Red Roses and Champagne

Well, I hated Kara's last post, but it did get me thinking.

It got me to thinking about my college paramour, a truly beautiful girl who never farted, shat or burped and definitely not all three simultaneously while sitting on the toilet talking to me, which is probably why she didn't get into Skidmore, where I think that's actually part of the interview process.

It got me thinking about my high school girlfriend, who was somehow able to refrain from lighting her farts in my face or burping the alphabet in church. I never saw her sneeze, but if she ever did, I'm willing to wager she covered her nose with a tissue rather than blocking one nostril and blowing as hard as possible onto the floor. I get teary-eyed thinking of all the times she didn't fart into her hand and then sniff it.

Even after college, I managed to meet a variety of people who were actually able to wait until they were done emptying their bowels to share with me whatever random thought was running through their head. Many times I have discussed music, literature, or film without someone lighting a match or spraying Lysol around the room.

Actually, even today at work I was given a job by someone who wasn't grunting with their pants down around their ankles. That happens fairly frequently, truth be told, but then again I have a pretty cushy job. And there aren't a lot of Skidmore grads there. (Although, to be fair, I don't see the higher-ups too much.)

I've led a sheltered life, I know, and the hundreds of beautiful women I've dated (all of whom could eat at a restaurant without feeling compelled to re-enact the campfire scene from Blazing Saddles) do not represent all women, and every stranger on the street who doesn't ask me to pull their finger, doesn't mean that someday one won't. That being said, I don't think it's too much to ask my beautiful wife and incredible kids to let me live in this one bubble a little bit longer.