Because that’s what beards are meant for: hiding fat.
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I’ve decided that I’m allergic to my facial hair. And that, in and of itself, is an odd thing to know about myself, because for years I couldn’t stand facial hair. Not a goatee, not a moustache, not the hint of a 5 o’clock shadow. It seems that, without even realizing it, though, that I’ve changed my mind on the issue. Out of nowhere it seems I sprouted a full beard, and kept it. Until it started itching, and I had no choice but to shave it. When I did, I realized why I’d allegedly grown one in the first place: I was fat. Somehow,...
I daisy-chained the heck out of this head cold.
It was something I’d wondered for years, myself. A.K., bless his heart, was sick with a cold a couple of weeks ago, a cold I should point out that he gave to everyone else. As a matter of fact, Amanda is currently sick with a cold that originated, I would imagine, in the nostrils of some other five-year-old in A.K.’s kindergarten class. Thankfully, it’s a private school. (I really ought to write for 30 Rock; that sounds just like something Jack would say). At any rate, A.K., while sitting at the dinner table two Sundays back, turned to me and asked point-blank: Where does...
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