become a jockey?
I suspect that I’m too tall, too fat, or both but my mom always told me “You can do anything!”  
I’d hate to find out – after all these years – that she’s just a big fibber fox with dirty socks. 

This is the type of out-of-the-blue question that - when posed by one spouse to another - might befuddle its recipient, at least momentarily.  Unless of course that recipient is both (a) intimately familiar with the full scope and breadth of the sender's mental illness; and (b) singularly well-suited to respond to it.  Margaret possesses both of those traits.  

My in-box was graced by the pleasure of her response less than three minutes later:  

What?  Are you having a stroke?

Having addressed the issue directly and succinctly, she assessed (correctly, of course) that no further attention needed to be given to it.  She overcame the intrusion into her day, foisted upon her by the Human Hiccup to whom she is married, and carried on without further comment.  

None was needed.  

Yet another reminder of just how lucky I am and, also, why my action plan (when she finally wises up and changes all of the locks, her cell number, her address, or all of the above) shall be simply to grow my beard long and wander off into the wilderness alone.  The civilized world does not need to be forced to interact with me without the benefit of her adult supervision.  

Nor I with it. 


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