Yesterday marked one week that Pulao has been in India, while I’ve remained in Minneapolis.
So far, things are deteriorating rapidly. Last night, I had beef jerky for dinner. I’ve also decided that growing a goatee is a good idea, even though my face lacks the proper follicles to support manly hair growth. I’ve even looked into the mirror, rubbed my budding peach-fuzz goatee with two fingers and mused, “Mustache . . . ?” Uh-oh.
A week may seem fast to have descended into the depths of mustache-musing, but remember: I work at home. I may not see another living thing for days, outside of a particularly sharp-toothed cat.
There was an unfortunate mustache-growing incident a few years back . This was the only known instance in history where growing a mustache made someone look younger; I transformed myself, through the magic of facial hair, into a scruffy 14-year old.
My friends and fellow apostrophes Duodecad and dbay made no mention of the budding goatee Saturday night. Either they were used to the more robust, Hemingway-esque style of beard that Duodecad seems to so easily sport, and didn’t actually notice my “beard,” or else they realized that, in polite society, it’s best to pretend that nothing had happened.
I’ve resolved not to go down the dark path of my friend Ian, whose wife Anika has been gone for several weeks, teaching kids at a summer camp. Ian, he confessed, recently slept on the couch with all his clothes on. Why? Why not, he said.
Crazy. But the more I think about it, why not, indeed? The bed is rather large nowadays, and who needs the hassle of undressing, and then dressing again in the morning? The couch, clothes on . . . I like it!