The Monkey was here yesterday. Out of the blue she said, “Do you have a measuring tape?”
I was getting a snack for The ACN (who wanted to have a picnic in front of the TV) but stopped and turned to look at her. “Why?”
“I feel tall today. I want to check it out. Everything seems so… small.”
I blinked a few times.
Then I got her a measuring tape. I mean… You feel tall, you gotta find that shit out, right?
It turned out that she is 5’1 1/2″.
I used to carry that twerp everywhere.
A couple weeks ago she called me “old man.” That’s a far cry from when she was three and told me, “Peter, you are the most precious boy in the world.” And when she was little, put her arm around me, and said, “You know how much I love you? FIFTY!!!”
Since she’s almost a teenager, I don’t think we’ll be going back to those days anytime soon, Future Wife.
Then she asked how tall I am. I told her.
“Can I check to make sure?”
Then I realized, I’m not sure I’ve ever had my height measured. I’ve basically been guessing for decades. I mean, I knew the ballpark, but it is very possible that I bought into the hype my high school basketball coach was putting out there when he’d lie about the team heights in tournament programs. He wanted to make us not sound like a group of short little frenchmen.
I stared worrying that if I was a half inch shorter than I thought, I might cease to feel Peter-like. I love round, even numbers.
Who would that short dude be?
Buuuut the little shit asked, so I went along.
And it turns out…
I’m a legit 6’4″ in socks.
I was more relieved than I expected to be.
Yesterday evening, after both twerps were gone home, I grabbed the laptop and plopped down on my bed. I planned on cranking out a blog post. Possibly this blog post.
But I was tired. I watched football. Gchat windows flew open all over my screen. (I was briefly very popular last night for some reason.) And the comfiness of my bed started sucking me in.
There was a time out in the football game, so I started flipping channels. Serendipity was starting.
I decided to watch a couple of minutes.
So, yeah, I watched the entire thing.
My unabashed (well, faux-abashed) love for girly movies and girly music is pretty well-known here on the blog, so you might already know about it.
Assuming you’re reading this.
And, really, I’ve convinced myself that you are.
I have no idea why I think that.
But, if you are reading, you are either:
1) Thinking “Dude, I don’t know… That’s a lot of “poetry” and short fiction pieces about throwing women around hotel rooms.”
2) Just reading and refusing to speak up because you are a bit of a pain in the ass.
If it’s #1, you should just get over that shit and love me for the goof I am.
If it’s #2…
Actually I can totally see it being #2. I’d be very surprised if my future wife wasn’t at least a little bit of a pain in the ass.
Opposites attracting and all that.
My friend told me that other day that she thinks I should start a blog just for these letters to you. I worried that people might get sick of reading them. A risk I am running already by posting them so frequently. But then I realized I only care what you think about them.
Still, I think it would have been kind of cool if I had started a new blog just for them and wrote them anonymously. You know? Posted one a week or so, and left some email address in the “About” section for you to contact me.
I love the idea of serendipity (see what I did there?) leading you to that blog.
And to me.
Kinda late for that anonymous thing now, eh?
Althoooough… You never know.
You’re probably thinking, “There is no way he has such an ego that he thinks that people — some of whom have never read his writing — will automatically recognize his style.”
Have I mentioned how pretty you are today?