Wednesday, March 19, 2008

what's a fella to do?

what's a fella to do?
Originally uploaded by rod lewis
If you’ve ever been in love with a 44 year-old woman, then you know exactly how exciting and frustrating it is. You know the frustration of trying to find the right words to express your twitterpation while your tongue is tied or stuck to the roof of your mouth. Of course your mouth is dry because all your saliva has been distributed to the palms of your hands, which are so wet that you accidentally wipe them on your knees, and she thinks you’ve been kneeling in a puddle.
That’s what it’s like to be in love with a 44 year-old woman. This was a totally new experience for me this morning. I had no idea what it would be like. But those of you in know, you relate to what I’m talking about. Heart palpitations, shortness of breath, weak legs, trouble standing, slight vertigo, inability to focus thoughts, blurred vision, olfactory hallucinations, tinnitus.

And what about the irrational urge to compose verse?

Magnolias are white
Susans are yellow
This poem is dumb
I’m a fool of a fellow

Roses are red
Violets are blue,
Gardenias smell lovely
And you are pretty

Have you ever tried to go to work while you’re in love with a 44 year-old woman?
“Dr. Rod why are you staring at the dust ball in the corner of the classroom?”
“huh? Wha -? Oh, I’m sorry, so can any of you quote for me ?? definition of love?”
“huh? Wha -? What’s wrong Dr. Rod? This is music theory.”

What about grading papers?

“uh, Dr. Rod, why are all my wrong answers marked with little red hearts? Did your wife turn 44 or something?”

I’m telling you, this business is not a bed of roses, though a bed of roses is often part of the eternal fantasy. This is no walk in the park, though that is often the prelude to the bed of roses scenario. And in this state of being, if one were actually to happen upon a bed of roses, he’d only fall on the thorns. This is a tough state of affairs, I tell you.
I honestly thought this stuff would wane each year as I gazed with glazing eyes upon my aging, wrinkling, sagging woman. But reality has proven otherwise. She hasn’t aged, she hasn’t wrinkled, and she hasn’t sagged. And just when I’ve matured enough to look beyond the beautiful surface and more deeply understand her inner beauty, the superficial surface has become so much more distracting. Sheesh.
What’s a fellow to do?