Full disclosure: by the time my last post was published I was already feeling a little better. On Sunday the beau had pushed me out the door for wine-tasting and sandwiches, and the resulting heady combination of sun, alcohol, prosciutto, and mozzarella was slowly chipping away at my all-consuming desire to stand on a street corner shaking my fist at the world before collapsing on the ground in a whimpering, feet-kicking heap.
Then you guys left some comments on that post on Monday that made me grin like an idiot. And I went to bed, and I got up, and there were even more comments. Dozens! If comments directly translate into popularity — and I am not suggesting for a minute that they do — then I felt like the most popular person on the face of the internet yesterday.
You officially broke my bad mood. I want to respond to each of you with a formal thank-you letter, a hug, a stiff drink, and a knitted afghan, but since I am behind in my work this week I’m going to just have to settle for a lame collective announcement:
As I read each of your comments, I found myself alternately hooting with laughter and shaking my head in agreement. You are a quality bunch of smart, funny, thoughtful people. You deserve to have each of your comments printed on gold leaf parchment and glued to our bathroom walls, but the beau said no because they would cover up his highly-prized collection of horse show posters. So I’m just going to have to continue to cherish them here, in cyberspace.
Still. I really feel like we shared something during our group therapy, you know? I want to commemorate our time together. I want to do something special. Which, uh, brings me to the other reason I’m here.
A couple of weeks ago, I tweeted that I wanted to Photoshop a beard onto a picture of myself so I could see what I looked like with a beard. And, well… last night I did that.
Nothing out of the ordinary, here. Just another picture of me during my wedding ceremony, doing that scrunched-nose teeth-baring grimace-grin I apparently do all the time, because each of my wedding photos looks like this. I picked this one because it was the best candidate for beard-making. Plus it turns out that in the three photos taken of me during our honeymoon there is a palpable terror in my eyes, as if someone is crouching behind me with a gun to my back, because that is usually how I feel when someone is taking my picture.
I am the picture-taker, damnit, not the picture-takee.
Anyway. BEHOLD, THE GLORIOUS AFTER:
Yes. This is the best way I know how to thank you: simulated facial hair.
You’re welcome. I think.