I can’t blog tonight because I am physically trapped in a ridiculous situation.
I once heard a story about Sir Walter Raleigh that goes like this: One day Sir Walt was hanging around on the street, as English aristocrat/poet/explorer-types were wont to do, when Queen Elizabeth herself appeared. The queen was so busy resenting her late father for beheading her mother, reversing her crazy sister’s religious policies, and avoiding marriage that she failed to notice her entourage was rapidly approaching a giant mud puddle directly in front of Sir Walt. (Actually, I think the puddle was the size of a man’s cloak, and maybe even smaller. It definitely wasn’t the end of the world, is what I’m saying.)
When she finally noticed the squishy antagonist, she slowed down and paused, probably mentally berating herself for not wearing her royal wellies. In that brief moment of hesitation, Walt whipped off his brand-spanking-new cloak and laid it across the mud so the queen didn’t have to soil her shoes. Queen Elizabeth looked at him regally, crossed the puddle via cloak, and went on with her day. I like to imagine that she rolled her eyes when she was past him because it was the 16th century and she was stepping in way worse stuff than smallish puddles all the time, but apparently the gesture floored her and after that, Sir Walter Raleigh was a favorite in her court.
My attitude towards food has been described as odd. I’m hypoglycemic, which means I eat often or people die, but I rarely rejected a food opportunity even before I started Hulking Out. I think I’m addicted. If I didn’t eat, it would probably kill me.
My enthusiasm for all things edible does not make me a “foodie”. If anything, it’s taken me in the opposite direction. I appreciate a gourmet meal as much as the next guy, but I’ve experienced the same deep satisfaction eating a chili dog from my hometown’s hotdog restaurant.
I want it to be clear that no one rocks the X chromosomes like I do, but there are some stereotypically female things that leave me confused. I obsess about my hair and squeal over shoes as much as the next cliche, but things like “applying lipliner” and “understanding emotions” are sort of beyond me. Because I missed some important female lesson at some point, I get all my relationship advice from Google.
Tuesday, I was asking Google how to flirt and every result was from Cosmopolitan, the magazine for fun, fearless females. If you’ve walked past a magazine rack in a grocery store and you have eyeballs, you know that Cosmo’s advice can be crazy. Not fun, you-never-know-what-your-girlfriend-will-do-next crazy. The your-girlfriend-is-going-to-stab-you-in-the-face-in-your-sleep kind of crazy. Nevertheless, there are girls out there who live and breathe Cosmo. If sex sells, a thousand different euphemisms for it plastered on a pink cover must sell a thousand times as well.