Getting Shorter

I wonder when I'm going to start shrinking.

I'm six foot tall, and that seems rather excessive. I mean-- there's no real practical need for me to be six foot tall. Granted, height is useful in our house because Mrs. Apron is a full foot shorter than I, so I can be useful by fetching objects off shelves for her in the kitchen, and I can murder those flies that think they're safe by hanging out at the top of the windows. But, really, I don't need to be six foot for that.

5'10" would, honestly, be plenty.

Being 6 foot tall at 136 pounds is not anything to gloat about. It makes me look gangly and awkward, and nobody really likes looking gangly and awkward. If I were a girl, though-- I'd be a motherfucking knockout with a build like that. Just slap on a pair of 34-Bs and we'd be good to go for a roll in the hay, yo. But, as a man, it's just south of disconcerting.

When I am naked and I suck in my gut, I look like a Holocaust survivor. And barely a survivor, at that.

So, where lots of folks dread getting shorter, I'm not too terribly concerned about it. Shrinking a little bit will probably benefit my outward aesthetic, as will, most likely, developing a bit of that middle-aged paunch. A tad more weight would certainly not kill me. Yes, I realize that the skin on my arms will start to sag, and I might even develop minor-class bitch-tits, but I think it'll end up evening out, and I'll look okay as a middle-aged, or even elderly guy.

Let me get thick. Shave off an inch or too.

Whoa-- that didn't come out right. Not at all.

Things are getting short around here all the time. With gas prices going up, we're getting shorter on money, and our activities list is also getting shorter. I thought we might take a day-trip to NYC this weekend, but who can afford that right now?

As the weather gets hotter, I feel my patience threshold getting markedly shorter, too. Walking the dogs in blazing heat and soup-like humidity decreases my ability or interest in tolerating the slightest disruption to our little walkies routine. If Molly engages herself in placing her head through a bush, or if Finley dawdles too much in his elderly dog way, I tense up and I can feel myself about to lose it.

Over nothing. Because my patience is getting shorter. It's the heat. I don't do so well in the heat.

The grass and the hedges at our place got shorter on Tuesday. Because I had the day off, and because I was feeling guilty, I trimmed the hedges and cut the grass. Note: I didn't say, "I mowed the grass," although I did do that. But not before I cut it. See, the grass in our back-yard was so high that I had to cut it before I could mow it.

I had to cut the grass with the hedge clippers, like I was giving it a fucking pixie-cut. I'd say the grass was approximately a foot-and-a-half high in some places. Maybe two. I cut it, put the enormous clippings into a lawn bag that must have weighed sixty pounds when I was all done with it, and then I mowed the lawn.

And now, the grass is shorter.

Something else that's gotten noticeably shorter around here are my blog posts.

Have you noticed?

I have. It's not something I'm consciously doing, it's kind of just... happening. I don't know if I'm running out of steam, or if it's my subconscious telling me that it's time to throw in the gym sock, or if I'm realizing that the average modern attention span ought to be catered to more closely by those engaged in the act of writing, if I'm writing to be read, which I ostensibly am. I don't know what the reason is, but My Masonic Apron posts are getting shorter.

Sure, I haven't measured it empirically, and I certainly haven't done word-count analysis, but I know. I just don't know why. I suppose, though, that it's not really important, after all. My mission is to say what I've got to say and then get out, no?

Short and sweet and, if not short: shorter.