[dc]I[/dc] am always quick to confess to being sensitive. It just comes with my weirdo-introvert-goofball territory. Being 32 years old, I’m more or less at peace with my quirks. A turtle can’t change his shell, as they say (unless perhaps there is radioactive ooze involved, maybe).
Totally burned. Image via ThinkGeek.
I am better than I was though, thanks in part to:
a) getting older.
b) medication.
c) the weight of our cold, electronic, reality TV addicted-emotional vampire, go-go-go society crushing my self-esteem to the point where I just don’t care anymore. Because what’s it all mean any–
d) adopting a cat.
There are times though, when the arrows manage to pierce my armor. The worst are the shots from the least expected sources. The hits you don’t expect.
Like a totally sick burn from my grandmother (bless her heart).
The Scene: Stephanie and I made the trek to my old stomping grounds, suburban Delta City Detroit, for a ‘personal wedding shower’ in her honor, given by one of my aunts.
Told to keep my distance, I spent quality time with Dad back at my parents’ house: he snored through a NASCAR race while I worked on a blog post. Simple. Relaxing. Quiet.
Until one of my uncles stopped by and offered to drop us at the party. Sensing free deserts and food in my future, I said Yes.
Big mistake.
Sure, the party guests (Stephanie, my tween cousins, aunts, sister, Mom, grandmother, and great-aunt) were happy to see me, but I felt a bit out-of-place. Then, Grandma’s sick burn hit me like a crash of rhinos.
For the sake of infotainment, the role of Grandma in this story will be played by Ernest in drag.
[video link, from Ernest Goes to Jail]
“I never thought I would see the day my first grandchild had a beer belly,” she said from the other end of the table.
“…What?” I said as my self-esteem withered like a vampire in the sun.
She pointed to my stomach. “You have a beer belly.”
#heyladies Image via Amazon.
With tear-filled, blurry eyes, I glanced down. Sure, my cargo shorts and slim fit Pac-Man t-shirt weren’t leaving too much to the imagination, but I wouldn’t say I had a beer belly, at least not by History Channel ‘reality’ TV star standards.
Then Stephanie, to use the Chrono Trigger term, completed the X-Strike. “Yeah, he hasn’t been on a wedding diet.”
This happening mere moments after I polished off a plate of desserts didn’t help. At all. “B-b-but, I don’t…” I said, as tears stained the effigies of Blinky, Inky, Pinky, and Clyde on my chest.
Mom, ever the gentle hand, added: “Get over it. She was just kidding.”
But, the damage took its toll. Visions of not fitting in my wedding suit flashed through my head. Could I get married in sweat pants? Our vows cover ‘for better and for worse’ (the worse, not the comic strip), and wearing sweatpants to the ceremony would fall into the latter category.
This is what I get for leaving my parents’ basement. Which could be said about my entire adult life.
Product links in this post: Non-Flammable? T-shirt (ThinkGeek), Fake Beer Belly (Amazon), Chrono Trigger (Amazon), Ernest Goes to Jail (Amazon)
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