Moose sent me an e-mail the other day claiming that men are deep thinkers—and supported that argument with the hypothesis that the pain of childbirth did not hold a candle to the male equivalent of being kicked in the groin.
A good argument, sure. But since he has never given birth, as far as I know, he needs delve a little deeper into his thinking.
The truth of the matter is men don’t think that deeply. They are, in fact, managed by true deep thinkers—women (or, at least, men that can be trained).
Some men, like some broncos, simply can’t be trained and probably are in danger of being “put down.” The rest of us, if we think a little deeper, will realize the truth of the matter.
Take my eating habits, for example. I spent most of my lifetime concentrating on taking in as much food as possible, as often as possible. The result? A somewhat bloated carcass, a dickey ticker, and Type II diabetes.
With death staring me in the face, I thought a little deeper and vowed several times to remedy the issues before it was too late. But let’s face it, when it comes to falling off the wagon, I’m at Olympic-level achievement.
This time round, however, with the help of my wife, the Pearl of the Orient’s management skills, I am mastering, more or less, the battle of the bulge.
I have left the deep thinking to the Pearl and have observed the following:
With the temptations of holiday feasting ever present, the Pearl has resorted to giving away as much and many of the goodies as possible. It works, sort of. Hiding the remaining in the vegetable crisper—under the carrot sticks—only worked for a while but it was a great sneaky attempt at calorie control.
Next, the menu is controlled by deliberately preparing dishes that are not too tasty. Putting salt instead of sugar in the brownie seems to work; and buying special bread that is heavy on oat bran (including the husks) controls that carb intake.
Served toasted and dry, each slice requires at least two glasses of water to choke it down, plus an additional glass or two to wash the husk slivers out of your larynx.
This high fluid intake, in turn, encourages lots of exercise running back and forth to the john.
Clearing the table is another deep thinker subterfuge. Remove all the sweets first. I only can grab so many as the plate goes by without looking like a total pig.
And don’t leave any of the other goodies, either; just some salad dressing and the mustard. Brownies with hot mustard or horse radish dipped in raspberry vinaigrette—not a treat that keeps you coming back for more.
Finish it off with two more glasses of water and more trips to the john.
Then to really clear you away from the table, you are handed the garbage to take out. The overly-ripe fish remains that have been carefully retained and dumped on top have the olfactory encouragement to have you complete the task . . . right now.
I make it back just in time to dash into the john again—almost.
What is that damp feeling? I’ll have to think about it.
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