Hubble photograph from Art.com
The man I live with, is not the Contrarian. He looks like him of course, but it’s not him. I can be very sure of this, since if it were him, it would mean he lives an exceedingly charmed life.
A charmed life, well beyond the norm. So I know he’s a fake.
I know how this happens, well perhaps not how, but at least when. It’s when I’m asleep at night.
I am transported in some manner or fashion into another universe. It’s one of those parallel ones, not the ones that have only two dimensions. Not at all that weird. The average person might not even notice. But I can. Because my crazy husband is not mine. Move over Angelina Jolie, I’m taking that Oscar for the “not really my son” acting award. I’m pretending he’s mine, but he really isn’t. I’ll share it with you but no one else. No one else would understand.
This started a few months ago, and I was wont to put it down to some sort of cosmic joke, some karmic mix up. It stands to reason that mistakes are made from time to time. Nobody, not even God can keep up with so many universes, galaxies, planets and sentient species. Occasionally, something must slip through the cracks ya know. Oops. Just imagine hearing God say oops! Kind of freaks ya out doesn’t it?
Okay, let me explain. Let there be no question of my sanity, it’s firmly intact, and I’m sure you will agree when I’ve finished my little tale. You and me, or perhaps only me is/are really in a totally separate and very odd universe. Think of me as a reporter. All the news that fit to print. If it’s news why wouldn’t it be fit to print? (another whole blog).
The Contrarian had an appointment at the VA hospital in Iowa City way back last fall. Just the general check up but he has some annoying symptoms that nobody seems able to put their finger on, in or through, to discover a reason. They are annoying as I said, rather than something like uncontrolled bleeding or something that requires constant sopping or continuous transfusion. Nothing earth-shattering.
One issue is the man has a gag reflex that is well strange. It can be kicked on by anything as insignificant as a cat throwing up or a whiff of sour milk. Couple that with some enlarged thingie in his throat that we all have but his is bigger. They say a man with a large uvula has a large . . . oh wait a minute, wrong subject. 🙂 (Oh and I have no doubt mis-typed that baby but I’m way too lazy to look it up right now.)
Any hoo, this causes him to gag, choke and cough so furiously on occasion that I think he’s choking and that in a nutshell is how I screwed up my back. (Another blog as well.) The docs at the VA thought that watching him swallow might uncover the culprit in all this. So they hooked him up to a x-ray type thingie and gave him crackers to eat and swallow, all the time watching this four star event on their big screen, with popcorn and peanuts I’m told.
Nothing much was observed, but that said masticated food sometimes caught on said uvula a bit. They came up with some sure fire means to temper the gagging coughing thing in view of the above.
Now, let me digress a moment here. Said Contrarian was born to the farm, and as he relates (probably a bald-faced lie, but I can’t know) all mothers in farmland make oodles of gravy every day for their manly men. It’s a rule. Dinner=gravy. He fairly whimpers at the very word. It drools off his lips, his eyes water in lusty panting desire, and his is transported to some believed past wherein Mom is passing the gravy boat to one young blond boy named Contrarian. (Actually, not his real name.)
So what do these genius doctors tell him? Why drink fluids while eating and consume——–GRAVY-laden dishes. Yes, Yes, Yes. How horribly convenient.
You can imagine how gleeful he was as he puffed up and announced in the lobby, “Babe, I got to have that gravy now, it’s doctor’s orders!”
Okay, so once, I can understand, he got lucky. He found a rabbit’s foot, rubbed the lamp, clicked his heels, whatever. I’m doomed to present gravy on a much more regular basis that I’ve ever done in my life. I can make the dang stuff in my sleep now.
But, it’s happened again, and now, now I’m sure it’s all just evidence that this man is not my husband. He is not, cannot be, and I’m sure. Nobody gets his incredibly dumb ass-backward lifestyle continually upheld by the medical profession. It just doesn’t happen in my universe. This one, yes, but this one is not mine.
I am married to the original couch potato. This is a man who is nearly surgically attached to his remote. He sleeps with it under his chin, he fondles it seductively all the day long. He considers it his job to find our viewing pleasure by casting his net as wide as the cable allows. He brings me the best of what is out there. He can reorganize his taping needs in a split second, ending with taping 32 conflicting shows by finding odd showings at 3:45 am on Tuesday. It’s astounding, really.
Of course, any good couch potato has to rest. The Contrarian insists that he cannot sleep on the couch, but he listens with his eyes closed a good deal in the afternoon. Weird sounds emanate from his mouth, but this, he tells me is not snoring, but merely sub-vocal remarks made at the television. I have my doubts, but well, no proof.
Of course I tease him a good deal, and remind him that such inactivity is not good for his heart or any of the rest of his appendages. He looks at me condescendingly and changes the channel, snorting at my naivete`.
So we are sitting there last evening watching the news, when lo and behold an angel appears in the guise of some medical guru and announces, that “studies show that people who take naps in the afternoon, have less heart trouble and fewer heart attacks.”
You can imagine the hoots and laughter, the thigh-slapping I told ya so’s that came my way. It was in that ugly moment that I looked and realized that THIS MAN IS NOT MY HUSBAND AND I’M IN SOMEBODY ELSE’S UNIVERSE. I know you are convinced of this as well now too.
So any ideas how I can get back? Next thing I know this man will have medical evidence to prove that his bacon and peanut butter sandwiches are good for the old ticker too!
****Just an aside. We are having some nasty computer problems, so if you don’t see me for a few days, its because we’ve taken it in for a diagnostic and repair. Keep your fingers crossed! It’s running for the moment but crashed badly earlier this morning.
Existential Ennui 