If you ask me whether I noticed the size of his hands prior to his asking me to bend over and hold on or if it was later I’ll shrug my shoulders.
He was noticeably taller than I am but I didn’t think much of it because my hands are often as large or larger than men who are taller than I am.
But that is not necessarily something I pay much attention to, though I always notice whether their handshake displays any grip strength.
I readily admit to having a minor prejudice towards men whose hand feels like a dead fish in mine. You don’t have to try to crush my hand in yours, but I expect to feel something other than a sweaty palm.
And I can neither confirm nor deny having squeezed a rivals hand hard enough to see green eyes wince a bit. Had I known then what I know now I would have made sure to have left an indentation in his hand.
When your slightly built and have a neck no wider than a broomstick you ought to beware of acting a like a demented jerk.
Anyhoo, we’ll shift gears and move on to wondering whether the person who camped out on We’re Always Rewriting The Story Of Our Lives did so because they found it interesting or if they forgot they left a tab open.
What “This Might Hurt” Really Means
Kid at the gym asks if I ever did anything outrageous in college and I nod my head and tell him about climbing on top of a bar and acting out Beyonce’s part in Crazy in Love.
He isn’t impressed with that and for a moment I debate whether mentioning the song came out long after I had graduated but I am in a particular sort of mood so I don’t.
Besides he isn’t really listening nor particularly interested which is part of why I spin a ridiculous tale.
Hell, it has been a week and I am somewhere between You Kissed Me First & Other Stories We Tell and climbing into the car and driving until I hit the mighty pacific.
Instead I stand outside with my face skyward watching dark clouds blow in and wonder if the tornado watch is going to be a bust or something ugly.
Because the hail came down hard to the west of me in golf ball size chunks and I have begun hearing requests for body shops and windshield services.
Inside my head I whisper at the storm and plant my feet.
“Got about 20 years or so left for you to come at me with this. Could be twice as many or more too, but I am tired of waiting. Just bring what you have got and let’s get this over with.”
That has been the theme of the week, waiting for the wave to crest so that I can determine what direction to go in.
Told at least two people on the phone to cut to the chase, “I need the punchline to whatever this is and then we’ll figure out what direction we’re going to take this.”
I always know when I am starting to get a little edgy by how hard I start to clench my jaw and I have been doing it more than I like to.
Someone asked me to explain what was going on and I said that I was most frustrated by being asked to run uphill while someone was throwing stones at me.
“You kept running.”
“Always. It is what I do. I am the guy who used to tell my parents ‘I take this potch and throw it away.’ You don’t stop me by throwing stones, you just piss me off.”
Talked to the kids about that particular trait and told them that sometimes I would have been smarter to say enough and let go.
Truth is as I have aged I have gotten much better about that. It has taken some doing, but I have let go of more than one battle and walked away from more than one challenge.
Took some doing but I have learned how to accept that I won’t get the answer or stand on the winner’s platform every time even when I was pretty sure I could make it happen.
Some things cost more than I want to pay, but not all.
Just got more selective because time is short and I tire of some of it more easily. Got to save it for what is most important.
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