joined hands around a warped Ouija board, inquiring where the phrase “for crying
out loud” comes from. We’re always saying it to each other, always mad about
something, except at dinnertime, when we eat our complex carbohydrates while
constructing pyramids of excuses and regrets. Sometimes a piercing cry escapes
our infant’s lungs, but mostly he’s happy, eating Cheerios, smiling at the dog.
Moments like these I embrace the seamless blend of nonsense we call life. I
recount the good old days when I delivered seventy-five newspapers by 7 a.m.,
then did 110 pushups with a 50-pound bag of sand on my back. That’s the guy my
teenager will respect, the over-the-hill stud my wife will crawl under the
sheets with, the rose-colored sheets I’ve fashioned into a tent, under which her
spine softens, her calves relax, while I tell her everything she wants to hear.